Okay, I will try to do this without rage to women I respect. Those of us who had memories of sexual abuse before seeking a therapist are unfortunately being lumped into the same catagories as those who went to a therapist who helped create faux memories. The result has been that my family is mad at me for accusing my wonderful (now deceased) father of such heinous crimes. I was looked upon as being mentally ill and therefore to be discounted. I moved 1100 miles away from them all and became a stable, succussful adult who didn’t need their baggage to get me by. I have to laugh now because one of my brothers did an oral history of my parents and their nine children of which I am the youngest. I paid for 29 CDs of one-on-one conversations between my historian brother and each of us. 29 CDs because some were verbose! I spent 3 days listening to all the CDs…while painting my bedroom, while driving around, etc. The only CD where I am mentioned is my own. It’s understandable for the oldest 5 who left home before I was 3 years old. But the brother who is 13 months older than me was asked if he had any memory of growing up with me. He didn’t even pause. “No.” I went though the 5 stages of grief on this one. I could stay angry but to what end? I think this lesson has taught me that memory is subjective. Who wants to remember the bad stuff? I imagine if my siblings made CDs of the truth, there wouldn’t be enough CDs to go around! I think Jack Nicholson’s character was right: “You can’t handle the truth!”