Materializing Boundaries

Until I stepped out of denial about abuses, I ignored absolutely what was a boundary, and of what utility it could be… and that I had the right to establish and enforce mine! I am still learning! And it is clearer and clearer when there is a material support establishing the limit. Here are two examples.

In my apartment, I have many shelves full of books, notebooks and files, but none are closed, except sometimes by a simple curtain. Thus, I realized recently that anybody entering my home (friends, but also craftsmen or repairmen) may easily have access to my most personal documents, whether administrative, pertaining to banking, medical, or very intimate recovery writings. I then bought a piece of furniture equipped with a padlock, to protect access to them. And I gave one of the keys to my best friend (who I know will respect my intimacy) in case of an unforeseen event. That is a very concrete way to secure some of my personal boundaries.

Another old boundary a sister of mine had established, long ago, now appears clearly to me… Let’s go back to the origin of it. 

Forty-seven years ago, when on holiday at sea, swimming together side by side, she asked me strange questions about Dad and his sexuality. I was so ill at ease that I still remember the incident. That was all, she didn’t insist. 

Later, she left home to live in her own apartment, and I moved from my former bedroom into hers, which was larger. I was surprised to notice, on the inner side of the door, two bolts. One was so coated with old white paint that it couldn’t be maneuvered anymore. The other one was a very basic, simple bolt, in working order (same kind as on the photo): it permitted to lock oneself at will inside the bedroom. I questioned Mom about these, but got no clear answer: “never mind”, as usual. 

About 33 years ago, my sister talked to me again about Dad and his sexuality. That time, I was able, though flabbergasted and shocked, to hear what she had for so long wanted to tell me about her experience of incest. Or at least, part of her story (3 years ago, her former best friend gave me some more information). Including the story of the small, basic bolt: she told me she had bought it herself and installed it herself on the door, so that she could sleep securely without being bothered by Dad. Wow! When back home after her confidence, I was sick for a few days. 

And 23 years ago, she died. I grieved at her death, of course. And could hereafter ask no more question (for instance, when did she buy and install that bolt? I have tiny evidence that it was more than 52 years ago, in her early teens, but not 100% sure). 

Eight years ago, just after having quit an ill-treating job, but still in lots of amnesia and denial, I sent a long confrontation mail to 16 members of my family… some of them didn’t care to answer, and others, for instance, answered it was spring in the garden (yes, you see the point? Personally, I still don’t!), or that they “loved” me. 

Three days later, it seems that my mind had been freed enough to become able to write about that famous basic bolt. 

And five months later, my body “told” me very violently that I had been concerned by Dad’s sexual behavior, me too… Me too! Wow! Sick again.

Since then, of course, doubt, denial, minimization, horror have walked hand in hand in my mind. But the very concrete story of this very concrete bolt is an undeniable memory and an undeniable proof of what happened to that sister of mine, and how she had tried, despite her then young age, to establish a boundary. May she rest in peace! And may I go on recovering, one day at a time!

Geneviève R.