Blessings!

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.

1.  A child advocacy center can guide you. To find a center near you, contact National Children’s Alliance at nca-online.org/members.html or call 1-800-239-9950.

2.  Darkness to Light      http://www.darkness2light.org/

3.  Child Molestation Research and Prevention Institute http://childmolestationprevention.org/

4.  Iowa Coalition Against Sexual Assault   http://www.iowacasa.org/

5.  Services for Survivors in Iowa – a list of agencies in Iowa that will help can be found…http://www.iowacasa.org/asp/news/news.asp?t=1&m=39&i=2

Hotlines

IOWA SEXUAL ABUSE HOTLINE

Rape Victim Advocacy Program
320 South Linn Street
Iowa City, Iowa 52240
Hotline: 800.284.7821

Counties Served: All 99 counties in Iowa

STOP IT NOW!  

1-888-PREVENT (1-888-773-8368)  www.stopitnow.org
STOP IT NOW! offers a toll-free helpline and an online help center. The confidential helpline is for adults who are at risk for sexually abusing a child, for friends and family members of sexual abusers and/or victims, and for parents of children with sexual behavior problems. This helpline is available Monday through Friday, 9:00 AM-5:00 PM (EST). The online help center is a 24/7 resource offering those with questions about child sexual abuse specialized information, guidance and support they need to take action. 

Childhelp USA

1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453)   www.childhelpusa.org
The Childhelp USA hotline is staffed by counselors who can answer questions about child abuse, can tell you where to report suspected or known abuse in your community, or can provide referrals to agencies in your local community. Childhelp USA provides referrals utilizing a database of thousands of emergency, social service, and support resources located in the United States and Canada.

Children of the Night
Rescuing America’s Children from Prostitution

1-800-551-1300 (nationwide toll-free 24-hour hotline)
www.childrenofthenight.org
Children of the Night is a private, non-profit organization dedicated to assisting children between the ages of 11 and 17 who are forced to prostitute on the streets for food and a place to sleep. Children who call locally are counseled over the telephone while they wait for a taxi to transport them to our home. Children calling from other states are rescued and placed in local shelters. In most cases there is a lack of specialized services for child prostitutes, and many are brought in from other states for our comprehensive services. We cover the cost of nonstop flights to our home from all over the country.

Rape & Incest National Network (RAINN)

1-800-656-HOPE    www.rainn.org
RAINN operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE and carries out programs to prevent sexual assault, help victims, and ensure that rapists are brought to justice. On their website, you’ll find statistics, counseling esources, prevention tips, news, and more.

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.