Atlas of Scars

By Sadie Montgomery

The Atlas of Scars is a memoir about withstanding generational trauma, death, grief, mental illness, and abuse; yet having the courage to love, the spirit to heal, and the boldness to wear wounds as a display of beauty.

Lyla Bennett's mom died when she was twelve. That loss broke Lyla's world apart in ways she

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sadie Montgomery LLC
• Release date: Jan 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989685714

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ATLAS OF SCARS

Wearing the Inscription of Complex Trauma

Copyright © 2023 Sadie Montgomery

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

All events in this memoir are true to the best of the author’s experience and memory. For privacy reasons, names and identifying locations have been changed to protect the identity of all parties. Like all personal narratives, this one is subjective. This story is told from the author’s perspective, she acknowledges that everyone may remember events differently.

The author is not trained nor qualified to give professional advice. For mental health services contact a licensed mental health professional.

Cover and Interior Design by:

We Got You Covered Book Design

For more information visit:

WWW.SADIEMONTGOMERY.COM

Print ISBN: 979-8-9896857-0-7

E-ISBN: 979-8-9896857-1-4

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

DEAD MOTHER

VIRGINIA AND FRANK

MAEVE

BC: CHILDHOOD YEARS AT THE KENNEL HOUSE

THE DUNCANS

THE FAVORITE, THE SCAPEGOAT, AND TRAUMA

THE GUNDERSONS

AD: THE KENNEL HOUSE WITHOUT MAEVE

JUNIOR HIGH YEARS ON MABLE STREET

SOLACE

HIGH SCHOOL YEARS ON MABLE STREET

COLLEGE YEARS

YOUNG ADULT

NEW TO THERAPY

STABLE

CHRIS

HARPER

THE END OF THE MARRIAGE

JESSE

THE MOVE BACK TO DUNTON

ABIGAIL

THE SHIFT

RE-GRIEF

PERPETUATING GENERATIONAL TRAUMA

BILLY

COMPLEX PTSD

TRAUMA THERAPY

RON

ALL I EVER WANTED

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For my husband and daughters,

thank you for being my fountain of gold

Show me the most damaged part of your soul

and I will show you how it shines like gold

NIKITA GILL

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thank you for reading Atlas of Scars. I am so honored to share my story with you. This memoir is an incredible accident, borne from trauma therapy and journalling that morphed into histories, and then chapters, and then a book. The intention of this memoir is to be brutally transparent and bravely bare the scars of trauma with the hope of reaching those who have struggled to tell their own story. It took me 46 years to realize that I had been abused. Verbal and emotional abuse is just as valid as physical and sexual abuse; even if it happened a long time ago, even if it cannot be remembered completely, even if others did not think it was that big of a deal, even if others dubbed the victim as the problem to dismiss the abuse. I had to tell my truth, my experiences from my perspective. The intention was never malicious or vengeful, but I spare no one…not even myself. Many of the topics in this memoir are painful and potentially triggering to read. Above all I want you to be safe; if it becomes overwhelming feel free to put it down and pick it up later.

Prologue

I’M SORRY, I FEEL LIKE I’M WHINING, I SAY.

You’re not whining, Anna counters with a smile.

I let out an irritated sigh and flatly mutter, I’m apologizing for expressing my emotions again; to my therapist. Which is literally the reason for being here, my inner critic scolds as I stare out the window. How long it is going to take to shed this suppress all emotions delusion that was hard-wired into my core at an early age?

I started coming to Anna’s second floor office a year ago. I chose her because she specializes in trauma work. After years of going to therapists for grief, depression, and anxiety, I’d read something about trauma that piqued my interest and started exploring. I related to so much of what I was reading, specifically Generational Trauma and Complex PTSD (C-PTSD). Working with a trauma trained therapist confirmed I do indeed have C-PTSD from enduring recurrent trauma over decades and, like countless others, my disorder hid behind a shroud of relentless depression and anxiety.

Receiving a diagnosis can be both good and bad. The validation of receiving an official name, for a very real condition, coming from a trained professional brings immense relief. I was not sensitive or a bad kid, I had a genuine debilitating illness that went untreated for decades; and once the real issue is discovered, the appropriate steps can be taken to treat it. However, receiving a diagnosis like this can also make a person feel damaged.

During one of my earlier sessions with Anna, with tears streaming down my face, and filled with shame, I whispered, I don’t want to be broken.

Another encouraging smile, That is why you are here, Anna replied. Have you heard of the Japanese art of Kintsugi? When something breaks the crack is repaired with gold to illustrate the strength and beauty in healing. You are healing.

Enduring decades of trauma forces you to become strong against your will. Whoever said time heals all wounds got it wrong. Does weight become lighter over time? No. The bearer of the weight becomes stronger. I wore the wounds, I carried the weight of trauma with me, never being able to set it down. I did the work, I get the credit; time did nothing but pass. I became strong and resilient because that was my only choice if I wanted to break the cycle of generational trauma. And let me tell you… resiliency is exhausting.

Dead Mother

MY MOM DIED WHEN I WAS TWELVE. THAT HAS BEEN MY OPENING line for decades, my introduction. Hi, my name is Lyla and my mom died when I was twelve. As if that one sentence explains absolutely everything you need to know about me. Akin to BC and AD, I viewed my youth as severed into two: my childhood years (BC: before cancer) and my teenage years (AD: after death). Breast cancer killed my mother. In June 1988, a month before her thirty-eight birthday, Maeve Hamlin died. I got my first period the following week. It was the summer in between my transition from elementary into junior high school. I emerged from this life altering loss as a teenager whose childhood had died, in countless ways, along with her mother.

My mom and stepdad decided to keep Maeve’s cancer hidden to shield the children. Even though we obviously noticed that she was in and out of the hospital constantly, her hair fell out from the chemotherapy, the radiation made her violently ill, she had a double mastectomy where a severed nerve cost her the use of her entire left arm, and there was the pungent smell of the bandage changes post-op. The failed attempt at protection only cultivated secrecy and confusion, doing more damage than an honest conversation ever could. Instead of being able to talk about cancer and ask questions, the kids were taught to say nothing and pretend like everything was normal.

Oh no, did you break your arm? My friend’s mom, Shannon, asked Maeve when we ran into her at the local mall.

With a slight tilt of the head, Maeve sighed, I did.

I stood silently by her side, as I was trained, as the two moms chatted.

I imagine my parents were scared, however, not being able to talk openly with them left me full of anxiety when all I wanted was reassurance and to be comforted. Instead of being taught to communicate and express my feelings, I was taught to bury them deep down inside and act like everything was fine. And if we ran into an acquaintance when my mom was wearing her arm sling, we played along with the broken arm ruse.

During one of my mother’s countless hospital-stays my stepdad, Duane, took us to visit Maeve. As we navigated our way through the labyrinth of hallways the glare of the fluorescent lights, the shrill bark of the overhead page, and the bitterness of the sterile odors caused me to well up with tears. Just outside of Maeve’s room Duane noticed I was upset and bent down, It’s okay. Don’t cry. He gave a caring smile, You don’t want to upset your mother. I dutifully wiped the tears away, put a smile on my chubby little face, and walked into my mom’s room to cheer her up. Who tells a ten-year-old little girl to stop crying over her mother being in the hospital sick with cancer? I am guessing this is where my knack for masking first began.

There were moments when I was allowed to peek behind the curtain.

Mom, are we going to Aunt Winnie’s tomorrow? I yelled just as Maeve shut the bathroom door. She said she was going to take a shower, so of course I felt the need to ask her a question the minute she took some time to herself.

Maeve had finished chemotherapy and begun to wear wigs. The kids never saw her without one. For whatever reason, she leaned out the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel, and said, Yes, we’re heading over to Winnie’s at noon, not a single hair on her head.

I stood with my hand on the white plaster wall in the only hallway of our three-bedroom home, speechless, as she leaned back and closed the bathroom door. Seeing her bald head, which was always hidden, felt like she was confiding in me. I wanted to be let in and be able to talk openly and be comforted by my parents. However, a few snippets of truth in a sea of secrecy was ultimately more confusing. I now knew, but I could not admit that I knew, I could not talk about it, and I would not be consoled.

Maeve’s best friend was my Aunt Winnie. Winnie was married to my mom’s oldest brother, Dan. Maeve and Winnie were always together, going to art fairs, holidays at each other’s houses, shopping, and lunch. When Maeve lost the use of her left arm, Aunt Winnie would come to the house every week to give my mom a manicure. I would sit at the opposite end of the oak table in our eat-in-kitchen, enamored by their ritual, watching Maeve place a tea towel in front of her while Minnie shook up the bottle of polish. They would pick up where they left off in their ongoing dialogue about everything and anything, Winnie casually maneuvering my mom’s left hand, careful not to make a fuss, attune to Maeve’s craving a sense of normality. Even after Winnie and Uncle Dan divorced, Maeve and Winnie remained best friends. We were at Aunt Winnie’s new apartment one day, about to drive over to the Apple Festival, and MTV was playing the new Wham song.

I loved that song and yelled, Hey, it’s Wang! I immediately clapped my hands over my mouth and my eyes grew big with embarrassment at my mistake.

Did you just say wang? My older sister Ava said in shock.

Maeve and Winnie both started to smirk as my face grew red.

Why? What does wang mean? Maeve asked me.

All I could do was shake my head, my hands still over my mouth.

Tell me, she prodded.

I ran and locked myself in Winnie’s bathroom and made Ava tell them what wang meant. There was no way seven-year-old me was explaining body parts to my mother. Obviously, she knew and was only asking to torture me, but little me did not know that.

When I was young was my neighbor, Delilah, was my best friend. Our older sisters were friends and once we were introduced, we were inseparable. It was a hot, summer day and Delilah had a kiddie pool in her backyard that I loved to swim in.

Mom, can I go play at Delilah’s today? We want to swim in the pool. I asked.

Mom?

Maeve was sitting at the dining room table staring out of the sun-filled window.

Mom? I say a third time. She slowly turned away from the window, finally hearing me. Can I?

You want to go to Delilah’s? She responded in a daze. I told her yes.

You don’t want to stay here with me? Maeve asked, a dejected look in her eyes.

Well, of course I want to hang out with you. But… Delilah and I wanted to swim today, so can I go?

Maeve returned her melancholy gaze back to the window, Okay… you can go play with your friend. She conceded. Looking back on that day, I can only imagine she had received some bad news about her breast cancer and was thinking about how little time she had left and all that she would miss.

Are we going home first or right to the hospital? Ava asked.

Let’s go to the hospital, was our Aunt Veda’s reply.

My aunt, sister, and I had all just gotten off a plane from California where we had spent the last week helping babysit Veda’s grandkids while her daughter was out of town. We got to tag along to swim in the pool and keep the boys’ company while Aunt Veda supervised. It was my first time on an airplane. Now that we were back home, we seemed to be in a rush to get to the hospital. I thought it was strange, typically we did not visit my mom in the hospital after visiting hours. Once we arrived on the third floor, I saw several family members standing in the hallway. I instantly knew something was wrong. Everyone watched as Ava and I walked towards them, looks of pity on their faces. Duane was waiting for us just outside of my mom’s room and walked us inside.

There they are, was Maeve’s faint welcome. Her smile and color were just as weak as her greeting, but she was happy to see us. Our brothers were with Maeve. Billy stood sullen with his arms crossed in the corner of the room, Kurt gave a meek grin from the tan vinyl folding chair near the window. We did as we had been taught and smiled, told her how much fun California was, pretended everything was fine.

After our visit, Duane walked us out of the room and pulled us aside. She’s not coming home this time, was all he could get out before his voice caught in his throat. Ava immediately started to cry and fell into Duane’s embrace. I was pulled into the embrace as well, but stood there stunned, not knowing how to react. All I could do was stare at the plastic row of chairs at the end of the desolate corridor.

Kurt drove us home so that Duane and Billy could stay with Maeve. On the ride home Ava was crying and I went into default mode saying, Don’t worry, she always comes home. Kurt and Ava turned and looked at me with pity in their eyes. Was I naïve because I was the youngest, or was I just oblivious? How did they know when to pretend everything was fine and when to come back to reality? It seemed as if everyone around me knew the rules to this game, but I had no idea how to play.

They said Maeve waited for Ava and me to come home before she died. According to her doctors, she was not supposed to last as long as she did. She was tougher than they gave her credit for because she lasted a few days after we got home. One of the adults had the bright idea of sending me to a cabin to have fun instead of sitting in a depressing hospital room with my dying mother. So off I went with my Uncle Ken and Aunt Patty up to their cabin for the day. I recall sitting on the dock with my feet in the water, not wanting to jump in. My mother was dying, and some idiotic adult thought it would be cheerier if I went for a swim. The cabin did not have a phone, so as soon as I saw the neighbor walking up the driveway while we were eating lunch, I knew. My mother was dead.

I watched Uncle Ken as he walked down the gravel driveway to talk to the man and I instinctively got up and put my dish in the sink. When my uncle came back into the cabin, no one said a word; we all got into the car and drove home. Tears must have begun rolling down my cheeks as I sat in the backseat of their Chrysler, because my Aunt Patty reached back to hand me a tissue. Once we arrived at my house, I saw all the cars and immediately became furious. My mother died and we’re having a party? I was a kid; I didn’t know that is what people do. Aunt Winnie tried to hug me when I walked through the front door, but I shrugged her off and went to my room, dodging the looks of heartbreak on the faces of my aunts and uncles. Once I was alone, I climbed onto the top bunk, laid on my yellow bedspread, put my pillow over my face, and sobbed.

A while