It Happened ….
I was a naive teenager, around age fourteen, although I can’t remember when the grooming and abuse started. Sometimes I wonder if he planned it all along, or if the cards just happened to fall in his favor. My Mom tried to let us be kids for as long as possible, so I spent my time doing school plays, learning the flute, and getting lost in my fantasy novels. I didn’t put as much effort into school as I could have, but I enjoyed it. I loved doing things with my family. Weekends when my step-sister would visit were the best. We played pretend, rode bikes around the block, and jumped on a trampoline covered with inchworm poop. Our parents used to say we had the most amazing Brady Bunch family, and that it was wonderful that we all got along as well as we did.
It Was ….
My step-father used to tell us that he never broke a promise. He used to tell us that if he gave you his word, it meant something. Because we were the perfect Brady Bunch family, we were told that punishments were always discussed between both him and my Mom before they were doled out. I got in trouble for having an extremely messy room, and he offered me a choice in punishments. Spanking or “kisses”. What naive teenager is going to choose a spanking? He made me promise to stick with whatever I chose. When he went way past any boundary I thought was possible, I begged him to stop, but since I had promised, I couldn’t go back on my word. I thought my Mom knew. Everything just progressed from there.
It Made Me Feel…
Slimy is probably the best word to describe it. I used to clean myself to make the feeling go away. I still remember the night it stopped working, the tears falling down my face in my bathroom. I felt like a bad kid. Because it was a “punishment” that seemed to go on forever, I constantly felt like I was screwing up. I always wanted to ask how long I was supposed to be punished for, considering you only get grounded for so long before that loses its effect. But I think deep down, I knew it wouldn’t end. Even so, I prayed to God to make it stop every night. But when my step-father would come into my room the next night, I knew my prayers hadn’t been answered. It made me feel unwanted and hopeless. If God wouldn’t help me, who would?
I Told…
Sometimes I feel like I should work on taking responsibility for this. At some point I stopped praying to God. But after my Grandfather died, I asked him for help. The next day, when my Mom came downstairs, I told her I needed to speak to her. She was busy and asked if I could wait. But I felt this weird wave of warmth and strength, starting in my toes and moving up toward my mouth. And suddenly my mouth was open, and words were falling out, and I’m not sure how much control I actually had over what was being said. She brought me up to my room, and I cried with my head in her lap while she just repeated, “oh my God,” over and over again. Then she told me, “We have to get out of here.” I still remember the fear in my heart when my brother knocked on the door, telling us that my step-father was on the phone. I begged my Mom not to tell him I said anything. He never told me not to, but I didn’t know how he would react. Of course, he denied it, but my Mom supported me through it all. I remember wanting to leave the country. I remember fearing that I would lose a whole half of my family that I had come to love. I remember thinking that my sister would never want to talk to me again. And I wanted to take it all back so my family could be normal again.
I Survived…
I remember saying something to my Mom about being just another statistic. She told me that thinking like that only let him win. I shaped up my grades and tried harder in school, because it was something to focus my attention on. Music became my home. I listened to Carrie Underwood’s So Small daily, because it helped me move forward. I joined the worship team at church to start repairing my relationship with God. My Mom took us to Disney World so we would still be able to see the joy in the world. And when I started to feel confident enough, I began to share my story. I shared it online, I gave a sermon at my church, I spoke at a hospital in front of a room full of nurses. I became a rape crisis counselor so I can help others.
I Dream…
I want longer sentences for abusers. If mine never took himself out of the world to avoid the jail time, he would probably be out by now. I would love to see more programs aimed at educating parents about the warning signs. I would love to start a non-profit someday, that sends child survivors to Disney, as that was instrumental to my healing process (I work there currently). I would like to see the issues normalized. I want these crimes to be normal dinner conversations, so no one feels like it only happens in certain types of families. I’d like to see it portrayed in the media in ways other than the ‘sexual abuse survivor becomes serial killer’ trope that drives me insane.
I Want…
I want other survivors to know that they aren’t alone. I want them to know that their feelings are valid. I want them to know that healing is a process, not a straight line, and that it’s okay to regress every once in a while. I want survivors to know that they are beautiful, strong and deserve to have the wonderful lives they were always supposed to have. They’re all in my prayers.
I was also taught never to break a promise, it’s only recently I’ve learned that there are two sides to a promise and if its broken by the one to whom it’s made we are no longer obligated to keep it. I wish someone had told me sooner.
I’m so glad you told and that you received the support you deserved from your mom. You are courageous and I’m sure your story will inspire courage in others. Thank you for sharing.
So what happens when you watch a child go back to the abuser week after week? You taught the warning signs and the child did their part and told…told everyone they could get to listen: counselors, friends, teachers, state crimes against children division, safety centers…but still week after week he is sent back to endure it again. Nothing gets done. Nothing but the voice inside getting more quiet as you watch this 5 year old’s flame go out. In cases where adults don’t openly admit to their crimes, in cases where it’s women that are the abusers rather than the men, and in cases where it is a biological parent involved with court mandated custody allowed…the rules are all different. What do we tell the abuse survivors then? The system that works for so many, has unfortunately failed one small little boy horribly, and he is almost out of hope.
Isn’t it amazing that the family can look so normal—even exceptional? Thank you for your description and courage.
I’ve run into the same conundrum: When a new executive director for the small missionary organization I work for came aboard, she told me how much she admired my family (of origin). We were always in church together and actively involved in so many church events.
She said that her family was so dysfunctional that it had given her hope to see families like mine.
I could hardly bear to tell her of the reality of my family…