Getting it back down to the bare bones of things, without all the elevated philosophizing... How do people like this monster get away with things on a day-to-day level?
Note: there is a professor at Penn State with the same name as the author of this article.
The Sandusky wives see no evil - SFGate
We all tell little lies to ourselves get us through the rough patches. "This job isn't all that bad." "Once the wedding's over, I won't have to see his parents very often." "I can get another week or two out of this haircut." Eventually, though, the truth wears away at our denial. Either that or a true friend breaks the news that "Honey, you're getting fat."
But what kinds of whoppers must women like Dottie "Sarge" Sandusky tell themselves in order to live under the same roof - let alone sleep in the same bed - with a serial child molester? I think of the shape and size of my adult body in contrast to how I was built as a 10-year-old and tremble as I think about what kinds of sounds must have come out of that basement. I can't imagine mistaking those shrieks for any normal household sounds. And yet Sarge didn't hear anything unusual.
From news accounts of her testimony, it would appear that the Sanduskys followed "traditional" (i.e., Eisenhower-era) sex roles, with him earning the money and her taking care of the house. So I have to wonder, what must those sheets have looked like? What kinds of details must she have come across - and not allowed herself to perceive as unusual - over the past 20 years?
Full disclosure: My mother was - and continues to be - one of those women (and I assume there must be some men out there, too) willing to put herself and her family through whatever machinations are necessary in order to believe she isn't married to a monster. And yes, that means that I was part of the growing army of kids whose physical safety and lifelong mental health was sacrificed for what I'm sure is a very complex web of reasons.
And like Sarge Sandusky, my mother had help. Maybe she didn't have the coaching staff of the Penn State football team and most of the institution's senior administration, but there were confederates. First, of course, was our family pediatrician. Then there was the second pediatrician who was called in to find out what was wrong with me. After him there were the social worker, the psychologist and the child psychiatrist. A few years later, her team was joined by the entire staff of the mental hospital where I spent a very lovely Christmas vacation in 1977 and the family therapist who sat and nodded while my father categorically denied every accusation.
On those rare occasions when I feel compassion for my mother, I understand, intellectually at least, that she came from a world where women weren't valued except as accessories to their men. Stir in the fact that she was orphaned at 3 and struggled in school, and what you have is someone who feels very powerless. Every dime she had to spend came from my father; it wasn't until her adoptive mother died that she had her own money, and by that point I was in college. How on earth would she be able to take care of herself - let alone five children - by herself? She had very real reasons for not being able to see what was right in front of her.
"If I believed your father was capable of such a thing," my friend's mother once said to her at the first suggestion of abuse, "I'd have to leave him." The second half of the sentence, the unspoken subordinate clause, is: "and of course that's out of the question, so it can't be true." How many lives have been destroyed by such thinking?
Today, I'm nearly 50 years old and I still gag every time I put a toothbrush in my mouth. I take a fistful of antidepressants every day and I have such long and frequent bouts of insomnia that I can't hold a regular job. My mother's sleep pattern, like Dottie Sandusky's hearing, is "just fine."
Dottie Sandusky had a lot to lose when she chose - on some level of consciousness - to ignore whatever signs she was faced of the atrocities being committed by her husband. I imagine it must have been easier for her to allow what happened to those kids because they weren't her own flesh and blood; I know it's a lot easier for me to want her to burn in the deepest pits of hell because she isn't my own mother.
Christopher Norbury is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.