by Penny Smith

I had admitted to myself that I had been abused. I reached the point that I was tired of the way I was living. I wanted something more. I knew I had to deal with the effects of abuse if I ever wanted anything to change. I wanted to heal….so, why then was the process of healing so scary and hard to begin?

It’s like I had been a slave or imprisoned my whole life, and then I was offered the chance to be free. Freedom is what I had dreamed of, longed for, but never really thought would happen. Slavery is depressing, demeaning and kept me from realizing my true potential. So why wouldn’t I jump at the chance to leave it?

It is all I had ever known. To leave it would mean to enter the unknown, to be dependent on myself for the quality of my life, to explore my potential. In order to be free, or to heal, I would have to leave my old patterns of thinking, habits and people who kept me shackled in the chains of my abuse and its effects.

That’s all I was doing—coping. I wasn’t dealing with the effects. I wasn’t getting to the bottom of how I felt and why I felt that way. I wasn’t dealing with anything—I was simply shoving it under the rug—coping.

The problem with that was, the more I shoved under the rug, the lumpier my life became. Since I was afraid to leave my cell it became more and more uncomfortable as issue after issue popped up in my life.

Finally, I realized that I couldn’t live that way any longer. I had to strike out on my healing journey. It was a relief to make that decision, but also scary. I thought that by beginning to deal with the affects of abuse, I would give up who I was. That in leaving the comforts of my coping mechanisms, I would somehow lose myself.

It was difficult to leave the familiar and set off in to the unknown. It was frightening to not know where the journey would take me or who I would become. In reality, I wasn’t losing my identity, I was finding out who I truly am. I had become a product of my abuse and the skills that I had honed to survive it. I was about to find out that under all those layers and layers of lies, there was so much more to me than I’d ever dreamed.

Not long after I had plunged myself in to the process of recovery, I remember finding out first-hand just how difficult it is to leave those old patterns of thinking and responding behind. I had a “friend” who seemed to only call me when she needed something. She called me one day and wanted me to do something for her on very short notice. It would be a huge inconvenience to me and it was not something I felt comfortable doing. I was so used to saying ‘yes’, so trained to do whatever was asked of me, that I told her I would. As soon as I got off the phone, I felt horrible about it.

I began to try and process my feelings. I realized that the inability to say ‘no’ was an aftereffect of my abuse. I had been trained to think that I wasn’t allowed to say ‘no.’ Right then I decided that I was no longer going to be a doormat. I was just as important as anyone else. I called my “friend” back and told her that I couldn’t do what she wanted me to. I’ve never heard from her again.

To some people it may seem simple, but it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It was the most amazing feeling to finally stand up for myself. It was empowering to realize that I didn’t have to do everything that was asked of me. That I have rights too and that it does not make me a bad person to say ‘no.’ That is when I took control of my life back from my abusers.

By leaving the slavery, the cage, the prison cell where my abuse had kept me, I wasn’t giving up anything (at least not anything that was good for me). I was actually giving myself a chance to find out who I truly am.

At times it feels like I go backward more than forward, but when I look back, I can see that I’ve made progress. I’m amazed that I was ever afraid to leave that bondage. I marvel at who I have become. I am not who “they” told me I was…I am so much more and so are you.

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Related Posts:
Overcoming Sexual Abuse: My Healing or My Marriage?
Is Overcoming Sexual Abuse Really Possible?
My Healing Journey: Stumbling and Getting Back Up
Forget About It?
My Support System is Led By Me

Penny Smith is a frequent contributor to Overcoming Sexual Abuse, especially through her heartfelt poetry. Penny uses her creativity in many areas including cake decorating, sketching and floral arrangements. She balances her recovery with being a busy wife and mother of three precious children.

by Linda Pittman

People used to tell me I was pretty but I never believed it. I always felt like they had an ulterior motive. I thought they said those things so that they could use me or because they pitied me or were being kind. I was wary, suspicious, and distant.

I did not like to look at my body. I did not know how to pick clothes or hairstyles that would make me look good. No matter how I dressed or did my hair, it didn’t make much difference.

I was too skinny, too awkward, I did not measure up to the people I admired—the ones with self-confidence, the beautiful people, the ones who did not have a dirty, ugly secret like mine. I kept the real me hidden away from the world. If they knew the real me they would be so repulsed so I became a person I thought they wanted to see.

I realized a while back that my oldest daughter looks a lot like I did when I was younger. I put my daughter’s pictures and my pictures side-by-side to compare our looks at different ages. We almost look like twins. She is absolutely beautiful. Why is it that I can see her as beautiful, yet not see myself that way?

It is sad to realize that the way I pictured myself was so distorted by all the feelings of shame and self-loathing from childhood sexual abuse. I learned to sabotage myself just like the important people in my life had done to me. I believed I did not matter, that I was a placeholder in my family, the youngest child. The tagalong kid. The afterthought. The invisible one.

I built up my courage to explore other possibilities. I began to believe the messages of hope and acceptance that wiped away the shame and guilt. It wasn’t my fault; I am not dirty or shameful. I was a victim of horrible shameless people who never saw me. There were many people who manipulated and used me and fed me lies, for their own selfishness. I had accepted their view and I only saw what they saw in me. Even when I told my secret, people reacted with revulsion. I interpreted their revulsion, as I was repulsive.

But I was separate from what happened to me. The things they did to me were ugly and now I can see the ugliness came from them. I am a really beautiful person, inside and out. I am the beautiful person that my husband says I am and my children look up to and my friends cherish. I can look at me and know I am beautiful! Yippee!

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Having experienced healing from sexual, physical and verbal abuse, Linda Pittman has found joy in encouraging others in their healing journey and tells people that it’s never too late to start. She’s been married to her husband for twenty-one years and has four adult children.  

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

by Linda Pittman

Throughout my healing journey from childhood sexual abuse, I have heard a lot about the need for “healthy boundaries”. How do I know if my boundaries are healthy? What are they and how do I measure mine? How do my boundaries compare with someone who has not been sexually abused? These were baffling ideas and questions.

As a child, I could not defend myself against abuse from a bigger and stronger adult. If I tried to defend myself, I was punished more or overpowered. So I learned to submit in hopes that it would be less painful. My physical boundaries were breached over and over. My submission was a coping mechanism to help me through each act of abuse. I learned to allow others to do what they wanted and began to believe that I had no rights over my body. My mental and spiritual boundaries were also breached because the shame of my abuser was transferred to me (I was bad) and I was not being “good” as defined by my church. Over and above my beliefs, I felt the bad inside of me. I had no say in those areas.

Even after I told about my abuse and I was no longer available to my abuser, I had no one to teach me that I had rights over my body— that it was okay to say no. As a consequence, I faced many sexual situations that I did not wish to participate in, but felt I had no choice but to do what the other person wanted. That response had been conditioned in me for many years and I knew no better. I felt even more guilt and shame since it seemed no one had forced me to do those things. I became pregnant when I was seventeen.

The first time my fiancée grabbed my arms and shoved me during an argument, my reaction was perfectly normal; I became angry and wanted to leave and never see him again. Good, right? Except that my mother let him in against my wishes because he brought me flowers and candy and seemed truly sorry. She could have helped me by saying that no physical force against me was acceptable. I trusted her judgment since she was my mother and I was sure that she would not steer me wrong.

Years later, I found out that she knew about my abuse and did not protect me or my siblings. Now, instead of standing up for me, she urged me to give him another chance. He got plenty of other chances during our fourteen and a half years marriage. When I ran out of chances to offer him, it was only to protect my children and not myself.

Why did I think my children deserved to be protected but I didn’t? I was constantly yelled at, belittled, bullied and punished for what I did and did not do. I was told I was worthless and that no one would want me. I was the sweet, compliant person who thought more highly of everyone else. My self worth could only be measured by his or her attention and compliments. If I received a compliment, I did not believe it; they were just being nice and I didn’t believe I deserved to be treated so nicely. They must have been saying those things out of pity or else they were nicer people than me. I avoided being close to anyone as I struggled to keep myself safe.

So where did the change take place and how did that come about for me? A few years, a lot of dysfunctional relationships and horrible choices later, I learned that it was “normal” for me to say yes to bad situations. As a child, I really didn’t have much choice. If I was corrected or manipulated into saying yes when I tried to say no, then I learned to ignore my comfort. If I took the abuser’s behavior into myself, I learned to say yes to controlling, abusive and unloving behavior. I also learned to feel guilty about saying no, so I was manipulated into saying yes. These were boundaries that were not formed correctly in me. Is it any wonder that others who came along were able to do the same to me?

I had to start off setting boundaries timidly but I did start and a lot of the boundaries were set as a result of my feelings. I was able to see when someone was trying to manipulate me. My discomfort told me the truth. I learned to trust my “gut feelings” more and more. As I did these things, I was learning to set my personal boundaries.

I learned the signals that indicate a need to set my boundaries.

• Did I feel discomfort or pain?
• Did I continue to stay around others that made me feel uncomfortable?
• Did I feel that by saying no I would disappoint someone?
• Did I feel bad about saying no?
• Did I say yes when I felt inside I wanted to say no?
• Did I say yes to something that went against my true beliefs and feelings?
• Did I say yes because I was afraid they would leave me/ reject me?

I learned that boundaries are not just physical such as “Do not get too close to me”. Boundaries are emotional such as, “I refuse to allow myself to be upset by you”. Boundaries are also spiritual or mental such as, “You can’t tell me how to think or what to say or believe”.

In an uncomfortable or painful situation, I learned to say, “No, I don’t like that and won’t tolerate that.” People are not mind-readers and I had to speak up. I left bad and uncomfortable situations. I learned to say what I wanted and if the answer was no, it was okay because that was what made me feel safe and comfortable. Even when others tried to talk me into a situation that I did not like, I said no and felt okay about it. In abusive or disrespectful behavior from another, I left if they did not stop when I said no. Each no got easier and easier.

People still try to cross my boundaries often, but it is my responsibility to keep them. My boundaries are necessary to my safety and peace of mind. Yeah, my feelings are important to me and DON’T try to talk me out of them. It is a learning process and I’ve still got a lot to learn about myself. But I am so much better at protecting me. And I’m worth it.

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Having experienced healing from sexual, physical and verbal abuse, Linda Pittman has found joy in encouraging others in their healing journey and tells people that it’s never too late to start. She’s been married to her husband for twenty-one years and has four adult children.  

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

by Linda Pittman

“I’m damaged for life”
“My life is ruined”
“I can’t forgive myself”
“No one could ever love me”

Statements without hope. I used to believe those things, once upon a time.

I wanted to hope for a better life, but getting to that better life seemed impossible. I hated my life full of misery. Every relationship was a nightmare and I felt like I was ruined forever. I hated my body, I felt isolated inside as if I could never let anyone get all the way to my heart. I had a constant yearning for what I had lost as a child and no way to get it back. I was needy, so needy it scared me. I didn’t have a clue on how to get there from where I was.

But then I listened. When I listened to other abuse survivors’ stories of their suffering and how they came through, it give me the hope that I too could get better—that I wasn’t sentenced to a life of damage, pain and longing for that something I could not even name.

That little bit of hope was like a seed that was planted in my spirit. Each new survivor who came forward brought food for my little seed. A famous celebrity, a beauty queen, a famous writer—they began to share their stories with the world, one by one. In sharing their stories, sometimes I could relate, sometimes I couldn’t, but they nourished me.

The hope grew so big I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I told my story. First I sent it out like little tentacles, feeling, searching to see if it was safe to risk keeping it out there. When others believed me, my hope grew larger. I found myself in the midst of many others searching and tentatively testing their hope. I was not alone, there were so many like me. I was astounded at their numbers! I actually belonged somewhere. We were like a secret group of gardeners, sharing our gardening tips and tools.

I have been busy tending this garden. My hope has grown into a beautiful and breathtaking flower—its petals formed with each secret shared. It is a unique creation unlike any other flower.

My gardening friends and I are not hopelessly damaged; we are creators of beauty in a world that was once barren. Now, we’re the scatterers of seeds from our beautiful flowers to start new little buds in others. Just like what has been done for us.

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Having experienced healing from sexual, physical and verbal abuse, Linda Pittman has found joy in encouraging others in their healing journey and tells people that it’s never too late to start. She’s been married to her husband for twenty-one years and has four adult children.  

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

by Linda Pittman

When I first met my husband, I was keeping a big secret—the story of my childhood sexual abuse. I couldn’t tell him until I felt safe and sure of his love—if that was possible. He is a good man, gentle, kind, intensely loyal and trustworthy. Sometimes it is still hard to believe that I have such a wonderful spouse.

My husband responded to my history with the expected concern but he really did not understand the impact that this secret would have on him:

• I would need constant reassurance of his love. No matter how many times he would declare it, I could never believe it.
• No matter how hard he worked at the relationship, I was too afraid to let the intimacy happen.
• There would be others who would share our bed, my former abusers and my wounded child in my adult body.
• This adult child inside of me would not know how to control my feelings or my body and sometimes not even be present in my body.
• He would not know what an unworthy, shameful and dirty person he really married. (This is how I really felt.)

I couldn’t let my husband know everything because he would probably reject me if he really knew the real me. I needed him and wanted him so badly. I couldn’t be dishonest; I just would leave out some stuff—it wouldn’t matter—it was in the past anyway.

My sexual abuse does matter and has had such a great impact on all my relationships—especially my marriage. I realized that my husband would not be able to stay with me unless I got help and worked on recovering—serious recovering.

My first husband was physically and mentally abusive, making the damage to me even worse. He needed to leave because he was not healthy for my children and me. As a victim of childhood sexual abuse, I had a tendency to choose abusive, manipulative and controlling partners since I had not experienced any healing from my childhood sexual abuse. During my first marriage, I could only acknowledge that the abuse had happened to me.

I had to learn to drop the fairytale “happily ever after” crap and realize that all marriages are hard work. As an abuse survivor my second marriage would be even harder work, but it could work. I owed it to myself, and my spouse, to do the healing work.

I was sexually promiscuous and aggressive while in our courtship as a way of hiding, but the business of real closeness presented itself to me now. I couldn’t continue using the excuse of what happened to me as a way to hide from a sexual relationship or emotional intimacy. I truly cared about my husband and I needed to be honest with him. My marriage needed this to survive.

I went to therapy for myself and involved my husband later, to help him understand the impact this had on me, and to teach him how to help me. I even found counselors who worked on a sliding scale basis.

I became aware of the lack of intimacy in our relationship because we had settled into an “all or nothing” way of relating to each other. We got together to have sex but we were not taking the time to talk, touch and just be close without sex. We did not talk about joint goals and how to get to them together. We did not have that deep intimacy that we needed to strengthen our relationship.

I began to feel resentful of this “all or nothing” thing and I realized one day that it felt just like the way my abuser treated me. My abuser never wanted to have anything to do with me unless it was sexual. What a wake up call that was to realize that my husband was nothing like my abuser but I was relating to him as if he was.

I knew that all my talking about my abuse was not enough. I needed help to learn how to relate to my husband and I had to learn how to change my perception of him. I went for individual therapy because I realized that the problem was mine, and that he could not fix the damage from the abuse—only I could do that.

I became aware that my husband was not able to know how I felt because I could not say or show how I was feeling. I wore a mask that had been in place for years to keep others away and to keep me safe. This mask made me feel less vulnerable. If I didn’t show others my true feelings, I couldn’t be hurt so easily.

The trouble was I also did not know my own true feelings. I had learned to “feel” the way others thought I should feel or what I thought was expected of me. My feelings had not mattered for so long. I had buried them so deeply that they were hidden from me as well. I could not let down the wall to trust him or myself.

I realized that to let down the wall between us and to trust him was to take a big risk. I learned all the head knowledge of my abuse not being my fault but I hadn’t accepted it nor had I learned to love and accept my body or me either.

My past taught me that I couldn’t trust anyone. My parents had betrayed me and so I couldn’t trust them. My first husband was abusive to me and had broken my trust again. I stayed behind that wall because I was afraid to trust my current husband fully. This inability to trust my husband would forever limit our relationship to a superficial level unless I dealt with it. The one thing I wanted was to be able to love and trust deeply, and I was the one who kept the wall up.

I went to group therapy for incest survivors, which helped me to go back into my childhood and to heal the child inside myself. I had to look at the ugly reality of what was done to me and how I had adapted to survive. There were memories that I had to look at that were terrible, but I was able to look at them as an adult. I was no longer that helpless child. I also had to get over the shame I felt and the shame of looking at my body.

At the end of the group therapy my husband was given the opportunity to learn about how the abuse had affected my relationships and me. He was able to tell me once again how much he loved me and if I would allow myself to trust him, he would work on giving me the things I needed from him. I had to commit myself to this agreement too.

I also learned that it was up to me to let him know what I needed and wanted and how to communicate by talking in feeling statements. I had to say things like, “I feel scared”; “I need you to just hold me”; “I do not like that”. I finally felt safe enough to trust him.

From time to time, we fell back into patterns where we were not practicing this communication of needs and I would have to stop and talk about my feelings. Sometimes life’s problems would cause us to focus more on them than on us. In the bedroom, I had to learn to tell my husband what I wanted and didn’t want without feeling guilty about my feelings or needs. I had to stop worrying about what he needed and wanted all the time and concentrate on my feelings. I had to do this slowly with little steps, as I felt comfortable to move forward. I learned to let him look at my body and feel safe.

We practiced lots of touching, talking and holding each other that was non-sexual. That was what I needed to build the intimacy in our relationship. I learned that intimacy is not just sexual, but involves the sharing of my whole self with another. This building of intimacy was a necessary thing for me in order to be able to fully trust him and to be more open in sexual intimacy.

I found that my husband really cared about what I wanted and needed. His love and caring was genuine, I just needed to believe it. When we were going to be sexual we had to talk about it beforehand, plan it, and anticipate it. We moved slowly at a pace I could be comfortable with. With each little risk I took, I became less and less fearful of being hurt. I learned that sex is a two-sided encounter, not just what he wanted but my wants also.

I had to learn to experience the thoughts of the abuse and my former abusive marriage and to not allow them to interfere with what was going on in the bedroom with my current husband. When those thoughts and feelings came, I needed to look around me and remember where I was and whom I was with. I gave myself permission to start over with my current husband, to learn a new and better way to be sexual, than what I had learned before.

If my husband had not been willing to be right there with me, I would have had to look carefully at the relationship like I did with my first husband to decide what was best for me. My marriage benefited so much; opening up the communication and my relationship and it gave me the best chance at a solid foundation of trust. There are only two people in our bedroom now, my spouse and me.

I found that to begin to heal my relationship with my husband, I had to start with me first. The most important thing I have learned is that as a survivor, I had to learn to know my feelings and myself. I had to accept myself and then begin to unravel all the false things I learned so that I could begin to heal.

It is hard work to get past all the ways I hid from myself and get rid the untruths I believed. Being honest with myself was the hardest of all because I spent years doing just the opposite. I found it is necessary to really have an identity apart from my abuse, it is there inside me and only persistence would help me find it.

Developing trust has been difficult but trust is mandatory for me in my relationships. I deserve to be happy, but it is up to me to choose happiness. Happiness comes from the inside of me and can come out when I feel safe, and can learn to trust. I have learned how to keep myself safe and to trust again. It is the most wonderful feeling in the world!

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Having experienced healing from sexual, physical and verbal abuse, Linda Pittman has found joy in encouraging others in their healing journey and tells people that it’s never too late to start. She’s been married to her husband for twenty-one years and has four adult children.  

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

by Libbe HaLevy

My abuse began when I was very young, pre-verbal. I repressed my earliest abuse in total amnesia, not even suspecting anything had happened. But from about age three, I became obsessed with words, language, meaning. Even before I knew how to put letters and words on paper, my imagination took situations around me and spun them into safe stories. My mind took me away from the home I was stuck in to “somewhere else,” and I lived more fully in this dissociative, imaginary world than in the physical world around me.

By four, I had a large vocabulary and made up elaborate stories about my dolls, stuffed animals and toys. I couldn’t wait to learn how to read and write, something my parents considered inappropriate before I turned six and entered first grade. Once I learned the rudiments of reading, I devoured books far beyond my grade level and began writing little stories for class.

When I was in about fifth grade, I secretly started writing for myself. I’d commit poetry, short stories, observations and thoughts to notebooks, then hide them behind the backs of radiators, under rugs, stuffed into drawers of desks that no one used. I sensed that it wasn’t safe to let my family know about the private comfort I found in what I was writing.

I’d been imagining myself for years as a character in westerns, usually a hermit or the adopted daughter of an Indian chief. This character always feared society, avoided it, and never seemed to have a birth family. The men in my stories were kind, sexless father- or brother-figures who saw and respected my secret pains. I never reached a happy ending, just moved from one set of western characters to another when I tired of a plot line.

At twelve, I took my favorite story parts and wrote a script for “Bonanza,” then a popular TV western featuring a father and his three sons. I actually showed this around to classmates and family members, proud of my work. But I didn’t understand why it upset my mother, or why she refused to help me get it to people who might buy it for TV. Ultimately, when the cast of the show changed, I didn’t know how to change my script to match their new needs, and so put it away.

As an adult, I worked professionally in the broadcast and film industries, as a freelance writer, and playwright. I was known for quirky works unafraid to look at the dark side of sexuality and human relations. An award-winning play and my first musical both featured female characters who had been sexually abused or were on the verge of it. Still in amnesia about the abuse, I simply considered it a strong plot device but felt no personal connection with the subject matter. I continued to write poetry for myself, some of it filled with powerful, dark imagery I didn’t understand, but which felt right.

I entered Recovery at thirty-four by attending 12-Step meetings that addressed sexual abuse. Suddenly, my writing became a lifeline. As I found myself triggered by the information shared at meetings, I raced home to write in the journal I’d started in my early twenties. I used this obsessive, daily writing to draw out the emotional toxins being released by my new memories and the healing process. I asked myself tough questions, puzzled through long free-associative answers, recorded life-changing breakthroughs in words, words, words. By virtue of my ability to touch type over a hundred words per minute, I could sit at my typewriter in the middle of a full-blown breakdown/breakthrough and narrate my pain with my fingers even as I sobbed and screamed. Words became the poultice that drew out and transformed my inchoate pain into solid statements of the truth I’d locked away as unacceptable to my psyche.

I did all the recommended Recovery writing exercises: letters to my younger self, future self, perpetrators, other family members – some of which I actually mailed; descriptions of my childhood homes; daily journal entries; gratitude lists; sub-dominant hand writing. I hammered out my Recovery like a blacksmith at an anvil, forging words with heat and sparks and rage and tears, tempering what I needed to say until it rang like a finely crafted sword. Words became my power, my strength, my allies, my friends. I saw the alphabet as sub-atomic particles capable of being organized into explosive devices that changed my world and had the potential to help others do the same.

And then I let those words out into the world. A play I wrote about incest and Recovery, SHATTERED SECRETS, ended up running 2-1/2 years in Santa Monica, California, and being published and produced internationally. Everywhere it appeared, survivors found and used it to empower their own healing. My articles on incest recovery were published in national magazines, survivor newsletters, duplicated for use in hundreds of Recovery meetings. I used my words to address the international media at a press conference that landed me on “60 Minutes” and debated the falseness of “false memory syndrome” on Los Angeles TV. Language, words, writing and delivery of that writing fired an activist response beyond my ability to predict.

With time, I was able to appreciate the true nature of my earlier writings and how they’d helped me survive the abuse I did not then remember:
• The “Bonanza” script featured a young girl who thought she’d murdered the old man she lived with after he came home drunk one night and started to attack her (no wonder my mother did her best to sink it!);
• A collection of my darkest poetry, which I’d labeled “You Should Be Afraid of This Book,” revealed itself as coded descriptions of abuse I was not, at the time of writing, strong enough to consciously remember;
• The incest themes of both a play and a musical revealed themselves as true representations of my relationship with my brother.
Through writing, I’d been relieving the pressure of repressed incest memories on my psyche before I even knew that pressure was there. Again, I state this and mean it: if I did not write, I would have died long before I found the ability to heal from my abuse.

I believe that for survivors of childhood sexual abuse, writing is not optional. Without words, we are trapped in the powerlessness of early childhood with no way out. It’s no accident that the true “incest taboo” is for the victims to talk — and write — about it. I consider writing a necessary healing tool, one that is free, readily available, and ultimately empowering not just in the moment but as a record of one’s personal journey. It need not have literary merit or even be in proper English; indeed, much of my most healing early work consisted of incoherent rage rants that deteriorated into scribbles and stab marks. The important thing is to use words, writing, scribbling, to get it out of you. Release the toxins through whatever language you can find. When words fail, scrawl, scribble, cry, scream (into a pillow, please!), and do what you need to in order to keep on getting what is in you out onto paper.

Then, when you are out of the heat of creation, find at least one safe person with whom to share what you have written. Read it to your therapist, a Recovery buddy, or find a safe writing workshop focused on survivors and our issues to read your truth in a community of others who will understand. I led workshops like that for years and watched the growing health, healing, strength and understanding of the brave women and men who dared to write and speak their truth.

The more truth put into words and released into the world, the greater the peace and power of each survivor. As each of us heals, we become part of a movement to break the cycle of abuse and pass healing on to others who still suffer. The true history of sexual abuse survivors and the impact on our world is just now starting to be written. We need all your stories to understand the truth of our own. I encourage you to have the courage to put your truth on paper/screen.

Whatever you decide to do, remember always: You are not alone, it was not your fault… and yes, it is possible to heal.

Related Posts:
Writing Is My Friend
Writing: My Power Tool for Rebuilding After Abuse
Paper is My Safest Friend

Libbe S. HaLevy, M.A., CAC is a Life Action Coach and an incest survivor with 25+ years of healing. She provides coaching for sexual abuse survivors, leads online writing workshops, and by late 2010 is launching the information/community-building site, Incest Survivor Healing.  She worked on the Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline, spoke about incest on “60 Minutes,” and her award-winning play SHATTERED SECRETS, about survivors in Recovery, ran 2-1/2 years in Los Angeles and was produced internationally. 

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by Nikki Stone

“I use to think that keeping up with my appearances mattered.  However, I have seen what age does to the body and quiet frankly I can’t run fast enough to keep up with such appearances.  So I have settled to frighten myself every morning when I get up to look in the mirror.  Of course it takes a half an hour to realize that the person starring back at me is myself.  Until then, I am thoroughly convinced it is a robber who does not have the sense enough to flee the scene and instead is spying on me, stolen my birthday suit and it appears they have really done some damage to it.” –NkstOne

“Being a child of a Navy veteran and preacher, I stayed in the state of confusion though I will admit it is familiar territory.  I have always been able to find my way around in such a state.  Actually I have never figured out if I am to be a saint or to be a hell raiser, at times these two clash.  The doctors call it bipolar; I call it an undeclared war.  My heritage is very colorful—from preachers to thieves, from peace keepers to warmongers.  I had no chance really because the Mason Dixon line runs right through my brain being that I have both Confederate and Yankee blood.  It is constantly an uncivilized civil war in which has been turned into a hippie movement with Lithium and Elavil.  Now it’s a fizzled out firecracker that sparks a few thoughts.” -NkstOne

I took life serious one time and that was the last time I made that mistake. Instead I take life in moments of reality; some days in small doses and some days in large doses. However, I will never again try to overdose on such—it doesn’t go to well with my mental health!

Hello, my name is Nikki Stone.  I am a Mental Health Advocate, Writer, Photographer, Artist, Domestic Engineer (a professional way of saying I am a housewife), Wife, Sister, Daughter, Friend, and ultimately a human being—at least that is what I have recently discovered.

I have Bipolar Disorder that I am in recovery with and I am also a survivor from sexual, mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical abuse.  I know the effects of abuse very deeply.  Three years ago I came to a total standstill in my life—actually I hit a huge brick wall and ended up having a nervous breakdown. 

I lived in so much fear, anger, denial, shame, and guilt that I could not see any point in living.  To be honest, I would not let anyone help me.  Many tried, but I was in such a thick web of pain and lies that I could not see the truth about me or about my life.  I believed that I was evil, worthless, a waste of space and time.  This belief was built upon years and years of lies I chose to believe about myself.  I believed these lies so much that when someone would tell me the truth I didn’t believe them.

Though going through the nervous breakdown was a very dark time in my life, in a way I am kind of thankful it happened.  I know that may sound weird, however, it has been through the process of facing my worst fears and surviving them that I am now beginning to be the “REAL ME”.

Until then, I was running on automatic. I was whatever people wanted me to be.  I was on a dead end road and I thought that death would solve my suffering.  However, I am glad that I made the choice to live.  I call my life now the gift of a second chance.  Now, I don’t have to be someone I am not just to be a person of value.  I am of value because I am a person.  It has been hard for me to realize this but there is so much truth to that.  I am on the road of healing, recovery, and ultimately living as a whole person and not a fragmented shell of a being.

The truth is, being a human means that we have our strengths but we also have our weaknesses.  I am not ashamed to be who I am, because no one else can be me thus no one else can tell me that I am doing it all wrong by being me.

When abuse occurs we are led to believe that we caused the abuse—that we are at fault.  And that is what many abusers want us to believe. The truth is the fault lies with the abuser.  What I have realized in my abuse that if it wasn’t me, then it would have been someone else, because the problem wasn’t me. The problem was within the abuser.  I can point this out because what I have realized in my own journey in healing is that I too became an abuser. Where the abusers left off in my life I picked up and began self-abusing and I became abusive towards others.  That is what happens when we do not see the truth—we become the very thing we despise. 

In my “warped” belief system I thought that in order for me to accept myself I had to have other people to accept me.  In truth I had that all backwards.  I have learned that I have to accept me “warts and all,” meaning accept myself 100% including but not limited to my weaknesses, my shortcomings, limitations, failures, and mistakes as well as my strengths, talents, abilities, and victories.  This is what makes me human and there is no shame in that.

I am not talking about being selfish or conceded or prideful.  I am talking about really truly learning to love the person I am and if I can love me “warts and all,” then I am able to truly love others.  Love begins within us before we can truly give it.  I had a light bulb moment a few weeks ago over this, that light bulb moment was I realized that I can’t give what I don’t have, so if I don’t love me for who I truly am then how can I honestly give what I don’t have?  At that point I realized “Wow, and the truth shall set you free!” Because I lived years and years believing that if I loved me that I was being prideful, that I was being selfish!  Now I know that is a lie and to be further honest to understand my motives I needed to quit listening to the world and listen to my own heart and compare it to the truth.

One of the vital tools that has helped me is to have a sense of humor.  Laughter is the best medicine!  Now I am finding many reasons to laugh and to find humor in everyday life. I still face difficult times and I still have struggles but they are not like they use to be.  In other words I am not consumed by them to the point that I shut down, instead I face them and when it seems that the issue at hand is too overwhelming I am not afraid to reach out to get help.  I realize I was not created to become “Wonder Woman.” I have not yet found my lasso or my golden arm bands thus I know I am really 100% human and not some fictional character from a comic book who was sent to rescue and save the whole world.  And to be honest “THANK GOD” because I can be me and not have to be a superficial person who has to be strong all the time.  And to be honest Popeye lied; spinach does not make us super strong.  I have found strength in being able to laugh again.  No matter how thick the clouds in my life may get, if I can come to a point where I can laugh then the burden isn’t so hard to carry. 

It is being able to find humor in life that has helped me to see the truth of many things.  It is okay to be who we are and to be able to laugh at ourselves, just as it is okay to cry and to lean on each other’s shoulders for support at times.  I tell people quite often “Don’t give up when it is the darkest hour of your life because usually that is when the sun will soon rise.”  Now I am proactive in my own life. I am learning to take responsibility for my life.  I am neither hopeless nor helpless.  It has been a long hard road to get to where I am at right now and even though it has been painful, it has been worth it.

Being able to see certain parts of my broken life becoming whole again has been amazing to me.  And the beauty of it all since I have had to make that huge U-turn in my life and face all the things I was running from, as well as speaking out about these things there have been others who now have found strength to do the same.  Yes, our life counts and we do affect each other one way or another.  I used to think that my life had no affect, however I have been proven wrong and I am thankful that I can now see the truth and not be a prisoner to the lies I once believed.

 Nikki Stone (aka NkstOne) is a mental health advocate in the state of Mississippi as well as a mental health consumer. She lives in North Mississippi with her husband and Cairn Terrier, Oz (who is her fur baby and therapy dog). She is involved with NAMI Mississippi and a trained Connections Facillitator, and “In Our Own Voice” Presenter (IOOV). If you’d like to read more of Nikki’s blogs, visit her site: This Human Life

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