Forbidden Memories: A Memoir

By Michelle V. Madsen

Michelle Madsens Forbidden Memories is a tour de force that will rock you to your core. Its the story of survival, of recovery, and of the reclamation of love. In a journey of great courage Michelle descends into hell itself to find the truth that will set her free. Bravo to Michelle Madsen! She deserves the Purple Heart for her bravery in writing this book.
Sherry McCoy, Writer, Actor, Los Angeles
Michelle Madsens straightforward, starkly honest memoir describes her long road from despair and emotional turmoil to wholeness. It broadens understanding about the subsequent long-term effects of sexual abuse and the possibility of healing. Forbidden Memories will give hope to anyone touched by abuse or addiction.
Diane Propster, Ph.D, Educator, Writer, Los Angeles
Forbidden Memories is beautifully and bravely written from the heart. I could not put it down as I read about the tragic events that took place in Michelle Madsens life, with all she endured, how she coped, and her journey to recovery. A must read.
Susan Heemstra, M.A. Clinical Psychology, San Diego

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Apr 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504378789

Michelle V. Madsen

Michelle V. Madsen is a teacher of children with emotional disorders in California. She lives with her husband and a menagerie of rescued animals, and enjoys writing and spending time with her children and grandchildren Michelle Madsen grows up in a Mormon family that looks picture perfect on the outside but hides deep secrets behind closed doors and in the dead of night. After having an emotional breakdown, Michelle is forced to encounter her childhood through the onslaught of memories she has repressed for so many years. The reader will accompany her as she faces her doubts about the Mormon Church Doctrine, her struggles with food addiction and obesity, and the shocking realities she discovers about her three boys.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The German man said that if I ever remembered, I would kill myself. And if I had children, I would kill my children first and then kill myself. This book is about remembering. I now remember the story, or at least parts of it.

B e a good girl, a Mormon girl. Be quiet, modest, chaste and demure. I tried so hard, and for so long, to fulfill these demands that were not really me until they all became me. I had no thoughts, no opinions, and no choices outside the rules imposed upon me since childhood. My life had been laid out for me. I would be a faithful Mormon mother with four to six children. I would be a homemaker, cooking, cleaning, sewing and raising my children to be faithful Mormons in Utah, the land of Zion. We would spend three hours at church every Sunday, so my children could learn righteous principles and go on to serve missions for the Mormon Church and bring people from around the world into the knowledge of The Truth—the only way to attain eternal glory—so they too, would be happy like us Mormons. My children would have Mormon Temple marriages of their own, raise righteous Mormon grandchildren who would gather at my home every Sunday for a roast beef dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh vegetables from my garden, complete with a slice of chocolate cake. They would adoringly gather around me as the wise matriarch of our family.

I became tightly wrapped, like a ball of yarn around a pebble, until the real me, the core of me, was so stifled and constricted, there was no escaping, no way out. Put a smile on your face, now go out and be happy, never look back, never look inside, don’t ask questions, forget what happens to you in the darkness of night in our family.

THE BREAKDOWN

1

THE KNIFE

T ears gathered at the bottom of my eyelashes and plopped onto the tomatoes I was slicing. Lately I had been crying a lot. What’s wrong with me, I asked myself for the hundredth time that day. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do, just keep cutting the tomatoes! I was thirty-three years old, in an unhappy marriage, eighty pounds overweight, wearing a long, blue shapeless muumuu. I had sworn I would never wear muumuus like my mother had worn, but many things were happening that I had sworn would never happen to me. I had sworn I’d never be fat like my mother, and I was as obese as my mother had ever been. I had sworn I’d keep a perfect house, but the floors that were messy with toys, the finger marked walls, and the dirty dishes on the countertop belied that promise. Nothing had worked out the way I had planned. The only good thing in my life, were my three little boys, and I was determined to be the perfect mother to them.

I stirred the hamburger meat on the stove and turned down the heat. As I picked up the knife, a thought popped into my head, what if I took this knife and stabbed my kids?

The knife clattered from my hand onto the counter, sending little pieces of diced tomatoes flying. I put my head down and gripped the edge of the counter with both hands. I couldn’t breathe. I began to shake. I held onto the counter until my fingers hurt, to keep from collapsing to the floor. Why would I think that? How could I have a thought like that? I was afraid to pick up the knife again. I finally let go and with shaking hands gathered the tomatoes and put them in a bowl. That would have to be enough. I couldn’t cut anymore. I picked up the end of the knife with my thumb and forefinger, the way you would pick up a disgusting turd, and I threw it in the sink. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in gasps. Okay, just finish making dinner, concentrate. I drained the hamburger meat and poured it into a bowl. I had already torn lettuce into little pieces so I hurriedly grated cheese and called the kids to dinner. Joe, my husband, worked as a construction foreman and was on a side job to bring in more money. I had no idea when he’d be home.

Max, my oldest son, came running in first. Raising his big blue eyes at me he asked, Tacos again?

Yeah, Max, sorry, I ruffled his curly blond hair with shaky fingers, carry the tomatoes and cheese to the table, please. Max was tall for an eight year old and had a dreamy look in his eyes and a determined little chin.

Six-year-old Dominick was next to come to the table. Always cheerful, always taking care of himself, yet his tenderness and vulnerability brought sadness to my heart. I wanted to be the one to take care of him but there were always more pressing demands, and he was so easy. I feared I had left him to himself too much.

Mom, I’m building a pirate ship with my Legos, he exclaimed.

Great honey, I can’t wait to see it! I said, as I placed the meat, lettuce and taco shells on the table.

Mom, we need plates! Max called out. I had forgotten all about plates and cups. Just a minute. I need to get Finn. Finn where are you? Dinner’s ready!

I don’t wanna eat, not hungry, I heard Finn’s little voice from the back bedroom. Of course he’s not hungry, I let him have Graham crackers and milk just a little earlier. I knew it would spoil his dinner but I needed a few minutes of peace alone in my bedroom, and crackers and milk would keep any three-year old occupied.

I haphazardly plopped plates and cups on the table and went looking for Finn. He was on his bed playing with his plastic dinosaurs. C’mon honey, just try to eat a little.

Grr, I’m a dinosaur, he said. I’m a T-Rex.

I know you are. You’re my little dinosaur. You can bring your T-Rex to dinner with you. I picked him up and he wrapped his little legs around my waist laying his blond curly head on my shoulder. Finn was smart and beautiful. I cherished the times when he was malleable and soft, as there were other times when he would throw a world class tantrum, as if he had come into this world knowing it wasn’t a fair place and he would need to fight to get his share of it. A day without one of Finn’s tantrums was a banner day.

I looked at my three boys around the table as I poured their milk. They are so special, my boys, they deserve a better mother. Suddenly another thought popped into my head: I could kill them with that knife in the sink. Dominick’s full glass of milk fell from my hand and landed flat on the table, milk shooting up in all directions. The boys looked at me, blue eyes wide, mouths open. Milk dripped off Dominick’s little face.

I’m so sorry Dominick, I said, as I grabbed a dishtowel and dried him off.

You boys go ahead and eat. Max, help Finn, okay? Mom doesn’t feel so well. I’m gonna go lay down.

God knows I wasn’t hungry. I had stuffed myself with a full box of Twinkies, earlier, alone in my room. The boys didn’t say anything; they just looked at me. They were getting used to my odd behaviors and my feeling not so well and my needing to lie down.

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Up in my bedroom, I plopped into the waterbed and pulled the comforter over my head. What’s happening to me? I must be going crazy. What should I do? I must try really hard to control my thoughts. I should be able to do that, I reasoned.

I had never laid a hand on my boys. My mother had raised me with swats and spankings, but when Max was a toddler I swore I would never hit him or the unborn baby I was carrying at the time. I kept that promise. So how can I be having thoughts of hurting them in such a violent way? I was afraid of myself, but how could I get away from myself? I thought about the woman in the news recently who had cornered her three children in the bedroom and stabbed them all to death before turning the knife on herself. Is this how it had started for that poor mother? She must have loved her children too. Did she have terrible thoughts like these and then acted on them?

Joe, please come home, I begged silently. Please come home and save us. I heard Max and Dominick turn on the TV. Good, I thought with a rattled sigh. Finn came toddling into the bedroom and tugged on the comforter over my head. Mom read me a story. I have books.

Okay, honey. Finn climbed on the bed and snuggled in. As I began to read The Runaway Bunny, my mind quieted and I breathed a little easier. Maybe I’ll be okay now; maybe that was just a weird fluke of my mind. The mother rabbit in the story always found her little runaway bunny. I am like her too; my fierce love for my children will keep them safe—won’t it?

Finn fell asleep as I was still reading. I looked down at his angelic face and the thought of strangulation invaded my mind. I quickly picked him up and laid him in his bed. I have to keep my own children safe from myself, I thought with horror.

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Joe came home to a terrible mess that night, but he was getting used to it. Dinner leftovers and dishes still on the table, Max and Dominick asleep on the floor in front of a blaring TV, and me in bed, curled up on my side in that old blue muumuu. I’m sure he often wondered what had happened to the beautiful girl he had married ten years before. Where is the wonderful marriage we had both hoped for? Joe knew that he drank too much and worked too much, But damn, he’d say, we need the money. All I had to do was take care of the kids and clean the house. What was so hard about that? Every now and then he would rage around the house about the mess, but mostly he would just look around, sigh and leave again.

I woke up in the middle of the night. I could hear Joe softly snoring beside me. Should I tell him what was happening to me? I would have wanted my husband to tell me if he was having thoughts of murdering his children. I would have taken the kids and run. No, I cannot tell him. I had been losing it for a while now. Twice I forgot to feed Max and Dominick breakfast before they went to school. I forgot to go to Max’s Christmas program. He came home crying. I was not there to see him play Rudolf. What kind of mother does that? But the thought of stabbing my children with a knife was beyond intolerable. There was nothing in my brain, just a void of dank, gray air misting around, out of which incomprehensible thoughts popped up like threatening daggers. Oh no, don’t think about daggers! I buried myself further under the covers.

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Morning came too soon and I could hear Max tell Dominick to get up and get ready for school. I rolled over and fell off the side of the waterbed. Joe had already left for work and I had not heard him. I should have been up to fix my husband breakfast—what kind of a wife am I? Another loopy refrain.

It was cold and snowy and I had to drive Max and Dominick to school. I got the boys in the car and then remembered. Finn! I ran back and pulled Finn out of bed, wrapped him in a blanket and took him with us. As we drove up the hill, the thought arose from my murky brain that I might as well just drive off the side of the hill and let the car roll over and over. I gripped the wheel until my knuckles were shaking, keeping the car safely on the road. I breathed a sigh of relief when Max and Dominick slammed the door in front of their school.

Goodbye boys, I love you, I managed to say. Good, they’re safe. Now, to keep Finn safe!

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I decided to take Finn to my mother’s house, but first I had to get out of the muumuu I had been wearing for days. I ran in the house and quickly squeezed myself into uncomfortably tight jeans that were frayed on the inseams where my fat thighs had rubbed together. I changed Finn out of his pajamas. Maybe if I move fast, it will keep the thoughts away.

My parents were just finishing breakfast when I arrived at their house. Finn ran in ahead of me, complaining, Grandma I’m hungry! Can we make pancakes?

Hasn’t he had breakfast yet? My mother asked reprovingly. I scrambled to put a coherent sentence together, Well, got up late… cold…. drove kids to school.

My mom gathered Finn to her soft belly, Sure, we’ll make pancakes little Finn, Grandma will take care of you.

I wandered into the living room and lay down on the couch. Mom woke me up about noon, saying she and my father, Alex, were going out. I could feel her eyes piercing me with disapproval. I hardly looked at my dad; I couldn’t make eye contact with him. My parents had volunteered to accompany a diabetic from their local Mormon ward to his doctor’s appointment. Now that my father had retired, they were often giving service to other Church members. Mormons are supposed to help those less fortunate, I had heard that all of my life. And here I was, needing my parents’ help and couldn’t get the words out. Okay, Mom, we’ll go home. I have to feed Finn lunch.

Mom looked at me strangely as if she had a vague idea that something was wrong but she didn’t ask, she would never ask, she didn’t really want to know. I could never tell her anything unpleasant. She could be sitting in front of me, but it was as if she had left the room. She wanted everything and everyone to be nice and pretty and happy.

I gathered Finn up and headed for the car. I will go home and lock up all the knives. But there are other ways to kill people, popped up another thought in my head. My stomach lurched, my forehead pounded. No! I’ll kill myself before I ever hurt my kids. That’s what I’ll do. If these thoughts don’t stop, I’ll find a big cliff and drive myself off the side of the mountain.

2

DR. WALLACE

A s one sleepless night filled with frightening thoughts followed another, I knew I had to do something. I remembered Dr. Wallace, the therapist I had taken Max to a couple of years before to be evaluated for ADHD. Maybe he could tell if I was going crazy or not. The shame of telling even a therapist about my murderous thoughts stopped my breath, but I was so afraid, I had to give him a call. The receptionist said she’d have him call me as soon as he got out of session. Dr. Wallace called an hour later. I ran in the bedroom. I told him I was afraid I was going crazy and could he see me right away. He agreed to squeeze me in at 5:00 the next day.

I just have to make it until tomorrow, I thought as I hung up the phone, then I can be put in a hospital or something. Please, please, please, can you be still, I begged my mind. But no, another thought about the knife. I grabbed the sides of my head with both hands and shook my head violently. Stop, please stop, I begged and sobbed.

I arranged for a teenage neighbor to watch my kids while I went to my appointment. I sat down in Dr. Wallace’s office and buried my face in my hands. He looked shocked when he saw me. It’s because I’ve gotten so fat, I figured. I wished I could fold in on myself until I was the size of a postage stamp that could be blown out the window and crushed by oncoming traffic. I sucked in air, and raising my head, not quite meeting his eyes, I finally said, I’ve gone crazy and I need to be locked in a hospital.

Wait, just a minute Michelle. What’s going on? Why do you think you’ve gone crazy?

Then the words gushed out. I told him all the horrible thoughts I was having and how afraid I was and about the woman in the news who had killed her kids. And I don’t want to hurt my kids. But I think I have gone crazy and I am so afraid that something in my brain will take over me and will make me do—

Michelle, he stopped me. Look at me.

I tried to look at him, but all I could do was give him a fleeting glance before my eyes would flit away to the piece of lint on the carpet or the water stain on his desk.

Michelle, I know you. You’re a good mother. You’re not going to hurt your kids.

Really? Then, why is this happening to me?

I suspect you’re depressed, severely depressed and anxious, and the depression is causing you to have obsessive thoughts, but you’re not going to act on them.

How can you be so sure?

"Because I’ve been doing this for a long time and I know