Lee Marsh Abuse Recovery Page

I have a scar on my ankle. It is small. Hardly noticeable really. But I know it is there. I know how I got most of my scars; the one on my wrist from a piece of glass thrown my way by the kids who used the lane on their way to school, the one on my lip from a farming accident, another on my foot from a sprained ankle. But this one scar has always been a mystery to me.

I remember going swimming with my brother at Rice Lake in the summer when I was 11 years old. My father would take us there and we pretty much had the freedom to come and go as we pleased. It was my responsibility, however, to keep an eye out for Larry, 18 months younger than me. We spent the days swimming in the lake, finding tadpoles and fishing. I even got comfortable putting my own worms on the hook.

We stayed in a one-room cabin and had our meals in the main house with the other guests. In the mornings, it was my job to make the beds and get my brother up and dressed. Then we would head up to the main house for breakfast and after, away we would go on our adventures for the day. I really don’t know what my father did during the day. We were too busy enjoying the freedom that the country had given us.

The first time I noticed the scar it was still a fresh wound. Larry and I had been swimming in the shallows of the lake and searching for minnows to use later when we went fishing. As we were getting out of the water Larry asked, "What’s that on your leg?" I looked down and saw a small oval wound, red and bleeding. I had no idea where it came from. Guessing I said, "I don’t know maybe I scrapped it on a nail or rock on the bottom or maybe a blood-sucker got me." Even as I said that I knew that is not what happened. But I could not come up with any better answer.

The sore healed, slowly, and left a perfectly oval clear scar. It was as if all the tissue in the first layers of skin had been scrapped off leaving a clear overcoat of skin to the flesh below.

Mostly I forgot about it. But every now and then, I would sit and wonder, about a nail or a blood-sucker. I knew that was wrong but no other explanation came to me through the years.

However, my dreams gave me another explanation. The summer we were at Rice Lake there was a man who offered rides on his horse for twenty-five cents. The kids would line up in the morning and take turns riding high in the saddle of this beautiful black mare. In my dreams I had my turn on the horse. What a glorious feeling, sitting taller than everyone and seeing the world from a different perspective. Unlike the other kids I got to ride bareback, the smooth back of the horse against my legs. But I had no reins and as the horse moved forward I invariably moved backwards, only to fall off and onto the ground below. Every time I had the dream I fell. It never deviated. And I got my scar.

It got to the point where the dream was so vivid, the feelings so strong that I became confused. Was this real? Did I ride the horse? Or was it all a dream, just a silly dream. Over the years people would ask me whether I had ever ridden a horse. Sometimes I would say "Yes, but I fell off" and in the moment of saying feel the confusion in my mind. Other times I would say "No" and wonder if I should have said yes. Either way, my answer always felt false.

Through the years the dream remained the same as did my confusion about the cause of the scar. Maybe I did get the scar falling off the horse. Occasionally, I would mindlessly finger it, round and round. Other times I would try to fit the scar in with my dream of the horse. The two seemed connected but I had no idea how.

In my 30’s I did a lot of recovery work about the abuse in my early childhood. I worked my way through many memories in therapy. This one remained illusive. As far as I knew this was the only memory unaccounted for. I spoke to a friend, Sandi, about it one warm summer night. We often spoke about our childhood, trying to fit the pieces of her memory together.

We were outside, talking, enjoying the cooler air. She sat on the steps and I stood in front of her on the sidewalk - the cool cement a relief to my feet. As we talked she lit a cigarette and I stood there watching the glow as she inhaled. I could not move or breath. I watched as she inhaled again, the tip glowing bright red in the night air.

I felt an explosion of knowing and a scream "No" inside of me, one side fighting the other. I asked her for a cigarette. Hesitantly she passed me the pack and I removed one cigarette. I placed one foot on a step and reached down to place the tip of the cigarette on the scar. A perfect match. I felt sick. I slid the cigarette along the scar and it matched. He burned me. He scarred me. I knew. The confusion was gone. No nail. No bloodsucker. No horse. Just me and my father in the cabin. And his cigarettes.

I felt peace, and calm, and shock, and rage, and denial.

There was a horse. My father gave Larry the money for a ride on the horse and told him to have a good time. I had to stay and do some work, so he would have to go alone.

I still don’t know how or what happened in that cabin. I believe my mind was out on the horse with Larry and nowhere near that cabin. But my body was. My leg. My ankle. My scar. I knew just the same way you know that you know someone’s name but can’t think of it until 3am. My knowing is sure. I just haven’t woken up to remember it yet.

And I’m not really sure I want to. I have never had the horse dream since then. I can answer with conviction that I had never ridden on a horse as a child. I can look and feel my scar and know when and how it came to be. And I know.