What Do Mermaids & I Have in Common?

A VCUG Retelling by Alivia D.I.

One moment, I was running on the playground at an elementary school. My classmates and friends' laughter fills the air. My friend called my name, so I ran to our secret spot under the slide. The playset is just how it always is, with vibrant and nostalgic colors in all the ways that elicit childhood simplicity. I turn to run to another part of the playground when the ground suddenly splits, the sky darkening into an empty gray above it. The cracks are jagged sharp and provide no purchase to hold onto when I trip, and I’ve no choice but to fall, the endless emptiness below almost matching the sky above perfectly. Everything falls apart.

When I stand again, I’m not as close to the ground as I used to be. I am taller and older, and my hair is long. I’m not me anymore; I’m her. A clearing is ahead of me, and if I am facing north, far ahead, downriver, sprawling hills hold up a beautiful mansion. East of me are dark woods, sprawling as far as the eye can see, and west is the river that leads north. There are pathways that lead to every destination, even the tiny bridge that sits over the river, but not to the mansion. If I walk all day and all night attempting to reach that home, the sun will rise again, blinding my eyes for a moment before revealing I am no farther along the riverbank than when I started. The hills still stand far ahead, the mansion unreachable. Even if I never learned my lesson about the mansion, I eventually gave up trying and turned to walk the other pathways. Some days, I end up wandering the forest paths aimlessly. Some days, I sit in the river and cry. Those are the easy ones. 

Deep in the woods, farther south than I care to venture, is a facility. Cold cement walls are hidden within the woods, gated like a fortress. I avoid that lab because my life depends on it. I know what awaits me behind heavy doors, in those fluorescent lights that darken ever ominously. Sometimes, if I get too close in my wandering, one of the few others in the world will warn me away, and I feel like I can hear the cry of a small girl echoing through the trees. Once I hear that, the forest loses its comfort. The freedom of nature begins to change into a cage. White coats spill from the lab walls, eager for a new specimen to study, and I know they hunt me. It’s always only a matter of time before they succeed in their chase. 

On the days they fail, I am chased from the forest, forced to dive into the river into my cold, underwater reprieve. Undecorated monochrome hiding becomes the only thing I can cling to. What should be comforting, a place away from the white coats starts to feel like a crumbling roof. Even if I am safe now, I know that the moment I step foot on land, I risk being seen, risk being taken, and risk being experimented on. 

White coats spill from the lab walls, eager for a new specimen to study, and I know they hunt me. It’s always only a matter of time before they succeed in their chase. 

There are tattle tales here, just like there are on the playground. Three of them surround me and cry, “It’s her! There is something wrong with her! She’s not human!” Their cries drive me to hide even more, for I know the white coats pay close attention to their exclamations. They’ve learned to sit on the bridge and wait for me just to report me to the white coats. When I slip by them, my gaze always falls on the mansion. It sits proudly on top of that hill, untainted by the injustice taking place just downriver. Longing is all I can feel as I stare, dreaming of being inside those walls instead of one I am forced into or forced to hide within. The sun is always brighter there. 

Finally, away from the tattles, I must stay within the forest again. The clearing is too dangerous, but I can’t stand being trapped underwater for another day, so I take to foliage for cover. On unlucky days, this is where the inevitable takes place. I’m caught, bound, and dragged. The hands clutching me eventually grow bored of my struggling and administer a sedative. The forest fades as dread grows within my gut, but I am powerless, and this is what I know to be inescapable. 

When I wake up, I am in the lab. My body is heavy, disoriented from whatever they used to get me here, but I am upright. Ahead of me, there is an audience’s worth of chairs, all empty at first, but the white coats file in one by one to fill every seat. Bindings are attached to each of my wrists and ankles, and I am suspended in midair between two support beams, strung up like a starfish, exposed. Some researchers bring in pails of water, which they sit at my feet as if to taunt me for what comes next. The lights dim when every white coat has found its seat, except for the ones fixated on me. They announce the spectacle they will witness, proof of a mermaid's existence. They sit in their chairs, bodies stern but eyes hungry for the discovery they are about to make. 

The hands clutching me eventually grow bored of my struggling and administer a sedative. The forest fades as dread grows within my gut, but I am powerless, and this is what I know to be inescapable. 

The lights dim then, and someone walks up to throw the water on my legs, where my thighs would touch if they weren’t held apart. The pain begins like fire as my legs try to stitch themselves together, scales reaching to complete a tail but being prevented by the restraints. The agony between my legs is enough to force me to scream. The white coats think nothing of it but only throw more water. The pressure is debilitating, and it’s only a matter of time before I am unconscious again. As I fade from the present, I think I will fight harder next time. Perhaps they won’t be able to find me next time. Maybe someone will help me next time. 

I’m on the playground again, running and happy, but only momentarily. I’ve seen this story a hundred times before. The ground splits, I free fall, the clearing awaits, but so do the white coats. The mansion is ever unreachable, and I can only hope to escape the inevitable this time. 

The dream above began when I had my first VCUGs and repeated itself more times than I could count for ten years. As a young child, I considered myself a mermaid, even if I knew it wasn’t true. Why else would I be treated inhumanely? Why else would I be experimented on? Why else would that much pain between my legs exist so clearly in my memories? I would watch “mermaid spell” videos on YouTube and perform rituals in my bedroom with a glass of water, hoping to reveal the true identity hiding within me. 

As a young child, I considered myself a mermaid, even if I knew it wasn’t true. Why else would I be treated inhumanely? Why else would I be experimented on? Why else would that much pain between my legs exist so clearly in my memories?

Mermaids and I had so much in common. I didn’t want the white coats- doctors- to know about me. I didn’t want them to dissect me like they would her. Still, I couldn’t deny how much I identified with the concept. I knew what it was like to feel like you had to hide. Her watery bedroom was like the hospital rooms I kept waking up in. The drugs that the white coats administered were the multiple times I was under anesthesia for failed corrective surgeries. Her desperation to escape the white coats was like my desperation to escape a memory I couldn’t bear to remember as my own. The mansion was a physical representation of safety; her inability to reach it was my inability to feel it. I even knew what it was like to be stripped and tied down under dim lights. The water she felt between her thighs was the cleaning solution they used on my genitals. I knew what it felt like to be exposed, helpless, and looked upon without anyone attempting to help me. I knew how the fire between her legs felt. Or maybe I didn’t; my mind would tell me. Perhaps I didn’t go through any of it, and she did. Maybe, that’s why I showed all the signs of a childhood rape survivor, but all I had to show for it was the repetitive dream I always knew would come back and scars from surgeries and procedures I had as a child. 

Despite the horrifying torture she endured, I found comfort in that dream. I looked forward to having that dream, even hoping I would because the alternative was waking up screaming. I regarded the mermaid as a friend. I knew her, and she knew me, even when my brain had blocked the reality of my memories from itself. As I got older, she got away more and more. She formed allies with a ranger in the forest who helped her escape the white coats. She was strong. She understood what it was like when no one else did. Yes, she was different but beautiful and otherworldly, and she could escape. She was able to do what I never could. I desperately wanted to be able to do what she could. 

I am 24, at least 18 years older than my first VCUG. I’ve been to therapy and learned about the mermaid and what I have in common with her story. It’s a retelling of a trauma too terrifying for a 6-year-old to remember in its truthful state. As I got older, I remembered more and more of the story for myself, in all its horrifying details. I was riddled with panic attacks, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and complete distrust of any medical professional. I avoided doctors at all costs, didn’t go to the dentist for ten years straight, and panicked at the thought alone of going to the gynecologist. 

I want to make this part very clear, without metaphors or storytelling. The VCUG broke me on a fundamental level. I lost my sense of safety in the world around me. I lost my sexual innocence. I lost trust in everything. I lost my confidence. I lost my smile for a long time. I lost memories, my sense of childhood, and the ability to dream for my future. I didn’t think that there was anything for me in life but to be inevitably tortured despite my best efforts. When I was 16, I wrote a suicide letter that I told myself wasn’t one. I thought, “Just in case I suddenly die, I will have something left behind.” I didn’t realize how close I was to planning ways to die. Only later, looking back, did I read that letter again and realize the weight behind it. 

The VCUG broke me on a fundamental level. I lost my sense of safety in the world around me. I lost my sexual innocence. I lost trust in everything. I lost my confidence. I lost my smile for a long time.

There is so much I have had to grieve because of the 3 VCUGs I had. There were so many years I was haunted by this idea that I had been violently raped, but I knew that all I did go through was the VCUGs. My teen years were spent terrified of relationships because I was terrified of sex or intimacy of any kind. Instead of having my first kiss and being giddy and talking to my friends about it, I had an aggressive panic attack for hours afterward. I didn’t think that I would ever experience consensual intimacy. In my mind, I would only ever be used and violated. I’ve had to have pelvic floor therapy, counseling, and years of intentional self-work to have the relationship with my husband that I have today. 

I’ve gotten a lot better. I can even go to the doctor now, get blood drawn, and go to the dentist. I’ve learned to have a voice. When you are a kid, your voice doesn't matter to doctors. I’m an adult now, though, and they must listen to me, so I advocate for my comfort. I rebuilt myself, piece by piece, for years. I’ve been working on processing and recovering from this trauma since 2017- over six years. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still affect me. I still shake as I write these words. I’m terrified of being pregnant. I am horrified at the thought of giving birth. I still don’t know if I could handle it or if it would break me again, and this time, I wouldn’t recover. 

Part of me will always be her. Even if I’m better, I’ll always know her pain. That’s the reality for all of us survivors. I can get better. I do have hope, but I will always live with this. Just like CSA survivors, just like rape survivors, we will have to live with this memory for the rest of our lives. It doesn’t go away. It doesn’t disappear. My body remembers it. My emotions remember it. 

I still shake as I write these words. I’m terrified of being pregnant. I am horrified at the thought of giving birth. I still don’t know if I could handle it or if it would break me again, and this time, I wouldn’t recover. 

Will I heal? 

I will make sure I do. The VCUGs have stolen too many years of my life and ruined too much of my peace. It violated too much of my body. I won’t heal easily, but I will. The girl who survived three of these tests in two years deserves to be fought for as much as I fought against the doctors. For every burst of rage that I feel towards what this test took from me, I will give an equal amount of compassion to the little girl inside of me who had to survive it. I will get better, if not for myself, than out of spite. I won’t be victimized or silenced by this test any longer.

This is my story. I hope it makes you uncomfortable. It should disturb you.  

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Parents,

 Please protect your child from this the same way you would protect them from sexual predators. There are alternatives. It breaks my heart to know so many kids are still going through these procedures each year, knowing the havoc it wreaked on me. 

Doctors, 

Do better. We deserve better. 

-Alivia

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