Sunday, March 25, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Joined the world of Twitter
I'm on Twitter now: FamilySecrets76. Thought I'd let anyone reading this know.
If you are already on Twitter, check out #Ididnotreport. Powerful, heart wrenching stories.
If you are already on Twitter, check out #Ididnotreport. Powerful, heart wrenching stories.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
My mother responds
My mother's phone call startled me awake. It wasn't early; I had been sleeping in late to make up for a string of anxiety-laden nights of insomnia. I figured the was calling to talk about the letter. I was right.
Her voice sounded excited, almost overjoyed. "I wanted to let you know we read your letter and I want you to know what we did with it!" Anyone listening in at this point would have thought that I had sent her the most wonderful news, and she was so happy that she had put the letter in a scrapbook or framed it on the wall.
This was just the beginning of a surreal conversation.
Sounding almost gushing, she thanked me for the letter, especially my expressions of love. She thought the letter very well written. In fact, she read it twice, very carefully. So did my father.
Then she burned it.
"I've put it behind me!" she said with great enthusiasm, as if announcing something I should take great delight in. "You should too! It's in the past, it's forgiven, it's over and done with. Time to move on. I'm over it and I hope you will get over it too."
She's over it? She is over it?!! She reads about how her son sexually abused her daughter for years and, just like that, she is over it? Not a twinge of grief, not the slightest moment of compassion, not a bit of concern, not a moment of anguish? Just like that, she is over it?
Another woman I know found out, decades after the fact, that her son had molested her daughter. She hopped on the next available plane and flew clear across the country to hold her daughter in her arms, weep with her, and support her in whatever way she could. "I didn't know then, or I would have stopped it. But I know now, and I will do anything to help you heal," she told her daughter. And she begged her forgiveness for failing to protect her...for anything she did that made it possible for such a tragedy to occur.
Such a response, obviously, is utterly foreign to my mother. She let me know she was not at all to blame. Her conscience was clear. She was at peace. All was well in her world. She was sure I was fine...after all, I have Sheldon and my therapist...and she was not going to give the contents of the letter another thought.
"It's buried in the past!" She said this several times. I think she was disappointed that I wasn't excited, overjoyed even, that she was able to get over my years of sexual abuse so quickly. "It will never bother me again!"
I honestly think she wanted me to be happy for her...happy that my long hellish nightmare had mattered so little to her, that she was not going to allow it to intrude on her happiness, that she really didn't care.
Her voice sounded excited, almost overjoyed. "I wanted to let you know we read your letter and I want you to know what we did with it!" Anyone listening in at this point would have thought that I had sent her the most wonderful news, and she was so happy that she had put the letter in a scrapbook or framed it on the wall.
This was just the beginning of a surreal conversation.
Sounding almost gushing, she thanked me for the letter, especially my expressions of love. She thought the letter very well written. In fact, she read it twice, very carefully. So did my father.
Then she burned it.
"I've put it behind me!" she said with great enthusiasm, as if announcing something I should take great delight in. "You should too! It's in the past, it's forgiven, it's over and done with. Time to move on. I'm over it and I hope you will get over it too."
She's over it? She is over it?!! She reads about how her son sexually abused her daughter for years and, just like that, she is over it? Not a twinge of grief, not the slightest moment of compassion, not a bit of concern, not a moment of anguish? Just like that, she is over it?
Another woman I know found out, decades after the fact, that her son had molested her daughter. She hopped on the next available plane and flew clear across the country to hold her daughter in her arms, weep with her, and support her in whatever way she could. "I didn't know then, or I would have stopped it. But I know now, and I will do anything to help you heal," she told her daughter. And she begged her forgiveness for failing to protect her...for anything she did that made it possible for such a tragedy to occur.
Such a response, obviously, is utterly foreign to my mother. She let me know she was not at all to blame. Her conscience was clear. She was at peace. All was well in her world. She was sure I was fine...after all, I have Sheldon and my therapist...and she was not going to give the contents of the letter another thought.
"It's buried in the past!" She said this several times. I think she was disappointed that I wasn't excited, overjoyed even, that she was able to get over my years of sexual abuse so quickly. "It will never bother me again!"
I honestly think she wanted me to be happy for her...happy that my long hellish nightmare had mattered so little to her, that she was not going to allow it to intrude on her happiness, that she really didn't care.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Sheldon's statement
Sheldon wrote to my parents as well. This is a portion of his letter:
I have learned that many of those who are molested react with shame. Although they are the victim, they blame themselves. This encourages secrecy and prevents disclosure; thus, the abuse continues. Only the truth revealed can set people free and begin the process of healing. Even this process of healing can bring glory to God.
I have seen that God often brings instant forgiveness and healing of our spirits, but the healing of our bodies and souls usually takes time, even a lifetime. Deep wounds leave scars.
Someone I know had surgery as a child to repair a hole in his heart. His parents were told by the surgeon that the repair -- the scar -- would become the strongest part of his heart.
I take comfort in that.
I have learned that many of those who are molested react with shame. Although they are the victim, they blame themselves. This encourages secrecy and prevents disclosure; thus, the abuse continues. Only the truth revealed can set people free and begin the process of healing. Even this process of healing can bring glory to God.
I have seen that God often brings instant forgiveness and healing of our spirits, but the healing of our bodies and souls usually takes time, even a lifetime. Deep wounds leave scars.
Someone I know had surgery as a child to repair a hole in his heart. His parents were told by the surgeon that the repair -- the scar -- would become the strongest part of his heart.
I take comfort in that.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Letter to my parents
This letter has either already arrived at my parents' address, or should arrive any time now:
Dear Mom and Dad,
This is probably the most difficult letter I've ever had to write. The subject matter is extremely painful for all of us. For years, I wanted to spare you that pain. I thought what I endured was my burden to bear alone. But when I finally told Sheldon my shameful secret, his immediate response was, "That explains so much." Suddenly things made sense to him. My regret is that I did not tell him sooner.
That is why I am writing this letter. My intent is not to cause you any more pain. I love both of you more than my feeble words could ever express. In no way do I blame you for something you had no way of knowing. However, you as my parents deserve to know the truth.
There is no easy way to say this, no gentle way to lead up to what Sheldon already told you on the phone. Without going into gory details, Damien began molesting me when I was 13, and the sexual abuse continued for years, escalating in severity. What he did meets the commonly accepted definition of incest ("sexual contact between those so closely related that it would be illegal for them to marry") and, although I have no memory of actual intercourse occurring, it meets the newly accepted Justice Dept. definition of rape ("penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim")
Those words are painful to read, I know. I wish they weren't true; I wish none of it had happened. It has been terribly anguishing for me to deal with the ugliness and shame of it all.
I'm sure this raises many questions for you. Why did I let it happen? Why didn't I tell? Why didn't I make Damien stop? Why did I act, all these years, as if nothing was wrong?
Remember when my aunts feared, because of how compliant I was with Damien, that I would eventually fall under the spell of some man, in such bondage that I would do his every bidding, even if I knew it was wrong? Their fears proved correct, only it happened much sooner, and it was with Damien. By the time I was 13, he could get me to do almost anything. It's no secret he could be tyrant-like. Even as a child, he wanted to be world dictator. He found in me an all too easy subject to exert power over and to control. That's the essence of sexual abuse -- it's far more about power and control than it is about sex.
The way I attempted to cope while it was happening was to pretend it away and refuse to think about it. It was as if I was in an unrelenting fog. I became a master at denial. In the place of the truth, I created a fantasy world, wherein my life wasn't filled with shame and despair; my brother wasn't sexually abusing me or pressuring me to read porn, drink alcohol and take drugs; instead, he was World's Best Big Brother, wonderfully protective. The truth -- that the brother I so loved and admired would hurt and betray me in such vile ways -- was something I couldn't bear.
So I put my dark secret in a box, locked and sealed it, and buried it as deeply as I could. Unfortunately, the toxic slime that kept oozing out of that box poisoned every aspect of my life, not just during those awful years, but all the years since then.
It was incredibly difficult, but I finally managed to get Damien to stop, to promise to leave me alone, to stop trying to convince me that there was nothing wrong with an incestuous relationship other than my unwillingness to submit to him. Although he never asked, I forgave him. It was over and done with, and I tried to leave it in the past. In those days, I didn't completely understand forgiveness. I thought it meant reconciliation and restoration as well, and that I had no right to treat him any differently than if the years of sexual abuse had never happened.
Up until 2009, I had told only one other person, a therapist that I saw in college. She was no help whatsoever. I left and never returned. When I began seeing Randy, my current therapist, it took me months to finally tell him what I referred to as my "deepest darkest secret". Actually I couldn't even get the words out at first. He had to say them for me. It didn't come as a shock to him; the red flags were all there.
The ways I coped back when I was 13 -- the things I did to prevent going insane or being plunged into even darker despair -- helped me survive. But they aren't healthy ways of coping with life over the long haul. They aren't how God intends for anyone to live.
What we have been doing in therapy is, in many respects, like cleaning out old, festering wounds that should have been treated decades ago. In addition, we are exposing the lies that have kept me bound most of my life, and we are replacing them with truth. A friend of mine describes this as "soul surgery". Eventually all will be repaired and stitched up, every gaping hole mended, every wound cleaned and healed.
More than ever before, I believe in a redemptive God. What men meant for evil, God will use for good. God can redeem anything, even this.
Please know that, no matter what -- past, present or future -- I love both of you very much. I am thankful beyond words that God blessed me with such wonderful parents.
I love you!
Annie
The letter does contain a partial truth...or partial lie, depending on one's perspective. I don't blame my mother in the sense that I believe she would have prevented or stopped the incest had she known. But I do blame her for creating a family environment that allowed incest to flourish for years.
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Dear Mom and Dad,
This is probably the most difficult letter I've ever had to write. The subject matter is extremely painful for all of us. For years, I wanted to spare you that pain. I thought what I endured was my burden to bear alone. But when I finally told Sheldon my shameful secret, his immediate response was, "That explains so much." Suddenly things made sense to him. My regret is that I did not tell him sooner.
That is why I am writing this letter. My intent is not to cause you any more pain. I love both of you more than my feeble words could ever express. In no way do I blame you for something you had no way of knowing. However, you as my parents deserve to know the truth.
There is no easy way to say this, no gentle way to lead up to what Sheldon already told you on the phone. Without going into gory details, Damien began molesting me when I was 13, and the sexual abuse continued for years, escalating in severity. What he did meets the commonly accepted definition of incest ("sexual contact between those so closely related that it would be illegal for them to marry") and, although I have no memory of actual intercourse occurring, it meets the newly accepted Justice Dept. definition of rape ("penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim")
Those words are painful to read, I know. I wish they weren't true; I wish none of it had happened. It has been terribly anguishing for me to deal with the ugliness and shame of it all.
I'm sure this raises many questions for you. Why did I let it happen? Why didn't I tell? Why didn't I make Damien stop? Why did I act, all these years, as if nothing was wrong?
Remember when my aunts feared, because of how compliant I was with Damien, that I would eventually fall under the spell of some man, in such bondage that I would do his every bidding, even if I knew it was wrong? Their fears proved correct, only it happened much sooner, and it was with Damien. By the time I was 13, he could get me to do almost anything. It's no secret he could be tyrant-like. Even as a child, he wanted to be world dictator. He found in me an all too easy subject to exert power over and to control. That's the essence of sexual abuse -- it's far more about power and control than it is about sex.
The way I attempted to cope while it was happening was to pretend it away and refuse to think about it. It was as if I was in an unrelenting fog. I became a master at denial. In the place of the truth, I created a fantasy world, wherein my life wasn't filled with shame and despair; my brother wasn't sexually abusing me or pressuring me to read porn, drink alcohol and take drugs; instead, he was World's Best Big Brother, wonderfully protective. The truth -- that the brother I so loved and admired would hurt and betray me in such vile ways -- was something I couldn't bear.
So I put my dark secret in a box, locked and sealed it, and buried it as deeply as I could. Unfortunately, the toxic slime that kept oozing out of that box poisoned every aspect of my life, not just during those awful years, but all the years since then.
It was incredibly difficult, but I finally managed to get Damien to stop, to promise to leave me alone, to stop trying to convince me that there was nothing wrong with an incestuous relationship other than my unwillingness to submit to him. Although he never asked, I forgave him. It was over and done with, and I tried to leave it in the past. In those days, I didn't completely understand forgiveness. I thought it meant reconciliation and restoration as well, and that I had no right to treat him any differently than if the years of sexual abuse had never happened.
Up until 2009, I had told only one other person, a therapist that I saw in college. She was no help whatsoever. I left and never returned. When I began seeing Randy, my current therapist, it took me months to finally tell him what I referred to as my "deepest darkest secret". Actually I couldn't even get the words out at first. He had to say them for me. It didn't come as a shock to him; the red flags were all there.
The ways I coped back when I was 13 -- the things I did to prevent going insane or being plunged into even darker despair -- helped me survive. But they aren't healthy ways of coping with life over the long haul. They aren't how God intends for anyone to live.
What we have been doing in therapy is, in many respects, like cleaning out old, festering wounds that should have been treated decades ago. In addition, we are exposing the lies that have kept me bound most of my life, and we are replacing them with truth. A friend of mine describes this as "soul surgery". Eventually all will be repaired and stitched up, every gaping hole mended, every wound cleaned and healed.
More than ever before, I believe in a redemptive God. What men meant for evil, God will use for good. God can redeem anything, even this.
Please know that, no matter what -- past, present or future -- I love both of you very much. I am thankful beyond words that God blessed me with such wonderful parents.
I love you!
Annie
The letter does contain a partial truth...or partial lie, depending on one's perspective. I don't blame my mother in the sense that I believe she would have prevented or stopped the incest had she known. But I do blame her for creating a family environment that allowed incest to flourish for years.
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Sunday, March 4, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Domestic Abuse & the Church
If you are at all involved in a church, please read this and pass it on to the leadership.
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