Here is the story of a journey of fear, growth and faith.  The survivor tells of struggles, temptations, hurts and fears that many often face in the shadow of difficult relationships with our parents or significant adults.  This story is no different. 

As I read through the story, my heart was touched by the ups and downs exeptlified in this survivor’s journey.  There are times when faith is experienced through hope and promise and yet other times you will experience the writer’s hurts, fears and struggles.  Isn’t that the way it is for all of us?  Some days are easier than others.  Some life circumstances are more wonderful and some are more difficult.

This story serves as a wonderful testimony to the power of faith and God’s love as well as a wonderful example of what a life’s journey is all about…overcoming the trials and struggles so as to enjoy the gifts of joy and love.

My story…

I am a faithful believer in Jesus Christ who has struggled and is recovering from depression, anxiety, emotional abuse, and sexual addiction. 

I grew up in a small town in southern Minnesota, the daughter of two school teachers.  I grew up attending a traditional Lutheran Church but attending church was more of an obligation and a very low priority in our family.  I knew very little about the Bible and had never felt the presence of God in my life.

 I was always an athlete and started playing a sport at age 3.  By age 7, I was playing competitively in this sport and by age 9 I was competing nationally.  From the outside everything seemed normal; I excelled athletically and in school and it appeared that my family was supportive.  However, what was happening behind closed doors was a whole different story.  My dad was a great coach and teacher at our local school and a very jovial, fun person to be around in public.  I loved that dad and really enjoyed being around him.  Behind closed doors however, he was ultra controlling, verbally abusive, angry, and would expose himself naked to me on a consistent basis.  I was always scared that something terrible would happen in our house, whether it be my brother, who had the same temper as my dad or my dad losing his temper on myself or my mom.  I would try to stay out of the way when tempers were flaring and go hide in my room.  I learned very early on that keeping things to myself was the best way to stay safe.  I became a shell of the person I really was.  I was extremely introverted and struggled talking to others I didn’t know, especially men.

I had to win…

The pressure to succeed at my sport increased as I got older.  I distinctly remember being yelled at after an event when I didn’t perform as my dad thought I should.  I was constantly questioning myself and the pressure to succeed made me physically ill.  I was always sick before a sporting event and I firmly believe this is where I learned my anxious tendencies.  I would play in 30 plus competitive events a summer and travel all over the country. I missed out on my childhood in so many ways and lacked the social skills to be friends with kids my age.

There were some positives…

But those were just the negatives from sport—I have been blessed with so many positives from growing up playing.  The game taught me perseverance, respect, honesty, and integrity.  Because of my abilities, I earned a Division I athletic scholarship.  With that came a team of other young woman who had similar life experiences.  That was the greatest gift God could give me at that moment in my life. 

In addition, I had the most loving, amazing coach, who guided me through this period of my life.  In my freshman year of college, I herniated a disk in my back and had to have surgery the following spring.  The only thing I knew in life, my sport, was taken away.  I couldn’t play for 6 months and it really took me a year and a half to get back to full speed.  I didn’t know how to function without the sport I had played almost my entire life.  I didn’t have practice to go to everyday and felt so empty inside.  What ensued was my first bout with depression.  I had severe sadness, loneliness, and I didn’t know what I could possibly do now that my sport was to be limited in my future.  My team and coach surrounded me with their love and I was able to go off of my depression medication after a year and a half.  I wouldn’t struggle with depression again for the next five years.

Life was still tough and I learned to stuff my emotions…

Meanwhile, my relationship with my dad was always difficult.  Whatever I did in life, it was never good enough for my dad.  I spent the first 27 years of my life trying desperately to please him and live my life the way he wanted.  It was like he was my God.  I believed everything he told me.  That I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t have a good enough job, that I shouldn’t have taken the time to get my masters, that my apartment wasn’t nice enough, the list goes on and on.  My self-esteem was exceedingly low and for the longest time my self worth was determined by my success in my sport.  I stuffed everything inside, deep down.

Eventually, you can’t stuff anymore inside of yourself.  In November 2008, I had something happen at work that made me question what I had become, what people thought of me, and what I was doing in my life.  It didn’t take much and my life was spiraling downward.  I was depressed and suicidal.  I felt so extremely alone and didn’t let anyone into my life.  The walls were up and I thought I could get out of this situation through my own strength and courage.  I did not tell a single person about my darkness until February 2009.  During this time, I somehow went to work, came home, went to sleep and got up the next day to go to work again.  I don’t even remember a lot about these three to four months of my life.

I found hope…

God had a plan though and He brought me through the doors of Lutheran Church of Hope on November 21, 2008.  The first thing I heard that Sunday evening was, “If this is your first time visiting Hope, we have been praying for you and believe it is no accident that you are here tonight.”  Well, that certainly got my attention.  I kept coming to Hope each weekend and accepted Christ into my life on December 23, 2008 during the Christmas Eve service at Hope.  It was an amazing experience and the first time I had truly felt God’s presence.  From there, I took the Alpha course that spring and it was in that small group that I told them about my depression, my suicidal thoughts, and how I hadn’t shared with anyone.  It took me 7 weeks to tell my Alpha group, and as some of you know the course is only 9 weeks long!

Sometimes it gets harder before it gets easier…

As it turns out the Depression was only a result of much deeper hurts, habits, and hang-ups.  In June of 2009, I started having panic attacks, some so debilitating that I thought I was having a heart attack; I couldn’t breathe, and would sometimes throw up when they were really bad.  I had them at work, at my support group, and in the car.  I was hurting really bad and was struggling to reach out to others and to develop some Accountability Partner relationships at my support group.  One night at my support group, I connected with a couple of people and we began an email conversation.  This helped build my trust and it was easier for me than face-to-face conversations.  These people were instrumental in helping me come out of my shell.  I slowly began to trust these few people and that trust was upheld.

One night in August 2009, the lesson at my support group was on sponsorship.  I always figured that sponsors were only for those with an addiction and not for someone who struggles with depression and anxiety.  But as I soon discovered, we all need someone to talk to and to walk alongside of us during our journey.  I really struggled trying to ask someone to be my sponsor.  I would come face-to-face with the person I felt should be my sponsor and not say a word.  I asked someone to be my sponsor about a month after the lesson.  I am currently on my fourth sponsor but am truly grateful for the one I have now.  This person is there for me when I need her and challenges me to become a better person and to be as God intended me to be.  I have several accountability partners who are also an integral part of my life.  The reason I am here today and striving to live the life God intended is because of my friends.  I have never had such authentic true friends in all my life.  I love them with all my heart and would do anything for them.  I never believed people when they said your church family can make up for a broken biological family…but it is so true.  Thanks Sisters!!

One of my accountability partners suggested that I purchase the step study books and begin working through the first step of denial.  I was willing to try anything because I was nearing the end of my rope.  My own willpower wasn’t working and I was having panic attacks on a regular basis.  I completed that first step on denial in one day and I couldn’t believe how much freedom and also pain it brought up.  I decided at that point I wanted to get into a Step Study.  Doing this study, especially the fourth and fifth step, has allowed me to work through my pain and to move on.  I know my journey is not complete but the step study is an important component in my journey of freedom from past hurts.

One of the biggest moments in my recovery journey was the day I gave over my control to God.  It was in September 2009 and I had been sick, I was experiencing problems with my depression medicine and at a definite low point in my life.  At the bottom, I finally realized that I could not fix this with my own willpower.  I prayed that evening on the side of my bed to God, I told him I was powerless and that I needed his help to overcome my depression and anxiety.  My way didn’t work and I was at the end of my rope.  Tears were flowing and my emotions were out for the first time in a very long time.  God was with me that night.  I felt His presence and felt His work in my life from then on.

With my support network strongly intact, God must have felt I was ready to remember and deal with more from my past.  In October 2009, during a guest speaker at my support group, I experienced a panic attack and started remembering abuse in my childhood and of being exposed to my father.  The abuse or exposure was so vivid in my mind and I struggled to sleep for a week and the panic attacks seemed stronger.  But God only gave me as much as I could handle and he surrounded me with such wonderful people from this recovery ministry.

During this journey, my faith and convictions continued to grow as I participated in classes at church, attended weekly services, met with prayer warriors, started the step study, and talked frequently with my sponsor and accountability partners.  As Ecclesiastes 4: 9-10 says:  “Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed.  If one person falls, the other can reach out and help.  But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.”

My journey continues…

As my faith grew deeper I realized that some things in my life were not for the glory of God and were against his law.  It was very hard for me to tell others of the addiction that I had been facing for several years.  Prior to coming into a relationship with Jesus Christ, I didn’t think it was that wrong.  Finally, shortly before Thanksgiving 2009, I told a very close friend that I was addicted to pornography and had a sexual addiction.  She was very loving and didn’t judge me at all.  Gradually, I started to feel less shameful of my addiction and more focused on how to overcome it.  I started reaching out for help and being accountable to others.  I still struggle with the temptations but pray that the Lord will help me through this addiction.

A scripture that I focus on a lot and sums up my struggles are Romans 7:21-25:

“I have discovered this principle of life—that when I do what is right, I inevitably do what is wrong.  I love God’s law with all my heart.  But there is another power within me that is at war with my mind.  This power makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me.  Oh, what a miserable person I am!  Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death?  Thank God!  The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord.  So you see how it is in my mind I really want to obey God’s law, but because of my sinful nature I am a slave to sin.”

 God has given me a new heart now and a new lease on life.  A prayer partner led me to a scripture one night in the prayer room and said that is what he now saw in me.

Ezekiel 36:25-26—“Then I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean.  Your filth will be washed away, and you will no longer worship idols.  And I will give you a NEW HEART and I will put a new spirit in you.  I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart.”

I know God had me experience the valleys and mountain tops of life for a reason, so I could help others with the same affliction.  I always had a servant and caring heart and what I found in the darkness will help others in the light.  I now know God’s purpose for my life, his intention when he created me.  I am looking forward to loving and glorifying God the rest of the days of my life.  This new heart, new life is amazing and I feel truly blessed to have been given this opportunity.

I will end with my favorite scripture and it helped get me through some very tough moments.

Joshua 1:9—“This is my command—be strong and courageous!  Do not be afraid or discouraged.  For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Just remember, He is with you always, in the good times and the bad.  And His light shines brighter than any darkness this world can bring.

Thank you.

I received the following story from a man struggling with his self-worth.  I have never met him nor have we had the opportunity to talk.  If we had, I would have told him…

I am so sorry for the loss of your childhood and youth.  I am sorry you had to experience the hurt from those very people God gifted you to for love and nurturing.

You are so incredibly correct in how much children long for their parents’ love and approval.  We are wired for unconditional love – love that embraces who we are and how God created us to be.  Unfortunately, parents are human and guilty of all sorts of human conditions – selfishness, self-centeredness, narcissism, abuse, neglect, emotional blackmail, inability to love…and the list goes on and on.  As children living with these human conditions we can be hurt and feel as if our parents’ behavior serve as our definition.  This is the emotional blackmail at its worst.

Now, as adults we must seek the truth of whom we are and who we can become.  We must let go of the lies that we were told by broken people not capable of dealing with their own struggles.  We must move toward what is true…

God created you in his perfect image (Genesis 1:27).  You are special to him (Deuteronomy 26:18).  You are so special to him that he knows the number of hairs on your head.( Matthew 30)  He suffered and died so that you may be brought safely home to God (1 Peter 3:18). 

These are the truths that we must focus on when we are struggling daily with the lies we have heard from the broken people in our lives.   God does love you – unconditionally!

I would gently challenge you today to view your guilt with a renewed light.  Take back your power and soul.  Let go of the false guilt when you believed the lies at a time when you were young.  Instead only hold on to the responsibility that you are currently allowing the lies to define you today.  Seek the truth about who God created you to be.  He doesn’t make mistakes – people do!

Maya Angelou said, “Things that happen to me will change me.  But I refuse to let them defeat me.”  I’ve changed that a bit…”Things that happen to me will change me.  But only God defines me!”

Prayers for you as you seek the truth about the person God created you to be! 

Blessings!
Jackie

Pent Up Anger

Many times I have laid awake at night thinking about the past wrongs in my life where my father and I are concerned.  Yet I have not actually taken a step back and seen things from his stand point.  I of course have thought of myself as the victim.  Yet I have not given him the common courtesy of seeing things from his standpoint.  The irony of the matter is I have always considered myself one of the most level-keeled, even-tempered, and least judgmental of all people I have ever come into contact with.  Yet I have so much pent up anger, resentment, and judgment towards my father that I can no longer hide from or sweep under the rug.  I am by no means dismissing my feelings.  Quite the opposite, I have come to a better understanding of them.  I just can no longer hide behind the mere facade of a victim when I have many wrongs to account for as well.

As far back as I can remember I have felt like I could never live up to my father’s expectations.  I have been quite vocal about this point to many people; friends, family, co-workers, therapists, acquaintances.  Yet I have never brought it up to the one person that I have felt like I have never lived up to.  At this point, I can’t tell you if I have hidden my feelings behind all of the hurt: considering I know my feelings and have vocalized them.  I just have vocalized them to all of the wrong people.  When you are a child, your parents are your whole world.  They are the ones you learn from and talk to.  As you grow older, you not only have to listen to them, but then you have the added pressure of listening to baby-sitters, older siblings (if you are so lucky), grandparents, aunts, uncles.  Then you grow even older and you have to listen to teachers, principals, and counselors; as well as the previous list.  Finally, you have to listen to co-workers and bosses.  By this point, you are no longer listening to your parents.  Yet they are the foundation.  They are the ones you should go to when you have problems.  But you have added people to please, added responsibilities, added pressures.  All the while, your parents’ voice is getting softer and softer to the point that you don’t even hear a mumble from them because of all of the pressures and people.  Is it any wonder that as we age, our voice gets softer and softer?

Whose Child?

I wish I could claim that I was a wonderful child.  On the surface I resembled a good kid.  But underneath there was a boiling turmoil – a festering sore, a deep-hidden secret.  Yes, I acted the part; but that’s precisely the point.  I merely acted the part.  Beneath the candy-coating was a pent up tiger waiting to break through.  Waiting to pounce and kill at any moment.  I was an emotional basket case that could fly off the handle at the drop of one word, one look, or one sigh from him – my father.  We added fuel to each other’s fire.  My father always claimed that I was my mother’s child.  His evidence was that we both spoke first (reacted) and either thought about it and/or apologized later after many regrets.  My mother always claimed that I was my father’s child.  Her evidence was that we both had an idealistic view of the world that was not attainable.  When we both found out that no one lived up to that view, we held grudges and would never forget.  We both would remember all past wrongs inflicted upon us to the point of throwing it back in the enemy’s face at the perfect opportunity.  Neither parent was right while neither was wrong.

I honestly never even thought about how my father’s absence from anything remotely resembling a household or family (whether by his choice or his employer’s …) affected him.  I of course know how it affected me.  But I never once considered his stance in the matter.  Yet he is the one it should have affected the most.  I was a mere observer.  To this day, I do not know whether all of the business trips he took for months on end affected him negatively.  The more quizzing fact of the matter is I have never discussed this with him.  I have never asked him how it hurt (or benefited?) him in any way.  I just always assumed that he really didn’t want to be a part of my life.  Otherwise he would have found a way to be around more. 

Even when he was physically around, he always seemed to be in a far away land; a mere vessel of a person that was there in front of me physically but not emotionally or mentally.  He was always busying himself with his work to the point that when I would ask for help with my nemesis school subject – Algebra – he would always be interrupted and too busy to help me.  That was when I learned to lower my goals to meet someone else’s goals.  That was when I learned to swallow my own bitterness to soothe the needs of others.  That was when I decided that I was too stupid to go the full Accelerated program my high school offered – International Baccalaureate (IB).

My High School Years

Let me take you back a few years.  When I was invitedto attend my high school – Sumner Academy – it was expected of me that I would excel and succeed to the satisfaction of my parents and grandparents.  On my paternal side, two older cousins of mine went there originally, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, they got kicked out.  Sumner was a public magnet high school.  You had to keep at least a 2.75 GPA to stay a student there not on probation; no lower than a 2.5 GPA to stay a student there period.  So my two older cousins took the entrance exam on a Saturday during their 7^th grade years and they both passed it enough to be able to be asked to attend the school starting their 8^th grade years.  Each of them (brothers 2 years apart) by their sophomore years were kicked out for attendance, behavior, and/or grades.  So when I was invited to attend Sumner starting my 8^th grade year (without an exam due to my unusually high standardized test scores) it was an EXTREME honor and privilege for my parents and grandparents to be able to tout that their son/grandson did not have to take the entrance exam – he was INVITED!

Unfortunately I had already lowered my goals and was not thrilled about leaving my middle school friends.  No one that I was friends with was invited.  Coincidentally, all of my friends took the entrance exam and not a one of them passed it either.  I wanted to stick back and go to another high school.  This, of course, was out of the question.  Even more, I never once asked MYSELF the question!  I did not believe in myself that I could achieve anything there.  I believed I would fail; and fail miserably.    It was decided by my family (him) that I would go to school there and I would take the full IB course load when it was available to me my junior year.  By default, you had to pass the “Pre-IB Algebra” class your sophomore year in order to even take the Full IB course load.  So naturally I took Pre-IB Algebra my sophomore year and by the end of the middle of the first quarter, I had earned a 49% in the class: an “F”!  I had NEVER received a grade mark that low!  The teacher tutored me after school and I just could not understand the mathat the speed we were needed to understand it.  I went so far as to ask my father for help.  I assumed this would be the natural way to understand it – my father being a mathand physics expert.  He was able to do mathematicalequations without a calculator.  When I say mathematical equations, he could even do square roots with just a simple pad of paper and a slide rule!

I was shocked, as well as let-down by the sub-par help that I received from my father.  I got reprimanded for not understanding how to do a simple Algebraic equation.  “What the hell have those teachers been teaching you?!  Haven’t you been paying any attention to them?!  WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

That was the help I received from him.  So after discussing it with my teacher and guidance counselor; it was decided that I would transfer into the “regular” Algebra 2 class.  This came with bitter resentment from my father.  I had let the family (him) down once again.  I ended up passing Algebra 2; although I have to admit that I do not know how!  I did not fully understand Algebra until I had the best Algebra teacher in the world during college.  I guess perfect attendance and acting as if you are grasping everything from a remedial class teacher gets you passing grades!

This was also the same year I had received the best grade report for a quarter.  My 3^rd quarter (first of the New Year) I received 6 A’s and 1 B.  The B was in Communications Media (Journalism pre-requisite; the percentage was 89.95 and the teacher refused to round-up grades due to her “curve” grading).  I remember bringing the report card home and I was on cloud-9!  I was dancing and bounding in the street all the way from the bus stop to home!  My mother was so proud of me she ended up cooking all of my favorite dishes as a reward for my marked improvement from the previous quarter’s grades of 3 A’s and 4 B’s.

When my father came home from work and saw my report card I could barely contain the excitement in my voice!  I thought I had finally won him over and made him proud of me.  Then I saw “the look” come across his face.  “The look” as I called it was the smile slowly draining out while being replaced with a frown.  This ALWAYS precluded me getting into serious trouble.  Then he opened his mouth to speak and I could hardly believe my ears . . . “What the hell is wrong with you?  Why the hell isn’t that B an A?  Are you some sort of IDIOT?”  I went on to explain about the curve grading and the percentage and he just looked at me with bitter scorn and said “YOU have disappointed me.  YOU, need to be a better student.  YOU have brought disappointment on the family.” 

My Punishment

I was not allowed to eat at the dinner table that night because I had brought a huge disappointment to my family (him).  Any time I brought disappointment to the family (him); I had to eat in my room and was not allowed to be seen by the family (him) until they (he) came to see me.  I was not allowed to leave my room except to go to the bathroom and go to school.  All extra- curricular activities (work, friends, school clubs, church, et al) were off limits.  I was to wake up, get dressed (not allowed to turn the lights on mind you), go directly to the bus stop, go to school, come directly home, go straight to my room, close the door, do homework/study, eat in the room when my meal was brought to me(after parents had already ate and plated my dish so it was cold when it was laid on the floor outside my room), open door to leave my plate on the floor, close it immediately, change, and go to bed.  All the while I was in my room; I was NOT allowed to turn my light on.

I was on this punishment throughout my growing up since 3^rd grade when I was a bad child and brought disappointment on the family (him).  This was off-and-on until this last time my sophomore year.  This certain go-round lasted 2 weeks.  To this day, I can still get ready in the dark, including finding the right clothes I want to wear!  This comes from organizing your drawers and closets in a certain way that everything is in a certain place so you can reach for it in the dark and know which one it is.  See what I mean?  On the shell, I look like an organized child.  But if you dig deep enough, it is not because I have to have everything in its place.  It is actually quite the opposite.  I am not a very neat housekeeper and can be disorganized.  But if I have to be organized, I can be; there has to be a reason for me to be organized!

To this very day, every time I was “grounded” as he called it, I do not know what was going on inside of that head of his.  I always seemed to be one millimeter off.  It always seemed odd to me (considering I am an only child) that I was inflicted withthis prison-like situation.  Only children are always characterized as spoiled brats that have life and everything about it handed to them on a golden platter.  As you can see from this memoir, it is quite the opposite.  I have always wondered what I had truly done to deserve such punishment from my father.  But I think the more quizzing fact is that I bought into it.  I lowered my standards to try to please someone else.  I never once thought of myself as intelligent, gifted, special, or even deserving of anything.  I thought of myself as an idiot that didn’t even deserve pocketlint.  With this example of rearing, it is even further amazing that to this day I am still a people-pleaser.  You would think that at some point in my life a light bulb would turn on and I would magically realize that I need to please myself because no one else will be able to.  This is not the case.  I do not please myself and I still believe I am undeserving of any affection, emotion, or any healthy relationship.

My Spirit

That man took away my self-worth.  That man took away my self-esteem.  That man took away my whole spirit.  The uncanny part is that you have to willingly give these away.  Someone cannot steal these from you.  You give them up; and I did.  I have never once asked, or better yet, demanded for them to be returned.  He still holds them.  I do not know if they have been kept safe and well-preserved.  Somehow I doubt it.  Anything that was mine wasn’t worth holding onto.  Why would I think these are any different?

My Guilt or My Hope

So you see I am guilty of many things myself.  I am guilty of lowering my expectations to appease someone else.  I am guilty of stuffing my own hopes, dreams, and ambitions down the toilet drain so that someone else would hopefully be happy (for once).  I am guilty of holding onto grudges of past wrongs from more than 20 years ago.  I am guilty of wanting to please the one man that has inflicted so much damage on me.  I am guilty of never once pleasing him.  I am guilty of never expecting to…only hope.  That is what I am left with: hope.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Here is a life story of a woman who is working through the hurts and pains of a life of abuse.  I am always so humbled when someone shares their story and gives us all the gift of trust.  Please join me with me in appreciation toward yet another survivor of abuse.

Where to Begin

I am 39 years old.  Some days I feel like I am about 18 and other days I feel about 108.  I grew up on a farm outside of a small north Iowa town.  I am the middle child of 3.  I grew up feeling kinda like a leaf in the wind.  I was just doing and going where ever my friends and family wanted me to go and be.

The First Memory

My youngest memory is that of a sordid occasion.  My great-uncle lived across the road from my family.  He was a drunk and a nasty looking and smelling man.  He was an old and creepy acting man.   He was nothing like my grandfather was gentle and level headed.  Even though they were brothers, you’d never guess it.

I remember smelling the beer on my great uncles breath.  He invited my little sister and I over to his shack.  (He lived in a one room shack with just electricity, no running water nor bathroom facilities.)  He lured us over by offering us chocolate pudding.  Of course as a child, who wouldn’t want chocolate pudding?  So we went.  My little sister got scared being away from our house, so left me there alone.  I was about 5 or 6.

I remember the smell of beer on his breath – so wickedly sour and pungent.  He grabbed my little wrist and slung me into a chair.  He said that I was to tell no one, especially my dad that I was at his place.  He kissed my neck.  I tried to get free of his grip, but I couldn’t.  I tried to kick him, but I couldn’t.  He pulled me onto his lap while he sat in his rocking chair.  I remember feeling like I was in a whirlwind.  My head was spinning with where I should be.  I should be home.  I felt like the room was spinning.  He kept kissing me with his wicked breath.  (This is a stench that I will always remember.)

New Perpetrator

Fast forward about 8 years.  My mom and her sister were best of friends.  Our families were always best friends and always over to their house.  My cousin was just a bit older than me.  One night, when my older brother, our cousin and his sister and I were getting ready for bed, I began regretting that I was related to the two older boys.   We all were all sleeping in a huge bed together, when my cousin started touching me.  I heard my brother kissing my younger cousin.  I had a terrible feeling that I knew what was going to happen.  My cousin started kissing and touching me more and more.  Finally I remember giving in and in my mind I went far away.  It felt like I was watching from a distance.  Then he pushed himself on me.  He made me do things that (at 12) I didn’t understand or know what they were.  It was as if I just watched on.

Another day many months later my brother coaxed my younger cousin and I to the haymow at their farm, of course we went.   Jumping in the haymow and building forts was great fun.  Neither my younger cousin nor I expected anything but fun.  We were sorely wrong.  The boys started doing inappropriate things again.  We were feeling very frightened because they told us that they would hurt us and our younger sisters if we ever told anyone.  Again, I floated away into my own world.  This time, I don’t remember what happened after I floated away.　

The next thing I remember was that I was falling…my cousin pushed me out of the haymow onto the ground below.　 All I felt was falling and then pain.  I felt severe pain to my left shoulder and my face.  I had hit the ground.  I was crying and hurt.  I was angry.   The next thing I knew, my younger cousin fell on top of me.

We were both in tears as we got up and headed toward the house.  We didn’t know what to tell our moms.   When we got inside, they asked us how we fell out of the haymow.  We said we tripped and that my younger cousin had grabbed me and then we both fell out.

The Abuse Continues

My next memory is similar to the previous times with my brother and older cousin.  I don’t know exactly how old I was but I was still young.  My  brother, older cousin, his sister and I went down to the railroad bridge.  There was a deep pond under the bridge.  We had all swam there before but this time was different. 

When we first got in, we played Marco polo and some other water games.  I remember at one point that I was under water and I couldn’t breathe – someone was holding me down.  I felt like I was dying.  Finally they let me up for air.  I was dizzy.  I had trouble catching my breath.　

The next thing I felt was a had going down my pants.  My cousin was fondling me.  I knew it was wrong and I tried to push him away.  But in the water it was so hard.  I was about 13 or 14,and I knew what was happening to me.  But I didn’t understand why or what I had done to deserve this.   I knew from the “mother/daughter tea”, that this thing called sexual intercourse was something you didn’t do until marriage, especially in MY family.  It was an unspoken rule that you don’t even kiss anyone until you were sure that this person was the one you were going to spend the rest of your life with.

No Relief in High School

As I got older and into high school, the sexual abuse got worse at times.  My older brother set me up to be gang raped by some of his buddies.   This happened after volleyball games or football games.   It was always the same.  They would cover my eyes with a handkerchief and lead me to the back of some out building on the school grounds.  Then one after the other, they would take their turns.  I quit fighting after about the 3rd time of being put through this torture.  I sent my brain outside myself and watched what was happening from somewhere above.  I wanted so badly to figure out how to get out of there but I was afraid of being beaten.  They always told me, “Keep your mouth shut.  Don’t you dare tell a soul.  You bitch! You better not tell anyone.”  I heard this talk every time.  The threats stopped me in my tracks.  These were just more secrets to be held.

Graduation and Escape?

Finally, I graduated and felt a sigh of relief. I could get away…very far away.

I attended a Lutheran liberal arts 2 year college in a town about an hour from home.  It was probably one of the smartest things I have ever done.  I became so involved in everything on campus so that I didn’t have time to think, let alone be in a relationship with anyone.  Relationships did come and go.  Some were good and some were not so good.

I had no clue how to form a good relationship with a man.  All I knew was that abuse, hurt and sex went together. I expected that every man I met would hurt me and leave me as trash. 

That didn’t always happen at college.  I dated a few guys, but mostly I was just friends with them.  I hung out with them, watched football, etc.   It seemed  that the guys who were attracted to me had some of the same issues as me.  They also needed to be loved and touched and held.  This got me in trouble.  I started to crave attention and love.  I got into a couple of really bad relationships.   These guys never beat me or took advantage of me, we skipped all the in between stuff of getting to know each other and straight to delving into the meat of who we were and what we wanted and when. I ended up having sex with a few different guys because they knew my game and if they played me just right, they could get what the wanted from me.  I wanted to feel loved. I wanted to feel safe.  These guys talked big and assured me and reassured me that they were “the one”.  I was naive or just plain gullible because I believed them every time.

Summer Camp

Then one summer while working at camp, I met this really great man.  He went to another Lutheran college.   We hit it off like crazy.   We talked for hours and hours.  At nights when we had campers, we would meet in an informal area out under the moon and stars and just talk and talk while our campers were sleeping in the cabins with our junior counselors.  He  was like a dream come true.  He was one of the most gentle men I had ever met.  As the summer when on, he and I became best friends.   He was struggling because his father was an alcoholic and his mother slept around.  He felt like odd ball out because of this.  So, he and I talked about this and many other things.
he wrote me a poem:

The Letter and Poem

This is the whole letter so that you can understand where he was coming from:
Aug. 10, 1989  – Well I took your advice. I haven’t used my creative tools much lately – so bear with me. My amateur skills whipped up this poem.  It made me do quite a bit of thinking, which isn’t bad. Be prepared, here we go…

Gentle warmth and endless security.
A unique display of patchwork
Each piece so securely bound
With a few loose threads
Needing close, personal attention.
A brilliant radiance
Attracts all to it’s inner beauty.
It’s amazing to note various
Colors and patterns within one unit.
Pain, hurts, and insecurities.
Unbound-less joy, care and humor.
Either way, each piece is special
For the quilt wouldn’t appear the same.

He says next, “I think I got across what I wanted.  What do you think?  There will probably be more as the year goes on. I am hoping they’ll improve.  Speaking of improving, I am wishing my health would too.  oh well, chat to you later – got company. SMILE”

So as you can see, not all my relationships ended up bad.  I did have a couple that were half way decent until later down the road when I found out more about their personality.

Treatment

After my camp days, I ended up not knowing where I wanted to go or who I wanted to be. I found myself in the hospital with suicide attempts and overdosing, a number of time.   Finally, after being asked to go to Menninger Clinic in Topeka, Kansas for treatment on their Trauma and Eating Disorder Unit - I went.  I spent 6 months at the clinic as an inpatient working on all the dissociative things that happened when I was younger.  I learned new coping skills and different tools to help me with things. But this was just the tip of the iceberg. Overcoming all that has happened to me would be a lifetime of challenge and work.

My Life Today

Today, I am nearing 40 years old and I have worked through a great deal of my pain of the past. There are still things that get to me and I flip back to the old ways of thinking. But I am coping and doing better.

Here is another story of a life full of unanswered questions and some hurtful memories.  This young woman bravely faces her memories and is willing to share them with you.  She wisely recognizes that her healing process is a journey and she bravely and gratefully moves forward – one day at a time! 

Some memories

Many of my childhood memories are like a dream to me.  You know how a dream is portrayed on TV?  Like a dense cloud and the events aren’t that clear?  That’s how my early childhood memories are in my mind. 

 I’m not sure how old I was when the sexual abuse first occurred.  I do know that when I talk about it, the emotions I feel are overwhelming.  I’ve been told that having such strong emotions like that can be synonymous with sexual abuse before age five (when children begin to formulate words for feelings).  My memories of sexual abuse began to surface when I was in college at age 20-21.  I was seeing a therapist at the college campus counseling center for depression and self-injury behaviors at the time.  One evening, I had a dream that a man was sexually molesting me. This dream wasn’t that detailed, except that the man was having sex with me and he didn’t have a face.  I mentioned this dream to my therapist.  The therapist told me to let her know if the dream ever re-occurred and we could talk about it more.  The memories didn’t re-occur… until I was 27. 

At 27, I started having memories of being molested in a tall, yellow wheat field and of being forced to perform oral sex on a man.  I’m not exactly sure how old I was in this memory, but I know I was very young.  I’d say I was probably around four to five years of age, if not younger.  This molestation memory really scared me because it seemed really violent in nature.  This memory was also the first one I had that included sexual penetration. 

Triggers

To this date, I am disgusted to the point of nausea by anyone with bad breath, or what I perceive as bad breath, and I feel like I have to brush my teeth and tongue until they both are super clean.  I frequently have to be careful to not gag myself as the gagging happens easily.  My memories include thoughts that the man towered over me, and he casting a huge shadow like a person would imagine a monster getting ready to attack its prey. 

I’m still not exactly sure where these events took place or who the man was.  I do remember going back to a house after it had occurred and just wanting my mother.  I was covered in blood, terrified and crying.  When I went to the house seeking comfort from my mother, I don’t remember being validated or comforted by anyone.  It was like I was all alone and couldn’t find anyone.  I’m also triggered to this day by anything off-white or creamy in nature, and specifically liquid soap, shampoo, conditioner or body wash.  This causes an immense fear in me when I am triggered.  It’s like I can’t even look at the liquid soap, shampoo, conditioner or body wash for too long.  I have to tell myself that I’m okay and that the liquid soap, shampoo, conditioner or body wash is not what it was in my memory.  Later in my therapy process, I did ask my mother if my father could have ever molested me.  She adamantly denied this possibility.  I’ve also asked my mother if she ever left me alone somewhere, and she says she can’t remember.   

Abuse by my father

My relationship with my father has never been what a person would consider a typical father-daughter relationship.  From as early as I can remember, my father was verbally, physically and emotionally abusive to me.  I’ve always been afraid of my father.  He’s 6’3” and over 300 pounds.  My parents always told me that the abuse I endured was simply discipline, and, if I would just keep my mouth shut, they wouldn’t need to ‘discipline’ me.  

My father and I have strong personalities; consequently, neither of us gave in easily.  We constantly argued our side of an issue and would fight until he threatened to shut me up (which usually meant physical abuse) or he would take something from me for which he was paying.  He once punched me in the mouth, which ended up splitting my lip and turning it blue and swollen.  I can’t remember what had happened that caused his abuse.  I did go to school the next day.  I was in high school at the time, and my best friend knew exactly what was going on as she had witnessed a fight between my father and me previously. 

There was another time when my father chased me down a full flight of stairs.  He kicked me in the back of my thigh with his dress shoes still on.  I believe this was because I had called my mother a bitch, but the memories aren’t too clear.  I just know it left a bruise the length of my thigh from my butt almost to my knee.  I also have a very vague memory of me cowering in the corner of our couch begging my father to not hit me and doing whatever I could to protect myself from his rage.  I know I was shielding my face with my hands and crying, pleading with him not to hit me.  The words, “Daddy, please don’t hit me,” repeat over and over in my head as part of this memory. 

It Wasn’t Okay to Feel

I learned quickly that I needed to figure out what mood my father was in and this information dictated my actions or lack thereof.  The unspoken rules at my house were don’t talk, don’t trust and certainly don’t feel.  If you had feelings, you were threatened with my father offering to give you “something to cry about.”  We, (my younger brother and I,) were told that we were lucky that my father didn’t do to us what his father did to him.  I never heard too many details about what his father did to him except that he kept a razor strap on the refrigerator and used it as necessary. 

So, what did I do with my feelings?  The only thing I could – I stuffed them.  When I got to college, I began to cut on myself with razor blades and found a temporary release for the deep pain and anger.  I remember using a box cutter to cut on my arm once because I was experiencing such tension and did not have a razor blade available.  I was at work at the time in the mail/reception center of the dorms.  I couldn’t express the anger safely, so I expressed it on my body. 

I Really Didn’t Want to Die

This only became worse when my father once told me he’d wished I were never born.  He also said I could go ahead and keep stuffing pills (anti-depressants) down my throat if I thought they would work.  At the time, I was still in college and on my parent’s health insurance; therefore, they were paying for my medications.  My father telling me this was the event that preceded one of my suicide attempts.  (I had previously attempted to cut my wrists when I was 15, but I couldn’t go through with it because, surprisingly, it hurt too much.)  I mean, if your own parents don’t want you, then what’s the point?  I felt very helpless and hopeless.  Not to mention lost beyond all belief and alone, very alone.  I remember to this day that I grabbed my two medication bottles in the closet of my dorm room and was going to take all the contents of both bottles.  I had no idea what I was doing, but I was sure it would do something to make the pain go away.  I believe the medications were Zoloft and Ativan, but I’m not exactly sure on that.  For some reason, I ended up picking up the phone and calling my best friend at the time, instead.  I still don’t know why I did that, but I know somewhere – deep down inside – I really didn’t want to die. 

How to Cope?

I don’t remember when I was “officially” diagnosed with depression, but I know I’ve struggled with it since my early teens, if not before.  I know as a teen, my diary entries alternated between wanting to kill my father, expressing hate toward him for the abuse and contemplating suicide.  I somehow learned how to cope with all my feelings, but not in healthy ways.  I learned that if I was hurt, afraid or sad, I could express it in anger.  If I wasn’t allowed to express the anger, then I could take it out on myself by self-injury in order to get the emotional pain out through physical means.  I could either do this – or I could turn the anger inward and deal with the resulting depression.  Sometimes, I did both.

I’ve also learned how to “take care of” feelings by finding relief in food.  I’ve tried all kinds of diets only to fail in the long run.  I still struggle with looking at myself in the mirror and can only approve of my face – when I have makeup on.  Today, I recognize when I am overeating, but I still engage in this habit occasionally.  Growing up, my mother usually made three-course meals for every meal except breakfast.  If I was sad, upset, or having any unpleasant emotion, she would offer food.  She and I would take trips to the local ice cream shop after going shopping or to choir practice.  We always had to make sure we got some ice cream for my father as well.  He would be upset with us if we didn’t.  My father frequently would become irritated with my mom if she didn’t make enough for dinner and he was still hungry.  I remember him eating two sandwiches and munching on a bag of potato chips about an hour before dinner several times.  During sporting events, it wasn’t uncommon for my father to eat an entire large bag of potato chips by himself.  I hate to admit it, but I have adopted several of these eating habits.  I suppose there is a lot of truth to children learning and eventually doing what they observe. 

Codependency

Somewhere along the way, I recognized that I am codependent.  What that means to me is that I obtain my worth by doing things for others that they can do for themselves.  Funny thing is that doing these things doesn’t make me happy.  It only makes me resentful.  I confuse the definition of enabling and helping on a constant basis.  Thankfully, through the 12-step support group of Al-Anon, I have worked on this issue extensively. 

Romance

I’ve had two romantic relationships in my life.  One lasted three months.  The other – three weeks.  One of the men has since come out as being gay and the other had issues with alcohol and dropped out of college.  I’m afraid of being intimate with a man because of how uncomfortable it makes me.  For some reason, I can’t imagine a man wanting to be with me.  With my second relationship, we came pretty close to having intercourse, but I just couldn’t allow myself to experience it.  I’m not sure if I didn’t want to have my first sexual intercourse experience with this man, or if I just was afraid of the unknown.  Would it hurt?  Would the memories of sexual abuse from my childhood come up and ruin the experience?  Would I not be good enough?  Would he still care for me after I’d shared myself with him in such a way?  I know I wasn’t able to allow myself to just “be” in the relationship and experience the wonderful parts of it.  I kept focusing on the negative feelings and allowed them to overrule the positive.  I was too uncomfortable and it felt awkward being loved.  It’s been said that a girl obtains her sense of self-worth from her father.  I’ve always longed for that “daddy’s little girl” type of relationship, and to this day, I don’t know what that feels like. 

Healing is a Journey

I’ve been in therapy/counseling now for about ten years altogether and I feel some days as if I’m just at the tip of the iceberg.  Abuse affects every facet of your life.  Sometimes I wonder how fair it is for the abusers to “get away” with it while we are the ones left with the memories and after effects.  Then, I am reminded that they too, have memories and will face their judgment one day.  Until then, I will continue to live as a grateful and blessed survivor as I know not everyone who has experienced abuse is given this chance.

Survivors of any trauma (abuse, neglect, natural disasters, assaults, accidents, abandonment, terrorist acts, etc.) are invited to contact me personally, jackie@grownewhope.com to share their personal story of survival. 

Comments from readers will all be reviewed and approved by me before posting to the page.  At all times, this page will be safe and only used for support and encouragement of the brave men and women who choose to share their narratives.

Congratulations, in advance, for your courage to address the hurts experienced through trauma and your bravery in sharing your story.

Today I was introduced to two remarkable people.  Tyler Perry tells his story of childhood abuse through is website,

http://www.tylerperry.com/_Messages/.

I was moved by his story and his bravery.  I was also moved by his faith and inspiration.  What a remarkable story of survival and thriving!

Jennifer Schuett

The second story I was introduced to today was the story of Jennifer Schuett.  This is a remarkable young woman who (as a child) survived rape and attempted murder to go on to find her voice.  Another humbling, brave and inspiring story on survival and thriving in spite of severe abuse.

http://justiceforjennifer.com/

Praise God for these two people and their willingness to tell their stories.  I am touched and moved this morning.  God is good and my prayer today is that we may all be moved to use our voices to stop the abuse and assault that our world’s children face daily.

Have a blessed day! 

Another brave, young woman was willing to share her story with you.  As you will read, sometimes abuse can end and a relationship can be experienced.  But (as is the case with all abuse) there still may be a sadness experienced as if the connection is too little too late.  One still needs the opportunity to mourn the loss of childhood relationships and experiences full of love.  Survivor #3 was able to connect with her father before his death, which she fondly remembers.  Let us never forget to honor her lost childhood and to help her mourn that loss as well as the real loss of the father with whom she could finally share love.

~Jackie

Survivor #3

I am the youngest of 3 kids, and grew up on the family farm.  We went to church almost every single time that there was anything going on.  My dad was a church deacon, and for a time the head of the Sunday school (he even taught my Sunday school class).

 My father was a very angry man when I was a child.  I can remember watching him walk down the sidewalk and by the way that he walked, I knew what kind of mood he was in.  If it was an angry mood, I knew to just be quiet and let him go sit in his recliner and sleep with the newspaper.  If I disturbed him, I’d better watch out.  What he couldn’t handle was tears.  They made him mad.  He’d say “Stop your crying or I’ll give you something to cry about”.  He didn’t even know how to hug his kids.

 I learned many lessons from my childhood.  I learned that I was to keep quiet.  I also learned that who or what I was didn’t seem to be important and what I felt wasn’t important.  That not breaking the eggshells was important.  I was never to “air the dirty laundry in public.”  I learned that the family image was supposedly everything.

 Over the years he hurt me really bad.  Once…I was black and blue from the waist down from a whipping with a lariat.  I’d started crying due to frustration, then he yelled and I cried some more…then came the beating and the lariat was what was in his hands at the time.  The worst part of that beating was having to go back to school and gym class, in shorts…nobody said anything about marks. 

I never understood why Mom didn’t leave Dad.

Dad hurt my mom as well, but that’s her story to tell, not mine, and it will probably never be told.  I was there when it happened one time – to see it in person, it remains in my memories today.

 Her excuse was either that “He didn’t know his own strength” or that “I bruised easily”.  I heard those too many times to remember them all.  One time I got relegated to the basement while my father and brother turned on my sister.  They were saying that my sister was a whore because she had a boyfriend.  I heard every word and because of that, I didn’t date until I got to college (away from home).

 When I was younger I would have loved for my mom to leave my dad.  She didn’t until I had finished high school and college.  Then she tried to put me in the middle of it (as usual), using what he’d done to me for her reason for leaving.  That was hard for me because I thought it was my stuff to deal with.  It was confusing to me because she was leaving me with him… plus the abuse hadn’t happened to me in many years.  She was only gone for 3 months before she came back.

 About the time that I was in junior high, I got the shakes (about 14 years old) – it was a year or two after the beating.  (The kind where my hands wouldn’t stay steady.)  I was taken to a counselor – just once.  I was told that I would have to learn to deal with it myself as my parents couldn’t afford to pay for the counselor.

 When I was in high school, I had detention once.  Learned a very important skill for me during this detention.  I learned how to write, and I’m not talking cursive or printing or calligraphy.  Over the years that’s been what’s allowed me to get rid of everything that was at the top of my mind.  A friend of mine described releasing things like this like a pressure cooker.  You “bleed” off the pressure… writing does that for me.  When I got into the last year of high school My dad was diagnosed with diabetes. 

 When his treatment was going well, the angry man wasn’t there.  Now he was just absent…a workaholic farmer.  He was a whole lot more pleasant to deal with when he was done working.

 While I was in college I got calls from my mom telling me about my brother beating her, and my dad not doing anything about it.  But by then…my brother was bigger than my dad, and he had been for awhile.

 After college, I was living with the folks for a year and a half, trying to find work, desperate enough to consider teaching English overseas. 

It was during this time that my folks split for awhile.

 My folks split due to a disagreement over a cut garden hose in my brother’s garden.  It was a disagreement between my mother and my brother.  My dad was in the field when it happened.  I pulled my mother away from my brother beating her.  We went back to the house, she called the cops and wanted to lock all of the doors (those doors didn’t all even have locks).  I started looking for somebody to try and diffuse the problem. 

 First I called, the pastor… he was not in town.  Second, I called my uncles.  I finally found my disabled uncle at home.   He was willing to come out from town and try to find my dad who was farming in a field somewhere and I didn’t know where.  All I knew was that I couldn’t stay in the house with my mom.  I just didn’t feel like my mom was herself.  We had some horses and I went out to spend time with the horses.

 I lost a few hours in there.  I don’t know where they went.  My dad told me that he understood that the cops came out.  That they got between my mother and my brother.  That my mother wanted my brother removed from the premises but they wouldn’t do it because my brother farmed with my dad, and this was the farm.  My mother left with the cops and was gone for a few months. 

 I got to know my Dad for who he was while she was gone.  At that point he wasn’t the angry man he used to be, but was still working hard though work wasn’t everything to him.  He’d learned how to hug me.  I started to enjoy being around him.

 My mom, when I was younger was a empathetic person who had a heart, and she was also a doormat.  When she came back from having left my dad, her personality changed.  Though I suppose that we all changed during those 3 months.  It’s like we all took sides.  Any relationships that there were in my family were changed… and I can’t say that I really truly like any of them the way that they exist right now.  We’ve just all moved on, and nobody’s tried to correct any of the relationship problems.  I’m not sure if anybody in my family ever really learned how to deal with relationship problems.

Counseling didn’t seem to help them much. 

Mom and Dad did some counseling together.  Then she moved back to the farm… because they “loved” each other.  All I can say about that is that it sure didn’t look like they loved each other.  They were like two ships passing in the night, or two strangers sharing a bed.  I wanted out of there, and the further the better.  I ended up moving 10 hours away, and lived there for about 5 years before I moved south.  During the time that I was 10 hours away, I kept being told by my mother, “Oh we’ll just come and see you, not tell you that we’re coming and stay with you”.  That freaked me out.

 What bugged me more was getting a message on my answering machine from my brother and his wife, telling me that they were in town and could we get together.  They were 5 blocks from where I lived and I hadn’t known.  At that point in time I wanted to run, but some church folks convinced me not to.

Counseling seemed to help me sort through things.

 I went into counseling there, because I was working with a man (for hours on end) that had a “hot” temper.  We were on a short deadline and so it was a lot of hours.  He got mad.  I started crying and I was told to go to counseling or risk losing my job.  For me, losing my job meant moving back in with my parents, and that was the last thing that I wanted.  I primarily wanted to succeed and make more of myself than my two siblings ever did.  After all I’m the one with a degree.  My brother barely finished high school and now farms, and my sister was trained as a secretary, but now is a housewife and babysitter.

 A number of years ago I moved south (more counselors).  It was a time to learn a lot about myself.  I’m just me here, not somebody’s daughter, or sister or cousin.  While I have been wandering around down here, my dad got sicker.  He had open heart surgery and I went back there, only to get screamed at by my brother (and blamed for almost everything) until I got physically ill.  I didn’t report him as I was leaving town the next day and didn’t want to stay around to deal with it.  I needed to go back south and put myself back together again.  My dad went into renal failure, had congestive heart failure and then at the end it was stage 4 prostate cancer.

 I was still going home for Christmas then… went once, and we went to see my brother, his wife and kids… I ended up turning them in to Social Services for neglect of the kids, based on what I’d seen and the stories that my parents told me.  My parents wouldn’t do it, and I felt like I had to do something for the sake of the kids.  Then I couldn’t handle going back there anymore and I didn’t want my brother to find out what I’d done.

 Between then and now, I saw my dad twice as he got sicklier, that’s not to say that I didn’t talk to him, we talked a lot on the phone.  Once he came to see me, and once a few months before he died I went to see him.

Peace? 

Can I say that I made peace with him?  To the best of my ability I made peace with the man that he was before he died.  For at that time he was a feeble old man that would have been blown over easily.  Quite different from the father of my childhood.

 I’ve been on the phone with my mother a lot this past year.  Trying to make sure that she has what she needs only to end up feeling like she’s walking all over me and I’m letting her do it.  She’s never lived alone before this year.  She never let herself grieve (my opinion), and doesn’t feel like anybody else should be grieving either.  The one thing that she does seem to respect from me is when I tell her that a conversation is done, she’ll stop dragging it on.

 My dad’s funeral was strange.  I hadn’t seen my brother or his family in years, and they were there.  We all went for lunch together to my aunt’s place (my dad’s living sister), all of the family and the pastor from my parent’s city church.  My cousin’s occupied my brother.  I didn’t even say hello to him, and I escorted my mom to her seat.  She didn’t want to walk with my brother.  I did talk to my nephew, my brother’s oldest.  He was extremely polite and came to talk to me… he’s the only one that I’d had any contact with, the other’s were a lot smaller when I was last around them.

 The trip back for the funeral was even just strange.  It’s like everything just happened the way that it was supposed to be.  My office, who usually only allows for 1 day for a parent’s funeral, allowed me to take the time that I needed, knowing that I was going to have to go out of town for the funeral.  I picked up a flight shortly after I got the call and was back there about 24 hours after he died.  My mother and my sister arranged it so that he was buried 2 days later, making sure that I could stay for the funeral as I wasn’t staying long.  The pastor that came down to the small town had never been there (and got lost on the way there), he asked prior to the service if any of us had anything that we’d like to say about Dad… I was the one that wrote something. 

The other two said nothing.  I got to come back south to my home so that I could start to grieve.  I knew going down there that I wasn’t going to be allowed to grieve in front of my family.

 I went back to his funeral and then again just a few months ago.  I really wanted to go and see his grave.  I also wanted to see my disabled uncle’s grave as well as they’ve both died recently (within 3 months of each other, both of cancer though different kinds), and then to see my aunt (their sister who also has stage 4 cancer).  While I was there, my mother thought that I was strange for crying at the cemetery.  She doesn’t figure that I should be grieving for him as he was always sick from the time that she married him.  What she doesn’t realize is that he was always and will always be my dad, and no matter what he did to me, I still love him.  I shut her up by telling her that the conversation was done because she wouldn’t stop.  I told her that I didn’t want to talk about it.

Grateful – now!

 I cherish the times that I had with my dad… not the angry times… but what I call the good times.  The ones where he would talk to me, tell me stories about his life, and ask me about mine.  He made an effort to get to know me as me, the adult.  I wish that there had been more, but I know that at least I had the time that I had.  If he’d died years before I wouldn’t have been in the place that I am now… I wouldn’t have been strong enough to deal with everything… and I might not have gotten to see him prior to him dying.  So I’m grateful for the time we had, for the things that we did talk about over the years and the opportunity to get to know my dad as he was at the end… instead of just having the memories of the beginning.

The above was emailed to me yesterday and I wanted to share the author’s thoughts with you all. 

I also read The Shack with similar thoughts as this author.   Have any of you read The Shack?  What were your thoughts and/or questions as you read?  Were there any areas of the book where you found yourself engulfed in anger?  Sadness?  Happiness?  Hopefulness?  How did you feel about God’s view of the abuser?  How did you feel about God’s love and compassion? 

The theme in the book that grabbed and held my heart was when God repeatedly states, “I’m especially fond of that one.”  To think that God can embrace me, in spite of myself fills me with such peace and joy.  How do you feel when thinking about the fact that He affords the same love towards you?

Below you will find the story of a journey filled with hurt and pain.  I am always moved beyond words when a person is willing and ready to share their story with the world.  I sit here today filled with respect and admiration for this brave, young woman.  She has shared a piece of her life with us.  I am honored and humbled to be able to share it with you. ~Jackie

Survivor #2

Here is my story as best I can tell it at this time. It has changed over the years, expanded to include the real issues and the real pain. Some day I hope to be able to sign my name to my story, but for now I will remain anonymous because that is what is safe at this moment.  Each day I wonder how much closer or further I am to healing from sexual abuse and all the consequences of someone else’s actions to my body.  Each day I choose to heal or I choose to be the victim.  I do not tell many people I was sexually abused, but I will tell them I have an eating disorder. I want people to know there is pain, but I don’t want to or don’t know how to tell them why. I do blame the people who hurt me for some of my pain, while others say that is not right. I know they don’t make me hurt myself, but their actions are a part of my story.

The eating disorder is my escape. 

 Food has been my escape, my comfort, my friend from the earliest memories. When others were hurting me, food was the reward. I have turned to candy, sweets, and potato chips my whole life to feel better for the short term. When I was little it didn’t matter, my body could handle the amount of food I was eating. As I entered adolescence which was early and quick, my body changed. My breasts grew larger and I gained weight because I was still eating to feel better. I remember hearing things like “You are going to get fat like me if you keep eating” from my mom and she was constantly on diets, always hating her body. She fought depression most of my early years which is not a surprise considering that was how she coped with a husband who was sexually abusing at least one of his daughters and probably both.  I learned that if I was fat, I would not be liked or loved or cared for.  But food was the only way I knew to feel good and to escape from the reality of my life.

My father began abusing me when I was very young.

The age is unclear as it is just part of my earliest memories. They are scattered and center around bath time. I was always so dirty and he needed to help clean me, inside and out. I hated baths which he sometimes referred to as “spit baths”.  I would stand at the kitchen sink while he cleaned me with a wash cloth because I was dirty. My dad had a temper and it was confusing because I never knew what would set it off. So I was always trying to be good so I didn’t set him off.  I could never be good enough though; there would always be something I did wrong.  He did not drink, so I can’t blame alcohol which kind of sucks. Sometimes I wish I could blame alcohol and then at least it would not be something wrong with me. I mean I was his daughter, if there was not something wrong with me, then why would he do it?  I have so many questions and sometimes I feel there are answers, but other times they lead to one big cycle of not understanding.

The abuse ends or is it just a new chapter?

My father quit abusing me around age 7 or 8. Ages are not clear and I always felt him watching me and there were excuses for him to watch me dress. Privacy was not a big deal even though I felt very self-conscious at an early age. I wish I could say that my father was it, the only one who betrayed my trust, but that is not true. When I was 5 or 6, I was invited (after begging to be part of the group) to come into the tent that my neighbors and sister were playing in. The tent sat between our houses in broad day light. The neighbor boy was 7 years older than me, early adolescence.  I don’t remember what all was said, but I know there was lots of touching and then telling me what to do with my hands and my mouth. There was lots of laughing too because I was not “doing it right” and I was asking questions. I was with my sister so I should have been okay. I was forced to perform oral sex as well as other sexual acts until he had “finished”.  When that happened I had stuff all over me and was all sticky, again they laughed and kicked me out of the tent.  The worst part of that day is that my sister betrayed me and it was not the last time. She began to be more curious about sex and would ask me to perform sexual acts on her.  How disgusting you must all be thinking, because I think it all the time.

Up to this point, my sister was the only person I felt I could trust. She was my protector, more like a mom than my own mom. My mom worked all the time and when she wasn’t working she was at church or in her room depressed.  So my sister took care of me when I was little. I could make my own mac and cheese at age 5 and was getting myself to the school bus and home alone in kindergarten.  I hated being alone in my house so often went to the creek near our house. As long as other kids were not around to tease me, I would explore the water looking for frogs and other critters. The kids in my neighborhood were not very nice. One of my friends’ brothers used to tease me endlessly and used to pick me up and lock me in their laundry room which was in the basement and was not finished at all. This was the time of Nightmare on Elm Street and Freddie so I was sure Freddie was coming after me in the “boiler room”.  He would hold the door and make screeching noises down it with his fingernails.  It was not fun, but she was “cool” and I wanted to be her friend even though she only wanted me there if there was not another friend to play with.

Who can I trust?

Back to my sister, I only have a few memories of sexual acting out with her.  The actual sex acts were bad, but her betrayal was what hurt the most.  I began to think that sexual acts were the only way to be loved or accepted by anyone.  We had a family friend who also requested that I perform sexual acts on her which of course I did. Again it was all about her liking me and me wanting to please.  There are other vague memories of inappropriate touch and sexual behavior I participated in while growing up.  My dad, the neighbor, my sister and the family friend had turned sex and my body into something terrible, bad, and shameful. I had many secrets to keep and so to this day I still have “secrets”.  I have not been able to put into words all the sex acts done to me or that I did because of the shame even though I have been assured that my therapist has heard it all. I still think she would be horrified to know the details, but Satan wants to keep me feeling that way and I know that so I am fighting to have the courage to deal with all the secrets.  I need to be able to get them out so that I can have a normal (if there is a normal) sexual relationship with my husband and so I can stop hating my body.

As a teenager

The abuse led to adolescence full of acting out sexually. I was adamant about not having sex until I was married because I was the good Baptist girl. Well, I did everything but sex starting in 7th grade with boys who I thought “liked” me. I later found out they met lots of girls at the school yard and did the exact same thing. It was just a game to them, but for me, it was the attention and the acceptance. In 8th grade, the boys from the college began to come to the high school football games. They would comment on how we looked as we walked by and that led to conversation and an invitation to the college dorm to party with them. 

There is a lot about that time that I don’t remember. I remember waking up completely naked on several occasions after drinking something that was handed to me.  I was really into one guy named Thomas and he told me over and over that he loved me and respected my decision to wait until I was married to have sex.  He would then begin to kiss me and we would “make out” and every time he kept taking it further and further and we were really close to having sex when I told him to stop. He called me a slut and a tease and told me to get out.  He apologized, but I was angry so I kept going to the dorm to “make out” with other guys trying to make him jealous. It worked and eventually we were going out again. I woke up one night in the middle of the night naked and in his arms.  He told me I would give in and that he was done with me. I don’t remember having sex with him, but I am sure it happened.  The drinks they gave us probably had the date rape drug in it. We were young enough that they didn’t want us to remember what was happening.  Thomas quit taking my calls and would ignore me when I was there. A week later, he had sex with my best friend at the time and I quit going to the dorms all together.  This began the isolation and the eating disorder.  I hated my body.

I had developed large breasts and my brothers friends were quick to point them out and try to grab me at every chance they got. They were all two years older. They were heavily into pornography and their language pertaining to my body was very vulgar.  They would tell me how hot I was and that I was going to make a guy so happy someday.  They were very detailed in their description of how that would happen and their verbal taunting became physical over time.  They would hold me down and pull up my shirt and grab my breasts, and not in a gentle way saying “what’s wrong, don’t you like it rough?”  It progressed to the point of them almost raping me on several occasions. I had no way out, they were in my house.  My brother was usually asleep or playing video games and had no idea it was going on. It didn’t matter, by this time I was completely shut off. I began to diet and exercise thinking if I didn’t have breasts, boys would not like me.  I began purging everything I ate after watching an after school special about a girl with bulimia. She got so skinny and I guess I tuned out the part where she almost died from rupturing her esophagus.

I went up and down in weight in junior high and high school. Sometimes not eating for days and other times binging and purging everything I did eat. I had some friends, but help everyone at arms length most of the time.  I thought I had best friends but no one knew anything about the beginning part of my life or the abuse I had lived with. I became known as a slut for hanging out at the dorms, yet maintained my good girl status as long as I was at church each weekend and youth group.

My junior year of high school I began dating a boy who had pretty bad reputation but was really cute and popular.  He went to a different school so that made me cool to be dating him. I wasn’t pretty or popular enough for the cute boys in my school, but he liked me.  I thought I could fix him. He drank, smoked and used drugs occasionally and cheated on my regularly.  However I would always believe him and not my best friend when she would tell me about him cheating.  I told him one night that he needed to quit drinking or we were breaking up and he actually did quit for a period of time. 

During this time I thought we were in love and he was “the one”.  I would marry him and we would have kids and go to church.  Up to this point I had been unwilling to have sex and he had respected that desire to wait until I was married. (I was still in denial that I had already had sex.)  I told him one night I was ready to lose my virginity.  Somehow we made it to his room and we had sex for the first time. I drove home berating myself and calling myself a slut and every other bad name you can imagine. I barely made it home as I was driving so fast on the gravel road. I was suicidal, wanting to run my car off the road. I was sure my mom was going to look at me and know what I had done. I dated him for a long time and thought I had to marry him since I had chosen to have sex with him.  So I put up with the cheating, drinking and drugs. He always had an excuse and reasons everyone else was lying. I didn’t think I could get any better than him. I went away to college and he stayed home after graduating from high school. It went down hill from there. My eating disorder went out of control and I sought treatment during my junior year when I couldn’t go to class anymore because all I did was binge and purge and exercise.

The path of healing begins

It was during art therapy that I began to draw the little girl who had been abused and my real story began to unfold.  The smile I put on for the world could go away for a brief period of time.  I still can’t tell details of what happened to me and some of the memories are literally stuck.  I feel them in my mind and body, but have no words to describe them. 

I have found my way back to God although I struggle with some very basic questions. I struggle to believe God’s promises are true for me and always come back to if your promises are for me then why did all that junk happen? If your plans are for good and to prosper me, then why was I abused? How do you work “all things” for good?  I can see glimpses of good from my life.  God gave me an incredible husband who has had to deal with a lot of junk as we learn every day new ways that I am affected by the abuse. The eating disorder has reared its ugly head throughout our marriage and in between children.

God has blessed me with three wonderful children and given me a new family of friends who love me. I struggle every day with the eating disorder right now. It mirrors the abuse. It is my big secret. The secret binges are protecting me from dealing with the real secrets that I struggle to share with my husband for fear he will suddenly realize after 10 years of marriage how disgusting and damaged and gross I really am.  That is my biggest fear—the one that keeps me stuck, is the fear that if everyone knew the truth about my ugly past they would run the other way out of disgust. I would be rejected and alone.

I still view each day as a new day. I try to claim God’s truth and promises for me.  Some days I am able and other days I fail miserably. Some days I want to give up and believe that the eating disorder and abuse will continue to control my daily life so it would be easier to be gone and not deal with it. Some days I want to physically hurt myself.  Some days all I can do it cry out to God “Why, why, why?”  Sometimes I get an answer, sometimes I don’t, but knowing that God is a God who will listen to that question over and over again and still love me gets me through to the next day.  So that’s my story for now and someday maybe more details will free me from the shame that keeps me stuck. I do have faith that God will continue to bring me through this process of healing the hurt and pain that I try escape from. He will show me His promises are true, even for a little girl who was betrayed by those who were suppose to love her.

Survivor #1

I’ve held this in for a very long time because it wasn’t safe for me to talk about it when I was still living with my parents.  I’m still very afraid to talk about it with anyone who may know my dad personally and/or professionally…

A bit of my story…

My father physically abused me when I was growing up.  He punched, kicked and slapped me several times whenever he and I got into an argument and he didn’t agree with my side of it.  My father can be a man very full of rage.  It wasn’t easy growing up with him and he could never be pleased no matter what you did.  Our family looked perfectly normal from the outside, but we were far from that. I was a good child in school and received excellent grades.  It was always expected that I do better than my brother.  I remember when he received a ‘C’ on his grades.  It was okay for him, but when I received one – it wasn’t okay.  I was asked constantly what I could do to make it better.

Dad and I never agreed and were always at each other’s throats.  I was told it was because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.  That’s why I got punched in the mouth.  I believe Dad just couldn’t control his anger once it hit a certain point and he went overboard.  He kicked me once on the backside of my thigh with his shoe on.  It left a huge bruise for a few days.  To this day, I don’t remember what I did to precipitate that.  He also punched me in the mouth which ended up splitting my lip and causing it to swell and turn blue for a few days.  I know I was worried about having to go to school with it.  I didn’t stay home though.

Dad always had to have things his way – always.  If he didn’t get his way, he threw a hissy fit.  This made me angry, and, if I challenged him, this is what precipitated a physical altercation.

I remember writing in my diary that I hated my dad and wanted to kill him.  I also wrote almost on a daily basis about wanting to kill myself.  I couldn’t see any other way out.  My mom tried to protect me and, would at times, tell my dad that he was going too far and needed to calm down.  He would either yell at her or ignore her and continue yelling at me.  Still, to this day, when he gets frustrated or raises his fist in a threatening manner, I am very afraid.  This frustrates me because I want to not feel threatened by him.

He thrives on control and threatening.

I also have been sexually molested and/or abused.  These memories didn’t present themselves until college.  This abuse included penetration and oral sex.  I’m not completely sure who the perpetrator was as of yet.  Something tells me it might have been my father, but I still don’t have the concrete proof of this.  I keep asking myself how this could be possible.  I go back and forth with the memories I have and putting my father in the man’s place.  Sometimes I think I’m afraid of believing this and the subsequent consequences that may occur.  I don’t want to ruin my dad’s life if he honestly didn’t molest me…

What does abuse do to a person?  Well, abuse turns your whole world upside down.  You don’t trust anything you do, feel, think, or act upon.  It makes you insecure of your abilities and unable to accept compliments.  You doubt everything about yourself.  You trust no one – nothing.  It isn’t safe to trust.  You learn that lesson very early.  When abuse is perpetrated upon you by a parent, your entire foundation is ripped from under you.  You feel completely lost in this world with no direction. You look for comfort in anything, anyone, but you never find it.  Never.  Your life is constantly like walking on pins and needles waiting for the next shoe to drop.  And, you know it will; it always does.  You don’t trust yourself.  In fact, you hate yourself.  You hate yourself so much that you try to kill yourself – anything to make the pain go away.  You can’t succeed at anything.  You may look successful on the outside, but you don’t feel it.  You get so angry and so irritable at the drop of a hat and you don’t really know why.  You’re unable to put two and two together and you question your sanity.  You turn to self-injury just to relieve the tension.  That only works for a little while, so you find comfort in food – Anything to numb the feelings – the pain.  You’re a successful career woman on the outside, but you’re slowly dying on the inside.

Insecurity, loneliness, mistrust, anxiety – these become your daily companions.  You never are able to find a healthy relationship.  The abuse always gets in the way.  You can only get so close and then you must run.  Run far away.  Safety is something you only find in your own home.  Outside, there’s the mask to wear – The mask of security, a sense of humor, trustworthiness and success.

Your life is a scene of black and white.  It’s either promiscuity or celibacy.  No sexual relationships or too many to count.  Hey, you may even experience both in your lifetime – if you’re lucky.  Your mind constantly plays tricks on you.

Then, there comes the overweight piece.  You grow up covering your feelings with food, but you don’t know what you’re doing.  It’s normal to you.  It’s what you know.  Then you notice it’s not normal when you are made fun of for being fat.  Before you know it, you’re taking medication for depression and high blood pressure.  Your knees hurt everyday and your seat-belt doesn’t fit.  The self-loathing gets worse when you try to buy clothes and read your size on the tags.  How did you get this big?  When did this happen?  You look back and you can’t honestly remember being thin. You’ve always been…fat.  You envy thin women and then settle with yourself to never look that way because you’ve been so messed up from your childhood.  You give up, take your meds and just keep overeating.

Abuse robs you of any joy you were meant to have.  You may feel that joy for a surreal moment, but rest assured, the guilt will soon follow.