Author: Christina Enevoldsen

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved the truth. Truth is stability in a chaotic world; it stands solid in the midst of brokenness. Truth is safe. As a kid, my hero was teen detective, Nancy Drew, who boldly investigated clues and lived to solve mysteries. Nothing fascinated her more than finding the truth. In my teen years, Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple was my favorite amateur sleuth. A sweet, unassuming, grandmotherly-type, nobody could fool her. Miss Marple always saw past the deceits and facades, even when the police were stumped. I still enjoy crime novels and picture myself catching the thieves and murderers next to the fictional detectives. Though I’ve always loved the truth, my childhood sexual abuse meant most of my life was based on lies and secrets. Instead of the criminals hiding the truth, it was my own mind concealing it. For years, I repressed the memory of my own abuse and denied my daughter’s abuse as well. I imagined myself an eagle-eye detective, yet the truth remained hidden to me. My recovery from sexual abuse has been the discovery of truth. Telling the truth about my past was the first step in healing. Every step has come by overturning the lies the abuse taught me. Each painful feeling leads me to a clue; each haunting memory is a puzzle piece that leads me to the truth. The healing process reminds me of a murder mystery, except that my goal isn’t to find out “Whodunit?” Rather, it’s about “Who am I?” My restoration is the process of uncovering my distorted image to find my true, genuine self. I love truth. I live in Los Angeles with my husband, Don. We share two sons, a daughter and two grandsons. I’m delighted by sunset walks on the beach, chocolate, people-watching, chai lattes, cozy spaces, goofy adventures with my daughter, scented candles and colored pens. My passion is writing, public speaking about the journey of personal growth and seeing people restored to wholeness.

Confessions of a Child Molester’s Wife

Confessions of a Child Molester's Wifeby Christina Enevoldsen

When my daughter was eight years old, she spent the night at a friend’s house. She and her friend spent hours swimming in their community pool and Bethany came home with her face, arms and legs red and burning. I was irate that the girl’s mother allowed Bethany to be exposed to the sun for so long, especially without sunscreen. Arizona, where we lived at the time, had the second highest rate of skin cancer in the world. Bethany blistered and peeled for a week. That mother failed to provide her with basic protection and I was so angry that she was so careless with my daughter.

When I look back on that incident, I still feel awful for how much Bethany suffered that week. I eventually discovered far worse things touching my daughter than the sun’s rays and this time, I was the one who left her exposed.

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