Monday, October 8, 2018

The One I Never Wanted to Write

Life has been busy, busy. We are doing well to keep our head above water raising our three daughters, working full time, staying connected to people we love, and we're going on almost two years in the adoption process. Our schedules are restrictive, our lives are constantly on the go, and we are doing the very best we can to be people of character, people who extend grace and forgiveness, and people who hold true to the faith we profess. We are also people who find it of upmost importance, now more than ever, to raise our girls in the same way. To be kind to others regardless of color, looks, or what they're wearing. To stand up for those who are being bullied and if they are being bullied, to have a voice. To love without limits and to forgive easily. I just told my Callie last night who is now 7 and whose heart is as soft as mashed potatoes- after she had a hard day and she had apologized and kept apologizing over and over- "I forgive you. If I said I forgive you, we don't have to keep talking about it anymore. It's over and we move on and make better choices." "But mommy, I was so mean. I don't deserve for you to be nice to me." Ah, sweet child, the things I am not deserving of. Our littles are great teachers.

We are in a sticky place with social media. I tell myself every other day I'm deleting it. It can all be too much sometimes with the opinions, the hateful spews of people who disagree with other people, the name calling, the mom shaming, the joy stealing trap of comparison that's put on display day in and day out. But I stay because of the good that comes from it. The pictures I get to see of friend's families, the women's group I'm a part of through my church, the business page I'm tied to with my job. The outpouring of love and prayers I've seen given to grieving families, people getting answers they need, or direction they're searching for.

Something that is certainly unavoidable right now are the situations where women are coming forward with abuse allegations and they are met with doubt, questions, and worse, unbelief. And hear me, this is not me talking about one specific situation, what they've said and haven't said, what they've done and haven't done. I'm not writing this as someone's attorney or defendant. It has however, stirred something in me to write about my own situation. My own experience. I don't feel there are any clear answers, but everyone is so quick to jump on social media, share all the memes tearing others down who have an opposite stance, so quick to judge someone's entire character based on what they think about a situation that is so far from their actual life. Who do we think we are to treat each other this way? It's so reminiscent of the election, nauseates me to think of where we're at as human beings.

I'm sharing this because I'm a woman who was sexually abused. I'm sharing this because I'm a mom. I'm sharing this because I'm a daughter. I'm sharing this because I'm a friend to other women who have gone through the same things. I'm sharing this knowing I'm being completely vulnerable, knowing it may not be received well. And that's ok. I am encouraged by other women in my life who have come forward with their experiences and if I can be an encouragement for someone else experiencing any kind of abuse in any way, then it's worth it.

When I was six years old, I was molested by my great uncle on multiple occasions. Let me say it again- SIX YEARS OLD. My oldest daughter is 7, my middle is 5. He was a man my parents trusted. He was someone my family loved and when he became very ill, he lived with us. I was left in his care just a couple of times, once being when my parents had to run my sister to the ER because I slammed her finger in the door- yikes! These memories are in no order but these are the ones I remember. I remember him being on top of me in the living room floor. I remember his hands all over me. I remember him leaving the bathroom door open while he urinated. I remember him holding me close to him while he was sitting down so he could rub himself on me. I remember pushing away my four year old sister when he reached for her. I remember sitting on the toilet crying because of physical pain. I remember when he was on his death bed in the hospital, I stayed as far away as I could until I was escorted to his bedside to give him a "hug" goodbye. He held on tight as I tried to pull away. I wanted him to die and when he did, I didn't shed a tear. I didn't understand what had been done to me but I knew it was wrong. I knew I didn't like it. I knew it felt dirty. He threatened me and made me promise to keep it a secret. I didn't tell anyone until after he died. I was seven years old when I finally told my older sister first. I said, and I remember to this day, "Do you know the sex thing? Uncle ---- did that to me." So began the crying, the breaking of my mom's heart, the many nights I spent awake, being rocked by my mother, afraid he was going to come back and get me. I spoke with the school counselor a few times but it was really the comfort of my parents that gave me the most solace. My dad would have killed him. He would've been in jail no doubt.

There are parts to that story that I don't remember. It was just last year, as a 33 year old, that I finally got the nerve to ask my mom what that conversation was like between she and I when I was a terrified seven year old. She told me I said "his fingers hurt me". She told me after she put me to bed that night, that she stood on the back patio with my dad screaming and crying that she hoped he was burning in hell. That was something the Lord blocked from my memory. I remember pain after but not during the abuse. Does that make it any less true? I am thankful I don't remember all of it. That is grace to me. But how hurtful it would be to be told I was lying or making something up because I couldn't recall every detail.

Fast forward a couple of years and my mom, sister, and I were heavily involved in our church at the time. My mom drove the van for Wednesday night kids program because no one else would. There was a boy, a bigger boy, probably atleast 2-3 grades older who liked me. He wrote me a note one Wednesday night to be his girlfriend and I said no. On a Sunday morning following that night, we were upstairs in one of the classrooms of the church. Our sunday school class had released early and everyone left the classroom and he closed the door before I could get out. There was a long rectangular table with chairs around it. I watched him lock the door and turn and look at me. He started to come after me. I was on the opposite side of the table. I by the grace of God, made it to the door to the joining classroom, where they were still in session. I put my hand on it and told him I would open it if he didn't let me out. Then he did.

Jump ahead many years to where I was working my first waitressing job at 18 years old. I had just come back into the kitchen from taking an order and was getting glasses out to make the drinks. When I bent down to grab some glasses, a man working there, stuck his hand down the back of my pants into my panties. I stood up quickly, looked him in the eyes, but couldn't utter a word. I was frozen. He gave a slimy smile and walked away. I never said anything to anyone about him.

These are the things that I carry with me. These are the memories that help shape what kind of mother I am to my daughters. I take every precautionary, I have had many talks with them about who can see them naked, touch them, etc. What inappropriate touch is, to ALWAYS tell mommy or daddy if ANYONE touches them in anyway that makes them feel uncomfortable. When I was in high school, I knew many girls who had experienced similar abuse, some went through way worse than I did. A couple I knew were raped by family members. It is staggering to me to think about my daughters going through anything like this. What's worse to me is them feeling they can't say anything to anyone about it. So here momma is, laying it all out. The gruesome and the ugly. One day, I will tell them about my experiences because I want to lead with vulnerability. I want them to know that God has healed my hurt. I want them to know it's imperative that they be their own advocates in a world of rock throwers and hushers.

If you are a woman or a man who has been abused in any way, please tell a trusted someone. It's so important for healing to make that first step giving voice to hurt. We are not required to stay in ANY situation, job, marriage, or relationship where there is ANY kind of abuse. Even verbal and emotional abuse can cause lasting damage and can trickle down into other relationships year after year. The stones of abuse will only be unturned for so long. It always finds ways to rear it's ugly head if not properly dealt with. Keeping things quiet is a detrimental poison.

I am a strong woman. I know and love strong women. I'm doing my best to raise strong women. Strong doesn't equal silent. It doesn't equal passive. Strong comes with experience, with transparency, with vocalizing hurt and finding ways to pursue healing. I am strengthened by my God and His promises for me, I am strengthened by my loved ones who show up always, and I am strengthened by the ones who give a head nod and say "Me, too."

1 comment:

  1. Bless you for speaking up and being vulnerable, for telling truths many do not wish to hear, and for being the amazing woman, wife and mother that you are, despite that trauma. Bless you for not letting it poison your tender, thoughtful heart, and for being a light in the darkness, not hidden comfortably under a bushel basket but instead high on a hill, out for the world to see. Bless you for being you.

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