...then I suggest that LW find a copy of Elizabeth Bowen's novel, The Death of the Heart (1938), and read it cover to cover. A naive, newly-orphaned sixteen year-old goes to live with her disaffected older half brother and his cold-hearted, stylish wife, whose name is Anna, oddly enough. The housekeeper and the part-time governess are the only caring people in the girl's life. It's a stunning portrait of neglect and failure, and may help the letter writer see her own terrible shallowness more clearly.

Dear WHTK--

First of all, my heart goes out to you, and I'm sorry that you had to live through such an awful and scarring ordeal. Cary's advice is solid: get help from the pros first. I wish I had. When something very similar happened to me at seventeen, I was too afraid to tell anyone, and it haunted me for years. I avoided going places where I might encounter him, but since we attended the same university, and our families moved in the same circles, I knew it was a matter of time before we ran into each other somewhere. Several years later, we did, at a cocktail party for old friends who were getting married. Fortunately, by that time, I had taken steps to prepare myself: when I arrived at college, I trained for months to become a crisis-hotline counselor through the student volunteer clearinghouse at my university. My first call was from a twelve-year-old girl who had been gang-raped. She had just swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills and said she only wanted someone to talk to until she lost consciousness. I was able to trace her call and send an ambulance to her house. Not surprisingly, that call was a turning point for me. The training had already helped me to overcome some of the fear and shame, but the suicidal girl roused me to righteous anger, empowering me to take the next step: I filed a police report--a record of what happened and the name of my rapist--so that the police would have a file on him, in case he decided to drug and rape someone else. I chose not press formal charges because so much time had passed, and I wanted to focus on completing my degree. By the time I ran into him, I felt confident enough to stand my ground while he skulked around the cocktail party, avoiding my eyes. I sensed that he was ashamed, and that helped me to let go of my desire for vengeance. I could also see that he had not really "gotten away with" much: he was a miserable mess whose new bride had recently left him because of his drug abuse and sleazy, womanizing behavior. After that evening, I was able to put to rest most of the painful memories. What was left of that experience helped me stand up for myself later, when I had to face slimy bosses, a harrassing grad school professor, and a stalker. You can't undo what happened. If you seek the help you need, and in your healing, show yourself and others that your strength and compassion are more than a match for whatever ugly and brutalizing forces are out there, you will have done the universe and yourself a huge favor. I will be rooting for you and everyone else who has had to turn this kind of shattering experience into an opportunity to grow more powerful.

As I read these posts, I realize that instead of getting angry at selfish moms or rushing to the defense of harried mothers everywhere, what I mainly feel when I see them out and about is sorry for them. So many of my friends and so many parents in restaurants, on airplanes, etc. just seem exhausted and regretful about how much of their lives are taken up by uncontrollable, rude children, resentful passersby, outrageous expenses, absurdly demanding schedules (including the ubiquitous "playdates" that involve driving children all over creation instead of sending them out into neighborhood yards to play) and mountains of conflicting advice about how to "do" parenting right. I used to think that I wanted kids, but watching my friends turn into perpetually anxious parent-zombies who never go anywhere except as chauffeurs and who can barely make a phone call without one or more children melting down at top volume has given me major second thoughts. It doesn't look like much fun to me, yet I know that I am too conscientious to allow myself knowingly to do a terrible job of child-rearing if I do find myself expecting a child. I would like to hear an honest answer--just once--from parents: how many of you would at least consider remaining childless if you had the chance to choose all over again? I am wondering about this issue especially in light of the statistical evidence about how many pregnancies are unplanned--a huge number, if I recall correctly. Parents, what, if anything, do you miss most about your life before children? What would make life better for you, now that you have them? Finally, how many of you feel trapped in undesirable relationships because of your kids?