Redemption 8

 

“Putting the pacifier in my mouth, and carrying the doll to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror. For a moment I saw a frightened little girl, and anxiously listened if I didn’t hear my mother coming up the stairs. But then I remembered my mother smiling at me, saying I had become so pretty. I lifted my skirt and watched my diapers grow heavy while I peed, my eyes becoming gradually blurry as I began weeping.”

 

…………………

 

You will find the preceding chapters of this story in “topics” under “Redemption”, with the different chapters in reversed order. To find the first chapter you just have to scroll down to the bottom.

 

Or you can go to the English “index page” where you will find a link to the first chapter of Redemption and then at the end of each chapter a link to the following.

 

Chapter 8

 

When I had finished my master I went to work as a consultant with my former employer as we had planned. He never regretted having given me that chance as I was extremely good at my job. I became a partner in the company, paid him back my student loan in no time and earned good money. I went on to buy a magnificent flat with view on the bay. But this professional and financial success didn’t make me any happier.

 

I was still as guilt laden as ever. After my break up with Bobby it had become even worse.

I still felt responsible for the death of my father and for the way this had ruined my mother’s life. At the same time I was ashamed for not having been able to stand up to her, and for having fled her. I felt also guilty of never having tried to get back in contact with her. Sweet Bobby had often suggested I should do that, but I never did.

 

I had failed all relationships in my life:

After having fled from my mother I had thrown myself in the arms of Lewis and had followed him on his self-destructive trip, letting him pimp and beat me. Once again I had fled, this time in the arms of abusive pedophile Alistair, letting him degrade me even more than what my mother and Lewis had done.

 

I was horribly ashamed about having been a drug addict and a prostitute. But I was even more ashamed of not having been able to live up to the expectations of Jenny who had really loved me. I knew Jenny had found another girlfriend with whom she was very happy and she had finally “come out”. But still I felt I had led her down. At the time I had resented the fact that she had made me wear protection to bed and it had fed all my insecurities. But since then I had simply given up trying to be dry and wore diapers to bed every night. I also began wearing diapers to go on plane trips, long journey’s by car and even museum visits. This way I avoided having to look for public toilets all the time, having to queue up for them, and having to use those, often filthy, places.

 

I developed a kind of strange attraction to diapers. I would shop around for all kind of different models, having always a large collection at hand, choosing what kind to wear for each occasion, as other people stand in front of their wardrobe choosing what to wear that day. But of course I was ashamed of that too, and didn’t want anybody to find out.

 

And if all that wasn’t enough to loath myself forever there was what I had done to Bobby. I had found a person even more vulnerable than myself and I had abused my power over him, degraded him, undermined his self-esteem, and made him my little toy. How could I of all persons have done that?

 

I was convinced I was unable to have a normal, healthy, relationship with anybody and fled even more in my job, my workload always a handy excuse whenever someone tried to get closer to me.

 

With all my time and energy devoted to my job, I was ever more successful. I became a renowned market intelligence guru giving frequent lectures, both in private venues as in university MBA programs. This of course increased the visibility of our company and new clients were queuing up. And the money followed.

 

But despite the frequency of my lectures I had to overcome myself every time again. I always remained an awkward speaker, stumbling over my words, delivering my lecture with a small, shy voice. Before every performance I was shaking on my legs and afterwards I was always convinced I had been a disaster. But the invitations to give speeches kept coming in, and people kept showing up for them.

 

One day at the end of a lecture a person came up to me to talk. It happened frequently that persons did that to talk about their specific situation, sometimes trying to get some free advice, but most of the time they became clients. So I was always very open for those kind of chats. But this time it was different. “Hi Katie.” I looked at him inquisitive: “We have met before?” He smiled, and something in that smile was vaguely familiar. “You don’t recognize me, do you? I am not surprised after so many years.”

 

He had a warm engaging voice but I still had no clue who he was. “I’m Denis, little Denis, your childhood neighbor, Tammy’s little brother?” For a moment it was as if all lights went out, but then I recovered and looked at him, still not really recognizing him. But this sudden confrontation with a person from my horrible childhood completely froze me up. Denis sensed my unease but didn’t led that disturb him. “When I saw your name on the list of lecturers I wondered if it was you. So I began looking around and when I saw your picture I knew it was you. Today’s date didn’t really suit me but I HAD to come, I really HAD to see you.”

 

Despite the professional surrounding where I have a kind of a star status, my deep inner insecurities surfaced: “Oh I see, you had to see if I was still the same little freak didn’t you?” He seemed hurt by my remark, but deciding he was just a good actor, faking his indignation, I continued, childishly: “I hope I didn’t disappoint you too much. Don’t worry, underneath this fairly normal appearance, I am still the same little freak peeing in her pants. You can go home and tell that to your nice family and have a good laugh.” I turned around and wanted to run away but he held me by the arm. Furiously I turned back to him to tell him to let me go, but when I looked at him I saw tears running down his face. He didn’t try to stop them and looked me straight in the eye: “I’m so sorry for what happened to you back then. I always liked you, I always was awed by how brave you were whenever people were hurting you. I always liked and admired you. I’m so sorry I never told anybody. But I was so small and afraid they were going to make fun of me too. The day you ran away was the saddest and the happiest day in my life. At last you had escaped that horrible place, but I thought I would never see you again.”

 

I was of course completed flabbergasted by this emotional outburst. For a moment I thought he was making fun of me, but when I realized he was sincere I didn’t know how to react. From the corner of my eye I saw a couple of my colleagues watching us from a distance not knowing what was going on. I took Denis by the arm and led him to the bar of the hotel where we choose a table in a far corner, and after an initial awkward silence we talked for a long time. His sincere interest in what had become of me impressed me and on his insistence I agreed to meet him again. Denis and I began dating and soon enough he was completely in love with me. He told me that in fact he had been in love with me since we were little kids, and had always continued loving me, often wondering what had become of me. He pretended that on several occasions when I had been made fun of by the other kids, having had to lift my skirt to reveal my wet diapers, he had tried to comfort me but that each time I had chased him away.

 

I became keen on his presence as he was kind, intelligent, funny and passionate about everything he did. Little by little I told him what my life had been after leaving my house. He never pressured me on telling anything but when I did he was always sincerely interested, non-judgmental, and supportive.

 

From my side however I didn’t allow me to fall in love with him, keeping up my protective carapace at all time. I reluctantly accepted he might be in love with me, but remained always anxious and unsure about my own feelings. I didn’t want to ruin another relationship. And of course my guilt feelings made me think I didn’t deserve this love. Denis however remained patient and understanding.

 

He tried of course to convince me that my father’s death was not my fault, that it had been an accident. But he had no argument against my conviction that I had caused the accident, and was responsible for everything that had happened afterwards.

 

Over the years I told him in detail my life after my father’s death, even the things that had happened when he was living right next door, of which he had only seen a small part. He was always sincerely awed, every time repeating how an unbelievable strong person I was for having overcome all what had happened to me.

He couldn’t convince me. I never saw the elegant, successful professional that other people seemed to see. When I thought of myself I still saw the shy, breast less, diaper wearing little girl, stumbling over her words, shaking on her match stick legs every time she had to speak in public.

 

 

Denis was still close to his family and flew back east very frequently. His two sisters had married. Tammy had 3 children and Lucy 2 and they all got together for every holiday and birthday. I knew he wanted me to come with him but he never asked me, sensing this was simply impossible for me to even consider. I had sworn to myself to never go back to that place. I learned my mother was still living in the house next door, but I never asked how she was doing, and he never told me. But then one day he said his mother has called him to tell him my mother was in the hospital and was going to die in the next couple of days. This time I reluctantly asked what had happened and learned she had been diagnosed with an advanced cancer a number of months before and had been in and out of hospitals ever since.

 

Denis looked at me silently while I was processing the fact that that awful person, my mother, was dying. I had always thought I would be relieved the day she died but I didn’t feel any relieve. After a long pause he asked me if I didn’t want to go to say goodbye. He knew of course that would ask an enormous amount of courage from me, but he also knew that bringing up that courage might redeem me in my own eyes. A way to make peace with myself, with my past, with all the things that I had done to myself and to the people that had tried to love me. For 24 hours I agonized about it but then told him to buy the tickets.

 

We went straight from the airport to the hospital. When I entered the room she was half asleep and didn’t recognize me. She looked very thin and pale, and when she tried to sit up she didn’t have enough strength. I couldn’t bring it up to kiss her or even to help her to sit up. I sat next to the bed on a chair and simply said hi. She stared at me for a fraction of a second and then, recognizing me, smiled. I think it was the first time I saw her smile in a non-sarcastic way. She whispered: “Oh Katie, you have come!” I nodded. She looked at me in silence for a few moments: “You have become so pretty” This was definitely the first time ever she complimented me, and it touched something inside me. I blushed, and felt tears welling up in my eyes. We remained silent again and when she tried to sit up again, I helped her. When she sat she looked at me very intently and began speaking haltingly: “Katie, I’m so glad you have come. I know I don’t deserve it after what I did to you as a child. I have been thinking about you often. I was afraid you were maybe death, or sick…” She went silent for a while, all the time staring at me, and then resumed her monologue: “I am glad to see you are doing great. You have been right to go away. You have done better on you own than if you had stayed with your terrible mother.” She closed her eyes and I noticed how her face had relaxed, looking much less haggardly than when I had come in.

 

I stayed at her bedside for most of the next 24 hours. She was heavily sedated and woke up only on a couple of occasions. Every time she smiled and tried to talk but was too weak. But one time I am pretty sure she asked me to forgive her. When she finally died I cried and kissed her goodbye.

 

Denis had stayed with me most of the time, and after we left the hospital we went to his parents’ home. I was glad Tammy wasn’t there, as I wasn’t ready to confront one of my childhood tormentors. I felt awkward enough meeting the woman who had reluctantly diapered me as a growing up child. But his parents were extremely nice and supportive. And Denis was so happy and proud to finally have me with him visiting his family. His mother served us a simple dinner and then, taking my courage in both hands, I said I wanted to go to my old house. Denis proposed to come along but for reasons I didn’t understand myself I told him I preferred to go alone.

 

When I got into my old home nothing had changed, and the past came flooding in. In my room the pee-stained matrass was still lying on the bed. And when I opened the wardrobe I found a stack of diapers and a couple jumper dresses hanging on a perch. Without thinking I undressed, put on a diaper and tried to put on one of the dresses. I was disappointed that I couldn’t get into the dress but then my eye fell onto another garment I had often worn in my youth but that I had forgotten about. It was a short denim skirt with an elastic waist closing with a row of buttons from waist to rim in the front. It fitted neatly around my waist, but was very short, barely covering the diapers. Next to the skirt I found a heavily used pacifier and on the bottom of the wardrobe the old rag doll that had been my only friend.

 

Putting the pacifier in my mouth, and carrying the doll to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror. For a moment I saw a frightened little girl, and anxiously listened if I didn’t hear my mother coming up the stairs. But then I remembered my mother smiling at me, saying I had become so pretty. I lifted my skirt and watched my diapers grow heavy while I peed, my eyes becoming gradually blurry as I began weeping.

 

Clutching my ragdoll I lied down on my bed, weeping. That’s how Denis found me hours later, still crying inconsolably. I fell into his arms unable to stop sobbing.

 

We married a couple of months later.

 

I still wear diapers but I’m not ashamed of it anymore. From time to time Denis will even diaper me, which is always a very tender moment. Sometimes, when I have had a bad day, I will put on the denim skirt and carry around my doll. Denis always immediately takes the clue and babies me. I love being washed, spoon-fed, and cuddled in his gentle way, finding the tenderness that I was denied as a child.

 

And I am pregnant. The baby, a little boy, is due in 3 months. I am a little scared but I know I will be a good mother.

 

  • The end –     

     

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2 comments on “Redemption 8

  1. Patricia says:

    (De) from Patricia.

    Nice book, you did, coming after I saw The movie same-named, still on : http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x11v80x_redemption-bedwetting-and-consequences_creation

    Vous avez considérablement développé le personnage de la petite fille qui perd son père, se sent coupable et devient le souffre-douleur d’une mère malade, jalouse aussi (mais chacun trimbale ses propres douleurs, parfois elles passent les générations, car elle proviennent presque toutes de la petite enfance qui nous structure).

    C’est une petite fille cassée qui subit, qui est victime de cette mère, et qui en gardera à jamais les stigmates, malgré la belle résilience proposée par vos deux récits.

    La résilience, étant la capacité …à …re-tricoter les …trous… laissés ….dans la construction de ces enfants, comme un tricot … …..qui ne tiendrait pas sans cela, ….et qui, ….par cet effort, cette chance, cette création de nouvelle mailles, fait que l’individu tient enfin debout.

    Fondamentalement le besoin de se sentir protégé, en couches, provient (dès la naissance voire avant, neurologiquement), du besoin d’attachement aux soins du CAREGIVER, la personne qui répond en retour à ces signaux d’attachement en provenance de l’enfant.

    Sans cela la vie du petit devient insécure, l’angoisse d’abandon finit par devenir une vague submergeante.

    Ces mères n’ont pas commencé leur jalousie, ou leur sauvagerie comme ça, c’était déjà en germe à la naissance de l’enfant, même si la bienséance impose la retenue, qui leur fait défaut ensuite….

    L’enfant se rassure par ses faibles moyens à la perte ce ce sentiment d’être soigné, porté (hold)…. pacifier, nunuk, pouce, doudou, ours, doll, and for sure, bien-sûr, le moment du change, le contact avec cet objet diapers, couches, qui maintiennent le contact doux de ces instants, la pression rassurante, sur ces zones tellement sensibles, durant le temps, pour le petit, de se retrouver seul dans dans sa chambre. Lour certains enfant, la force ainsi crée, restera active toute la vie, de manière décuplée.

    Ces deux récits me touchent plus que je ne le montre, car j’ai connu une telle ‘mère’ , dans ma vie de petite fille, et certains passages des deux récits, témoignent de cette même maltraitance, ce désamour, cette violence, que j’ai connu aussi petite, me faisant exploser d’émotion et de pleurs, comme quoi les plaies ne se referment pas, même 50 ans après.

    Cependant, je pense que même si acter, répéter, comme il est dit dans le film, ou savoir ce qui s’est passé est inévitable, ce besoin de se sentir protégé reste un moyen de petit, dès les deux ans de l’enfant, même si un viol, des violences répétées, un inceste maternel, paternel, incluant des couches, vient raviver ce besoin de manière catastrophique, le fixant sur le désir amoureux, sur la sexualité, parfois, rendant presque obligatoire chez l’adulte, l’utilisation de ce refuge magique et dérisoire.

    Je ferai une petite critique, donc, c’est que cet aspect évoqué dans le film, très justement, de cette incroyable violence faite à l’enfance, et ses conséquences incontournables, dans la structure même de l’individu, soient fondues dans votre écrit en une plainte linéaire de la victime.

    Mais c’est un détail, je pense que j’aurai du mal aussi à rendre de manière littéraire!..

    Notre besoin de vivre cette enfance perdue à jamais, de la réparer, de réparer les trous, les vides béants, y compris de retrouver des sensations vitales, comme le port de couches, ou la poupée, l’ours, le pouce de notre enfance, le biberon ou la sucette magique qui calme la douleur, nous rend à jamais, aussi, différents de la norme…

    Nous restons malgré toute notre réussite intellectuelle et sociale par ailleurs, des enfants injuriés, battus, blessés, et surtout, élevés sans empathie, avec une violence psychologique, qui bien souvent, ne se démentira pas dans le temps.

    J’ai décidé, moi, de ne plus me demander si ‘ma’ génitrice, avec laquelle j’ai rompu tout contact, m’appellera sur son lit de mort, pour enfin reconnaitre ce qu’elle m’a fait. J’ai préféré ne pas attendre et vivre, et oui,oui, en couche, et par une incontinence permanente, venue se greffer pour d’autres raisons, ma construction de petite fille, voire d’humaine libre, même si j’ai été mère, si je suis femme, je ne serai jamais adulte, mais je construis ma manière de bonheur.

    Le film n’était qu’une ébauche d’un scénario plus construit, qui devait voir le jour ensuite, et l’on ne distingue pas les séquelles qui vont présider à la guidance de cette femme victime, par son mari, car l’amour ne suffit pas….

    Votre œuvre se termine, elle, de façon plus construite, plus ressentie, par une ouverture sur la vie un peu particulière que va pouvoir mener Katie, même maman, même aimée, elle continuera a réclamer une sécurisation, un attachement, que lui offrira son mari à travers la répétition infinie de ses actes qui la soignèrent sa vie durant.

    Merci de donner beaucoup d’amour à ces enfants que nous restons, par l’écriture, et dans les actes du quotidien des couples, des soins, du ‘cargiving’, tels ceux qu’on ne refuse pas à son p’tit-bout de bébé.

    If intersested to discuss about, you can join me at : patriciaclaire84(arrobase)gmail(point)com

    • clairodon says:

      Merci pour ce témoignage et cette “critique” élaborée. Ce film et, en moindre mesure, mon histoire, semblent toucher un nombre de personnes, ce qui fait plaisir. Je vous contacterai un des ces jours à l’adresse mentionnée. Bisous

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