Gloom & Doom vs Sunshine & Roses

When I previewed my previous blog entry, I took one look at the picture I had chosen (a pensive girl) and thought, "Gee, that's really depressing."  I removed the picture.  I realized that by  writing openly about the realities of childhood sexual abuse, you could get the impression that every minute of my childhood was full of fear and dread.  And it really wasn't.  The human spirit (and body, I guess) won't let us stay in that place for long. We protect ourselves by hiding the reality away, out of mind and sight, and we find ways to laugh, wonder, imagine, and create.  We find ways to be children.

My brothers and sisters and I went on adventures, climbed trees, and had secrets.  We ran and laughed and fought, like all kids do.  As we got older, we learned things from our parents.  I learned about carburetor's and spark plugs, growing carrots and rhubarb, ironing and hanging clothes, and making bread.  We had friends, favorite clothes, dreaded chores, and foods we either loved or hated.  Yes, the "bad" stuff was there but, in between, there was "good" stuff as well.

I had been thinking about this for some time and was planning to write about it here on my blog.  But, what motivated me to actually begin writing, was a dream I had last night. In the dream, I was at some kind of gathering, like a family reunion, and I was having a really bad time.  I wanted to shut out all of the people and the commotion, so I curled up on the couch and put a blanket over my head (something I've been doing in "real life" some lately).  My siblings were attentive and wanted to understand what was going on, and even my psychologist was there.  I wanted to to tell them how I felt and that there was nothing to fear, but I couldn't express my feelings. I wasn't afraid or despairing, I was just so very, profoundly, sad.  At the end of the dream, someone touched my hand, soothingly, and I immediately had an image of that touch on my vulva.

I woke up fine, not upset, but thinking about the dream and how I might write about it.  I realized what a great counterpoint the dream was to my earlier thoughts.  As a child, I survived by shutting out the fear and pain and, by doing so, I was able to have times of joy and laughter.  As an adult, having looked the monsters in the eye, I no longer need to hide from the the traumas of past events, and I feel pretty safe and content.  But, as my dream shows, the core of the trauma, the reality of it, is still deep within me.  The bittersweet truth is that I will always carry, within myself, both the horror and the joy of my childhood.   

Today I'm very comfortable with my psychological and emotional status, and I'm grateful that I had the help and encouragement to be at peace with myself.  I know I'll learn and change and grow for the rest of my life.  I also know that my past, and all that I've lived through, has made me who I am today.  It's given me depth and compassion and helped to form my own personal style, perspective, and magic.

Life is such an amazing gift.  In spite of all the struggles and traumas, I'm glad to be alive, and I'm very glad to be me!  If you've had similar insights, or if my experience resonates with you, I'd love to hear your comments.

Finally Believing That it Wasn't My Fault

During the time when the minister was actively abusing me, two of my best friends confided that our new pastor had approached them sexually. The three of us were church buddies who shared all of our secrets.  Both girls said they had rebuffed the man's advances, but had not told anybody else about the incidents. When asked, I lied and said that he hadn't approached me, but I felt awful! Why hadn't I fended him off like my friends had done?  What was wrong with me?  Of course, we were little kids and had no real power over the adult abuser, but apparently they were able to do what I could not.  That may have been the beginning of me blaming myself for the horrors that followed.

When my father took up the abuse, this conviction was reinforced.  I felt powerless.  Apparently, everyone wanted to use me for sex, and I couldn't stop it.  I didn't even try to say "no" to my dad.  Years later, as a young adult, I was raped at knife-point in an empty lot near where my husband worked.   Even then, I didn't put up much of a fight.

    

I've read stories from other survivors who were also victimized repeatedly as young people.  I wonder if they also thought, as I did, "Why does this keep happening to me"?  "Do I have a target on my back"?  "Do I carry an invisible sign that says, 'rape me, abuse me, beat me, demean me'"? I suspect that we have all wondered, "WHY ME?  I MUST BE DOING SOMETHING TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN!"

I recently got a great new perspective on this topic from this quote (which I lifted from the very excellent website, TAALK):

In her book The Socially Skilled Child Molester, Dr. Carla van Dam states that “Child molesters [also] gravitate to those people who are most likely to be too polite to fend them off, too shy and anxious to tell them to leave, too dependent to be assertive, and too impressed by rank, power, status or money to do the right thing. Child molesters deliberately associate with adults who cannot address these issues. They seek out adults who worry about hurting people’s feelings. They charm adults who do not believe it could happen.”

When I read this and other passages from the book, I realized that I had been set up!  My parents fit this profile perfectly!  Dad wanted desperately to be revered as an intelligent and godly man, and Mom wanted desperately to be accepted by Dad and so reinforced his empirical rule. Our family was the perfect target for sexual predators!  We children were to be deferential to all adults.  We were not to say "no", not to ask "why", and never to disobey!  We were not to express our own preferences.  In our family we drank our coffee black, we ate our eggs sunny-side up, and we liked our steaks medium rare. If someone dared to show individual opinions or tastes, they knew that the punishment would be a lifetime of shunning and ridicule.

Enter the pedophile.  And then enter the empirical  and deluded father. And then enter the rapist.  It wasn't that I had a target on my back.  I didn't have a certain look, a precocious manner, a fatal flaw.  I wasn't too pretty, too sexy, too clever.  I was the perfect compliant child.  I was smart enough to know the rules and to play them to perfection.  And, in doing so, I became the perfect target.

My previous post was about anger.  I feel anger as I write this.  I also feel grateful that I had the skills and found the people who were willing to help me escape, to be safe, to grow, to mature, and to heal.  I now know, in a deeper and more liberating way that, truly, IT WAS NOT MY FAULT! 

Parents, civic and church leaders, and helping professionals might find "The Socially Skilled Child Molester," helpful.  I know that that there are many other great resources as well, and I'd love to have you share ones you have found with me in the "comments" section.

The TAALK website is also a great source.  The more we know and the more we share, the more able we will be to stop the epidemic of childhood sexual abuse.

Lost Innocence? Lost Hope?

Drifting toward wakefulness, I found myself thinking about my grandmother. At 5' tall and 300 lbs. she was very soft to hug. She was also crude, snappish, and prone to cursing. She was kind of strange, but she wasn't scary - at least not to me. She had songbirds in cages at her house, and I thought that was very cool!



Then I thought about other memories of my early childhood. I liked the red-headed girl in first grade, and I introduced myself to her the first day so we could be friends. I was sad to find a beautiful little dead bird in the yard and I took it to school for "Show and Tell." I contentedly drew streets in the dirt and played with little cars with my brothers and sisters. Daddy put us up on his shoulders, and read the "funnies" out loud. Mommy sang when she ironed, and laughed when my aunts and uncles visited.

By the time I was fully awake, I was profoundly grateful for those early childhood experiences. I realized that I had been a truely innocent, happy, carefree child, full of wonder, energy, and curiosity. I can actually look back and see what I was - my potential, my magic, even my style. Wow!



Of course, things changed. My father "got saved" and my mother followed (sort of). Suddenly, there were no more kitchen-table card games, no Saturday night beer with uncles, no dancing, no movies, no smoking.........and no laughter. I don't think religeon was to blame. I think the church atmosphere just happened to be fertile ground for the fear, anger, confusion, insecurity (and who knows what else) that had always been there. Mom continued to smoke and curse --and she tried desperately to please Dad. Dad constantly demeaned her, making it clear that she would never measure up -- and he became more and more imperial and dictatorial. Before second grade was over, before any overt sexual abuse, I had already become secretive, guarded, and grasping for approval.

But, what about the children who were rejected, raped, tortured, when they were 6 months old, 2 years old, 4 years old?  Because they were too young to develop memories of innocence, are they now doomed to go through life wondering who they are and why life is so difficult?  How do these children, now adults, find their way out of the maze of feelings, misperceptions, and lies that where there as far back as they can remember? I ache for those children - for the "grown ups" they have become. I want to tell them that they too were innocent, open children once, even though they can't remember it.  I want to tell them to keep trying to find their own path to healing.  I want to tell them that it's not too late to to claim a new life of wonder, energy, and curiousity - to discover their potential, their style and their own special magic.    

I'm grateful that I can remember an innocent time in my life. I cannot go back to that time or that innocence. But I can give to myself what I wish for others.  I can embrace the potential, the magic, and the style that is uniquely ME, as best I can.