Overcoming Sexual Abuse » anger

When An Abuser Dies

osa — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 12:55:27 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen & Bethany Ruck

Bethany: A few months ago, I got word from a family member that my paternal grandmother was found unconscious in the middle of the night and rushed to the hospital. She had suffered a brain hemorrhage and was on a ventilator as her heart rate began to slow. The doctors weren’t optimistic that anything could be done.

I didn’t know her well. I spent a summer visiting my father’s parents when I was ten but the rest of my relationship with them was quick phone calls throughout my childhood. As my grandma got older, she began to forget who I was, so our relationship dwindled in my teens.

Years ago, my dad told me that both of his parents had sexually abused him. When he was eight years old, they took him into their bedroom and taught him to have sex with his mother while my grandfather watched. What they did to him made me sick and angry with my grandparents.

My dad learned this sick addiction from them. The repercussions of their choices affected more than just their victim; it affected his victims as well. Because of them, my dad sexually abused me for the length of my childhood.

Every time I heard of one of my grandparent’s health scares, I hoped that they would die. I wanted them to finally rot in hell for what they did. When I first heard about Grandma being on her deathbed, I was thrilled that another child molester would be gone. I kept thinking, “Hahaha! One down. Just a few more to go!” Then she finally passed away and I was glad. I thought my mom would feel the same way.

Christina: In my twenty-one years of marriage to Bethany’s dad, I had a good relationship with his mother. The woman I knew was kind, gentle, generous, funny and hard-working. But I also knew another side to her. Early in our marriage, my ex-husband told me about the sexual abuse he endured for most of his childhood.

At the time, I thought of his abuse the same way I thought of my own sexual abuse by my father. I figured it was something that happened a long time ago and I tried to forget about it. With both my dad and mother-in-law, I reasoned that since they were nice people, they must be sorry. It seemed to make life easier to think about their better qualities instead of the horrible things that they did to their own children.

Over the years of my healing, I began to view abusers much differently. Healing required me to confront the truth. Before, I thought sexual abuse happened the same way hurtful words sometimes slip from my mouth. I never mean to cause any harm but when I do, I feel awful about it and take responsibility. But sexual abuse is never a “slip”. Through my new lens of truth, I saw that sexual abusers plan and scheme, seducing their victims to submit and to keep their secret. Not only do they blame their victims, but through their words and actions, they convince their victims to accept the blame. Child molesters are particularly interested in self-preservation and willingly sacrifice the child’s physical and emotional health to protect themselves. They are not “nice” people who simply do bad things.

If my mother-in-law was sorry for what she did, she never owned up to her abuse nor apologized for it. When she learned of Bethany’s abuse by her son, she never showed any concern for Bethany’s wellbeing. Even though she was abused herself, that didn’t change the fact that she destroyed her son’s life and nearly destroyed her granddaughter’s life. Being a victim of abuse doesn’t make someone a perpetrator, so her history is no excuse. Even though she had good qualities, they don’t cancel out the abuse.

I had an idea of what my reaction to her death would be. I thought I would see things rationally and logically with a little emotion (the “right” emotion) mixed in. In my mind, I would look on her death with a kind of satisfaction, knowing that she wouldn’t be hurting anyone else. I expected to feel relief that the Ruck Family had one less abuser in it. I thought I would feel detached from her death, as though she was a stranger.

Bethany was the one who told me Grandma Ruck had finally passed away. A wave of grief hit me in my chest. I was sad that her chance at life was over. I was glad that her suffering didn’t last long. She would be missed—not by me, but by her family—and I was sorry for them.

My grief was interrupted by the elation in Bethany’s voice and I wanted to get away from her celebratory mood. I understood her feelings, and acknowledged to myself how healthy they were, but I needed space to process my feelings.

Bethany: To me, this was a victory and I wanted everyone to celebrate with me, so I felt confused that my mom could feel sad about this horrible person dying.

Christina: I was confused by my reaction too. It certainly wasn’t what I expected. I was unsure if my compassion came from my old unhealthy belief system or if it was a result of my healing. Maybe I could feel compassion because abusers don’t feel like a threat to me anymore. Maybe working through all the fear and anger and pain allowed me to see more than just an abuser in my ex-mother-in-law.

My years of childhood abuse groomed me to identify more with abusers than I did with myself. I cared more about protecting them, taking care of them, guarding their feelings, much more than I did my own. Were my emotions an effect of my abuse? I was afraid that feeling bad for this dead woman was an indication that I was being sucked back into the abusive system that I’d worked so hard to escape. It felt like a betrayal of my daughter and of me and all victims.

Bethany: The next day I began to feel sadness—a sadness for the life that could have been. I couldn’t help but think that this sexual perpetrator was once a young, sweet, innocent girl, who was probably abused herself. I found myself asking, “Why did she have to choose that path? Why did she have to cause so much pain?”

Christina: My feelings alternated the next day too. I read on Facebook what other family members felt about her and it felt so unjust that they were praising her. I wanted to scream the horrible things she’d done and tell them what kind of a woman she really was. I hated that a person like her would be honored.

Bethany: My cousins’ responses to our grandma’s medical condition irked me, “Grandma was a wonderful person and I’m happy that she will be with Jesus soon. I pray she transitions peacefully.”

I was disgusted! I wanted them to realize that the grandma they knew as “wonderful” was actually a vile child molester. I was so angry that she would be remembered as a good person when her actions led to my childhood being ripped away from me.

Over the next week, I felt a flurry of emotions—sometimes alternating feelings came in little waves and other times they all came at once. It was confusing to feel both hatred and mercy for someone at the same time.

I had played out the scenario of her death in my head for years so I could process those emotions. What I imagined was both relief and indifference. My actual reactions involved a larger depth of emotion and that scared me.

The hardest part was feeling like I wasn’t supposed to have certain emotions. I shouldn’t be happy that someone died, but I shouldn’t feel compassion for an abuser. I wanted to be somewhere in the middle. Before I could get there, I had to feel both extreme emotions and not one way or the other.

Over the course of this emotional journey I began to recognize the emotional extremes as part of the process. Instead of being alarmed by how polarized my feelings were, I started to see them as indications of my process. There were many facets to my relationship with my grandmother, therefore, there would be a variety of emotions to go with them.

Christina: One of the ways I’ve grown in the past few years is in acknowledging and expressing my emotions. After so many years of being emotionally shut down because of my abuse, it was a luxury to feel even one emotion. Earlier in my healing, it never occurred to me that I could have two emotions at the same time, much less conflicting ones. As my feelings gradually blossomed, whenever I’d experience two seemingly opposing emotions, I’d go round and round, trying to sort them out so I could eliminate one and officially own only one of them.

Now I’m comfortable feeling a variety of emotions at the same time and I can accept them and express them without acting on them. The range of emotions didn’t bother me, but the softness I felt for a sexual predator did.

In my struggle to find the answers to this compassion question, I was forgetting that my healing isn’t about what happens outside of me. In typical abuse survival style, I was focusing too much attention on the abuser instead of on myself. Now I’m content knowing that even if I do have compassion for abusers, it’s how I feel about myself that is the most important. Even I if I discover some unhealthy motives for showing abusers compassion, I’m solid in compassion for myself and I’ll never act outside of that. I’ll never choose to protect an abuser over protecting me or anyone else. I’ll never think an abuser’s feelings are more important than mine. I may not be finished with this process, but I’m providing myself a safe place to work through it.

Now that you’ve heard our experiences and thoughts about this, we’d love to hear yours. Please comment below and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments so you can continue to partake in the discussion.

Christina Enevoldsen is cofounder of Overcoming Sexual Abuse, an online resource for male and female abuse survivors looking for practical answers and tools for healing. Christina’s passions are writing and speaking about her own journey of healing from abuse and inspiring people toward wholeness. She and her husband live in Los Angeles and share three children and four grandchildren.

Bethany Ruck is cofounder of Overcoming Sexual Abuse, an online resource for male and female abuse survivors looking for practical answers and tools for healing. Besides helping abuse survivors see the beauty within themselves, she enhances the beauty of others as a professional make-up artist and has worked in television, film and print.

Forgetting About Abuse: Who Does That Really Serve?

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 19:44:43 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to fulfill it.” George Santayana

Recently, I warned a close family friend that his children weren’t safe around my dad, who molested me for most of my childhood. The friend was silent for a moment. He’s known about my abuse for years; he doesn’t doubt the identity of my abuser. But he won’t agree to keep his children away from my dad. In fact, he responded by telling me I should move on from my anger and offense—that I should put the abuse in the past.

What did my healing have to do with my dad still being dangerous? If I forgot my abuse, would that make my dad safe around children? There is no relationship between how I’m handling the effects of my abuse and the condition of my abuser.

The friend sounded very concerned for my well-being. He believes that forgetting would neutralize my feelings so I’m not haunted by “bad memories”.

Repressing my memories did serve me when I was a child. There wasn’t any way to escape my childhood sexual abuse except to forget. But I continued to repress the memories of my abuse for years. The past followed me wherever I went and in whatever I did. There were ghosts of the abuse in every relationship I had. I couldn’t run from them fast enough. When the memories threatened me, I tried to escape through food, sex, entertainment and all kinds of destructive distractions. During my “forgetting years”, I was exposed to many, many abusers and I exposed my children to several abusers.

When I allowed the past to surface and faced it, it stopped haunting me. When I acknowledged my feelings and expressed them, they ceased to be painful reminders. Now, I can remember the abuse without feeling threatened. It was only when I remembered that I started to heal and began to protect myself more effectively. Forgetting didn’t serve me.

Is my family friend so concerned about me or is he more concerned about himself? Did he want to forget? If he acknowledged my abuse, is he afraid it would require a different course of action? Perhaps standing up to an abuser? Saying “no” to someone he is close to? Does my abuse remind him of unresolved pain from his past? Did he want me to forget because my memories are too similar to his own?

This man may be more comfortable forgetting what happened, but forgetting doesn’t serve him and it especially doesn’t serve his children. The only ones who are served by forgetting are the abusers.

This man may be more comfortable forgetting what happened, but forgetting doesn’t serve him and especially not his children. The only ones who are served by forgetting are the abusers.

Forgetting about the abuse sounds like such sage advice—such wise words. But they are a fairy tale. They are meant to protect us from facing the unpleasant and uncomfortable reality. Fantasies are for children who don’t have any choices, but adults, and especially parents, don’t have the luxury of remaining in the fantasy. It’s up to adults to face the ugly truths about abuse and about abusers.

Since my dad never acknowledged abusing me, never admitted he was wrong and still accuses me of lying, I believe he is still dangerous. Since he continues to verbally and emotionally abuse family members, I believe he still has the characteristics of a sexual abuser too. Since he defended and protected the man who admitted to sexually abusing my daughter, he still acts like a sexual predator.

Even if I hadn’t observed any of those things, a sexual abuser doesn’t deserve a second chance with children—any children. And more importantly, no child deserves to be the sexual predator’s second chance. Yet many people believe that the abuser is somehow entitled not to be treated any differently than a non-abuser. What about a child’s rights to be protected? Why are abuser’s rights more important?

Some say that if the abuser “gets help”, he or she should be granted another chance. Or if they’ve served their prison time, they should be spared further “punishment” of separation. Some claim that holding the past over his or her head is cruel. But what’s really cruel is to experiment on a child—to test the success of treatment or “rehabilitation” on a helpless, vulnerable child.

I didn’t always believe this way. Once, I was one of those people who thought that the past was the past. I didn’t want to judge; I didn’t want to be unfair. I saw the man I loved as the victim of unfair treatment. He had molested a girl, but he asked for forgiveness, so I thought I should treat him as though it never happened. In essence, I forgot. So I married that man and he sexually abused our daughter for years because I had “forgotten” about it.

I will NEVER forget again. In fact, I’m vigilant about remembering. It’s not to rehash the pain—but to protect myself and others from the continuation of pain. I won’t forget that I was abused. I won’t forget who the abusers are. I’ll do everything in my power to remember the things I’ve learned so the cycle of abuse stops. I won’t let myself be abused anymore and I won’t stay silent about other’s abuse. I will NOT forget!

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.

[read Christina's story here]

The Truth About Blame

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 16:52:00 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

Blame has a bad reputation. People say it’s useless and unproductive. It’s been accused of preventing people from moving forward. It’s been blamed for keeping people in victim mentality. I was one of those people who blamed blame. I spread rumors about blame, believing them to be true.

I quoted things like:

“If it’s never our fault, we can’t take responsibility for it. If we can’t take responsibility for it, we’ll always be its victim.” Richard Bach

“When you blame others, you give up your power to change.” Douglas Adams

On my healing journey from childhood sexual abuse—and all the other abuses that accompanied it—I’ve discovered many of the so-called keys to healing or moving forward actually prevented me from any progress. My childhood was already so filled with lies that I was desperate for the truth. Though the truth is very often painful, it’s also been the only thing that has healed me. Lies kept me imprisoned to the effects of abuse, but the truth sets me free.

I’ve learned to question everything, especially the “truths” that “everyone” knows and distributes so freely. I started to wonder, if they are so true and so many people know about them, then why is the world so messed up? So my truth test is to look at the fruit of those truths. What actions do those beliefs produce? Do they end in freedom or bondage? What do those “truths” really mean?

One of the “truths” about blame that I questioned was, “If I don’t accept the blame, I can’t change anything.” Does that mean that if I didn’t break something, I can’t fix it? If I didn’t make the mess, I can’t clean it up? (Any mother knows that’s certainly not true!) But I tried for years to apply that to my abuse. I accepted the blame under the false belief that I had to accept “my part” in it so I could move forward.

The truth is that I can place the blame on whoever perpetrated my abuse while still taking responsibility for picking up the pieces of my life. I can know it was my abusers’ fault and still have power to improve my condition. I don’t have to blame myself or take ownership of a problem to fix the problem. I wasn’t the problem, but I am the solution.

But my tendency to accept the blame instead of placing it on my abusers started in my childhood. I couldn’t believe that my parents were the problem. If I thought that, my world would have collapsed. If they were the problem, then they would never love me. On the other hand, if there was something wrong with me then I could work to fix it so there was hope that they would love me. But until then, I didn’t deserve their love anyway. I struggled to be perfect, but I failed. My parents didn’t fail me; I failed them. I was to blame for how they treated me.

Blaming myself gave me a sense of control I needed—that I was desperate for. I hadn’t figured out the key to not be treated so badly, but I would figure it out and stop being abused. I just had to try harder.

My own coping method of taking the blame was reinforced by my parent’s attitude toward me. After my dad abused me, he treated me as though I disgusted him and he was quick to escape my presence. My mom gave me the same message. When she acknowledged my presence at all, it was as though I was an inconvenience to her. I felt unworthy of attention and protection. I was inferior and I was the problem.

To accept that I was helpless, powerless, and that there was nothing I could have done felt like death. It was a matter of survival not to acknowledge that my caregivers were faulty and that they would never love me. I needed to accept the blame for their cruel treatment.

Since I believed I was inferior, I found many other abusers who confirmed my belief. I married an abuser and had abusive relationships with bosses, pastors and friends. Many people who saw my cycle of abusive relationships judged me for being a victim and “allowing” it. I “deserved” whatever I had coming to me. They were disgusted with me and I was disgusted with myself. People said the same thing in different ways:

“You can’t blame anyone else until you do something to change things.”
“You deserve what you tolerate.”
“You must have wanted it since you kept going back.”
“You were 50% to blame since you knew what he was like.”
“It’s not his fault since you did something to provoke him.”

I was told that since I was the common denominator in all my abuse—my childhood and later abuse—I was the problem. Supposedly, the remedy to that was to accept the blame so I could make the necessary changes to myself and my circumstances. I was supposed to stop being angry with others for their mistreatment since I was really the one at fault for allowing it.

The problem with that was that I got angrier with myself. I already thought I was a pathetic loser that didn’t deserve love and now I was lower than that. That didn’t motivate me to change the circumstances or myself. I felt incased, trapped in my powerless tomb. What good would it do to leave my abuser? If I deserved the abuse, why should I fight it? And since I wasn’t worthy of love, what was I leaving for? There wasn’t anything better. Taking the blame for my own abuse only kept me in the abusive cycle. It wasn’t the key that I was told it was.

Accepting blame is only helpful if I really am at fault. If I keep getting fired from every job because I’m on Facebook at work, blaming my boss won’t help me; blaming the company or my co-workers won’t help me. Blaming others in that situation will keep me in the cycle of employment problems until I recognize my responsibility and do something to change my behavior.

Accepting responsibility for things that are my fault can help me not to repeat the cycle, but accepting responsibility for things that are not my fault can also keep me in the cycle. The truth set me free. I needed to see who truly deserved the blame and when I did, I was free from the destructive cycle.

Before I understood the cycle of abuse—the build-up, the explosion, the honeymoon—I misunderstood the “provoking”. I thought it meant I was to blame for my abuse. In reality, I unconsciously knew the cycle and the build-up was agonizing. I knew it was coming, but WHEN??? I had to get it over with and get to the honeymoon part of the cycle, which is what I lived for.

I still believed I was the helpless child that I was during my original abuse, so the only choice I thought I had was when I’d be abused–not if. It took a lot of time to start to see where my thinking came from so I could see the true choices in front of me. But I’m not responsible for other’s actions. Believing that I am comes from misunderstanding boundaries and taking responsibilities that were never mine to take. It’s unhealthy to accept the blame for anyone else’s feelings or actions.

But why the need for blame at all? Blame is said to be a wasted and negative experience. Is it really necessary at all? This is another common sentiment about blame:

“We can sit for years and talk about blame and it gets us nowhere, except to become bitter, resentful, angry, vindictive people. It happened, it’s over and done with and there is no use in continually hashing it over because nothing will change the past. I resolved to change today and tomorrow and let the past go.”

There is some truth in this statement, “It happened, it’s over and done with and there is no use in continually hashing it over because nothing will change the past.” It’s true that placing the blame on the abusers doesn’t change the past. But just because it can’t change what happened doesn’t mean it does not serve a purpose.

When I finally placed the blame on the perpetrators of my abuse, I finally had permission to direct the anger toward them, where it should have been directed.

When I finally placed the blame on the perpetrators of my abuse, I finally had permission to direct the anger toward them, where it should have been directed. Before I did that, I was a very angry person and I focused my anger inward or in indiscriminate places. I never knew what would set me off. As long as I projected it in all the wrong places, I could never work through it; there was a never-ending supply. When I finally directed in the right places, I could work through it so there could be an end to it. Now, I’m not an angry person and when I get angry, I use it appropriately.

The truth about blame is that it’s helped me—but only when I used it through the lens of truth. As long as I thought it was a useless tool, I misdirected it. Sorting out the truth from the lies helped me to use it correctly so I could move forward in my healing process.

[read Christina's story here]

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.

Life-Saving Anger

Patty Hite — Sat, 09 Jul 2011 13:21:28 +0000

by Patty Hite

Sometimes I feel like I am an advocate for anger. I don’t want others to think that I am an angry old woman, full of bitterness and mad at the world. That is not who I am. But anger has been a life-saving force and I’m thankful for it.

I spent half of my life being passive. I wondered why there was so much abuse in the world, but I didn’t have the energy or strength to do anything about it. I was sexually abused at a very young age and the older I got, the more I was physically and emotionally abused. There were times when I fought for my life and for my honor, but those times were few and far between. I beat the crap out of some boys who tried to touch my body and called me a bitch because I fought them off. I chased one boy through the halls at my high school because he lied and said I performed oral sex on him. Once I caught up to him, he recanted and told everyone he lied. Yet, most of the time I cowered down and others abused me without a word or a fight.

By the time I married my abusive first husband, he played me like a puppet and I endured ten years of traumatizing abuse. From the very first smack and rape until I left him many years later, I never raised my voice except to beg for my life. Fighting back was not an option because I knew the punishment would be more than I could endure.

The first sign of anger was when my daughter told me that she was being sexually abused by him, and I plotted my escape. It was anger that motivated me. Since it was my mother’s house, he was forced to leave, but he broke in and stuck a knife to my throat and took my son out of my arms in the middle of the night.

I was devastated and felt like giving up, but anger rose up and I had enough strength to visit every lawyer in our small town and found one who gave me a discounted price to fight for full custody. My ex tormented me constantly with phone calls, threats and tried to run me off the road with his truck. I was afraid for my life and could feel myself wanting to give up the fight. It wasn’t until the day that my daughter came running in the house telling me that my ex tried to run her over in the front yard, that the rage I had been holding in finally took its place of honor.

The tire tracks covered the same place my daughter was playing. I saw him at the end of the road and heard him revving up his engine. I walked into the middle of the road and told myself, “Do or die, I will not live in this fear!” I stood there as he drove towards me. I refused to move and knew that I would rather die than to live like this. He steered away from me within inches of hitting me. It was over. I won. Anger gave me the strength, again.

He moved out of the state and I followed him for a year to try and get my son back. The only way I could track him was through the schools my son would attend. One year and four states later, my ex called and told me to pick up my son. Although I finally won, I know that it was anger that gave me the willpower to fight and to spend everyday, calling every school to track him down.

Years later, anger saved my five year old daughter from cancer. The doctors told me she would die. I remember the moment the doctor told me how severe her leukemia was and I felt a teardrop hit my folded hands. One tear. I was mentally back in my abusive relationship. Defeated and holding back my emotions. I wanted to die, I wanted to give up. When he was done telling me the bad news, he lifted up my face with his hands and told me that he would never give up. He would do everything he could to keep her alive. His words were like a hammer and chisel. If this man, who is a stranger, will fight then I can too. That night, I re-visited my abuse and the feelings of defeat. I got mad that cancer would dare try to kill my child. I found the strength to fight.

Anger gave me strength to keep family and friends away who were themselves defeated and told me to “Let her go.” Anger gave me strength to run a night-duty doctor out of her room because he told me in front of her that I was in denial and that she was going to die. Anger made me alert to guard what medication was being given to her after a nurse gave her a pill that caused my daughter to hemorrhage in her eye and caused her blindness. Anger gave me the tenacity to fight against the insurance company because they were going to let her die instead of paying for a transplant. I continued to fight through a bone marrow transplant and those ten years they say cancer can re-occur.

You bet I get angry. Anger is a force of energy for me. It keeps me alert and empowered to fight for myself and others. It’s like a shield that wards off those who try to put me down and it’s like a weapon when I need to conquer. It’s a part of me now and I know that I can call on it anytime I want it. It’s right there, just under the surface ready to be awakened when needed and to give me a helping hand.

[read Patty's story here]

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UNDERprotected

Bethany Ruck — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 18:56:48 +0000

by Bethany Ruck

I had to cover my eyes during kissing scenes in movies until my teens. I couldn’t ride my bike more than two blocks away. All of my friends had to be approved. My mom would check all of my essays to make sure they were perfect before I even turned in a rough draft. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was eighteen. I was overprotected in every area of my life except when it came to sexual abuse. I was left completely exposed to one of the most dangerous threats a child can face.

My mom told me she knew about my abuse. She discovered blood in my diaper when I was an infant. Knowing that he had molested another girl, she confronted my dad about it and he admitted to sexually abusing me. I was told that instead of going to the police, together they went to one of the people they esteemed the most, the senior pastor at our church. After one counseling session and a quick prayer, my dad was sent on his way like nothing had ever happened. The abuse continued until my teens.

I recently found out that a few other leaders at our church were asked to counsel with my father during that time, but nothing came of it. They were told by the senior pastor not to report it and they complied. When I found that out, I was flooded with emotions. I already knew that our senior pastor, his wife, and my mom knew about the abuse, but discovering that two more people knew, overwhelmed me. How many adults did it take to protect a little girl?

In the last few weeks I’ve experienced a variety of emotions. First, I felt abandoned. I didn’t understand how all of these people who supposedly loved me could do nothing while my abuser was free to keep hurting me. I began making excuses for them: My mom was abused herself and in denial that the abuse had continued. And even if it did, she felt powerless to do anything about it. The two leaders who were asked not to report it didn’t know the steps to take and were fearful of loosing their jobs. I didn’t feel that they deserved me being mad at them. They were good people who did a stupid thing. I wanted to just erase it from my memory and go on with my life. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I couldn’t suppress those feelings anymore.

How many adults did it take to protect a little girl?

I was watching Desperate Housewives this week. Eva Longoria’s character, Gabby, was visiting her hometown and the nun at her old school was still there. As a child, Gabby had disclosed her sexual abuse by her step-father, but the nun dismissed her by saying Gabby had an active imagination. She confronted the nun, “I did not deserve what happened to me. I was a child. But you were a grown up and you did nothing. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Tears streamed down my face as I watched Gabby’s empowering moment. I finally identified with the emotion of anger towards those who didn’t come to my defense. I was under-protected and had feelings about it that were completely justified.

I wanted to scream in the faces of those who didn’t protect me, telling them, “What is your problem? Don’t you know that I was just a baby? I couldn’t defend myself, but you could have and you chose to do nothing! Isn’t allowing bad to happen the same as perpetrating it? The abuse could have stopped then, but instead I suffered for most of my childhood. Every day of my life was filled with pain. Why did you let me go through that? I didn’t get a childhood because you were cowards! My father stole my innocence and you let him do it!”

Anger was this big, scary emotion to me. I had always seen examples of anger that turned violent and I didn’t want to become that person. I didn’t want to act on the passion that I had, and I didn’t have to. I was angry that they betrayed me and it was okay. I had no plans of rubbing their noses’ in their wrongs. I wasn’t trying to hurt them back. I just wanted to express my feelings about it for the first time. Now, I’m now facing the pain that this brought. I was wronged by more than just my abuser, and have a right to the emotions that correspond with that.

I began this process by reasoning away my emotions before I even acknowledged them or expressed them. That kept me stuck. I had to feel those things and then I could sort it out. To reverse the order is to invalidate my feelings and my experience.

Although I’m not completely out of this stage, being angry at them is not a forever thing. And facing the truth about how I feel gets me one step closer to where I want to be: WHOLE.

[read Bethany's story here]

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.

What About Forgiveness?

Christina Enevoldsen — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 16:54:09 +0000

Christina Enevoldsen

by Christina Enevoldsen

I started talking about my childhood sexual abuse when I was in my early twenties. I only told a few people that it was my father who abused me, but there was a common response: “Have you forgiven him?” I was from in a religious environment where forgiveness was mandatory. I was afraid not to forgive. The abuse kept me living in fear— I was afraid of many, many things, but at the top of the list was the fear of abandonment. If I didn’t forgive, I would be disapproved of and rejected by my Christian friends, and more importantly, by God. Unless I wanted to spend eternity cast from God’s presence, I had to forgive. Unforgiveness was, after all, far worse than anything that was done to me. To refuse to forgive made me worse than my abuser. Or so I was taught.

I also thought forgiveness was synonymous with, “Pretend like it never happened.” In my definition of forgiveness, my dad didn’t have to suffer any consequences, I was supposed to stop talking about the abuse or if I talked about it, I couldn’t mention my dad. That would be ‘uncovering’ him and that would be bad. Forgiveness also meant that I shouldn’t feel any negative emotions toward my dad and that our relationship would carry on as it had.

Even without the religious pressure, I wasn’t interested in breaking off my relationship with my father. I didn’t consider it as a possibility. I was just as afraid of being abandoned by him as I was by everyone else.

Through the guise of forgiveness, I stuffed my feelings and stuck a nice big smile on my face. I was supposed to put the past behind me when I forgave, so I denied my feelings. Forgiveness was supposed to be the path to healing, so I acted healed. I buried my anger somewhere deep, somewhere I hoped I would never find it.

The anger didn’t disappear. It was buried, but it was buried alive. It scratched and clawed and cried out. Its voice demanded attention, so I gave it expression through abusive acts toward myself. I continued my own abuse through all kinds of destructive behavior including dangerous sexual activity, self-harm and abusive relationships.

Eventually, I wasn’t only hurting myself, but others. I thought the anger would shield me from the type of things I suffered as a kid. It was the illusion of being in control and more powerful. When I vented my anger, I felt bigger than I was. I secretly smiled inside when I recognized that people, especially some men, were intimidated by me. If I inspired fear, maybe they wouldn’t see how afraid I was. But it didn’t protect me. I kept getting hurt in the same way again and again.

I wasn’t happy. Anger was a mask I wore, but it wasn’t the real me. I wanted to feel real and let myself be the gentle, nurturing person I knew I really was.

To finally get rid of the anger that was pushing me, I had to take it out and deal with it. I had to face its source and look at all the pain associated with it. I had to recognize that the true target of my anger was my parents, not me. By then, I realized I was just as angry with my mother for protecting my dad, maybe even more so.

Also by then, my parents escalated in their abusive treatment. I refused to continue the sick patterns and, after setting boundaries they refused to honor, I cut off all contact with them.

I had a new definition of forgiveness which didn’t include reconciliation, but in my heart, forgiveness represented a threat. Someone suggested that I forgive my parents and I reacted as though that person was locking me in a cage with a hairy beast with long claws, razor teeth and yellow eyes. In my mind, forgiveness would disarm me and leave me vulnerable to more abuse. I couldn’t be pressured into forgiveness or anything else related to a type of performance or measuring up. My forgiveness facade was blown and I didn’t care. I had to continue to sort out my feelings instead of covering them up.

I continued to write and talk about my anger, fear and pain. One day, after months and months of processing, I woke up and actually wanted to forgive my mom and dad. I was shocked. The day before, I hadn’t felt anywhere near being able to forgive. Suddenly, I was prepared to drop of the baggage of offense.

Once I made that decision, I felt lighter, freer. I wouldn’t have believed how much of a difference it made.

Forgiveness didn’t mean the end of my pain. Actually, once I forgave them, I felt the most intense pain of my journey so far. Forgiveness opened my heart to compassion and understanding of them (not excuses for their behavior) and a view of them in a more balanced way. In my anger and hatred, I only saw them as evil people without any redeeming qualities. Since nobody is all good or all bad, that was one of the lies I used to try to protect myself. Once I admitted to myself that my parents actually do have good qualities, I started missing them terribly. I really wanted my mommy! This is a journey of finding the truth, so even though the truth brought pain, I welcomed it since it also brings healing.

I’ve worked through that pain now and I know the forgiveness brought me more strength. I don’t feel tied to the abuse like I used to. I always had the knowledge that I was stronger than the abuse, but the forgiveness process left me actually feeling stronger than it.

I still don’t have a relationship with my parents and I don’t ever intend to. Even over the relational and physical distance, they continue their abuse. Occasionally, more things from the past come to light and I’m continually challenged to sort out my feelings in that regard. My forgiveness has been a layered process. I don’t consider my parents much at all anymore, either with pain or longing. In many ways, they are a distant memory and are becoming more so over time as I continue to face my past. I’ll never forget what they did or failed to do, but there isn’t pain attached to the memories that I’ve worked through.

I don’t have gushy feelings toward them, but I also don’t have the desire for revenge. I divorced myself from the resentment and offense and I let go of my need to control their fate or determine what they ‘deserve’. That’s what I think forgiveness really is.

I don’t think those people who tried to sell me forgiveness were trying to hurt me. I’m sure they were only trying to help and were speaking from their own fears. They may not have intended harm, but it was harmful. Forgiveness is a personal issue and one of the most sensitive in dealing with abuse. Forgiving my parents was one product of my healing, not the means to it.

[read Christina's story here]

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How To Help Others Without Hurting Yourself

osa — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 00:18:53 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen & Patty Hite

Do you give more time to other’s healing than you give to your own? Are you so tired from reaching out to fellow survivors that you don’t take care of yourself? Join Christina Enevoldsen and Patty Hite for this ten minute audio discussion as they share “How To Help Others Without Hurting Yourself.”

Patty Hite is one of five facilitators of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to find true love with her husband of five years. She’s blessed with four children and five grandchildren.

Christina Enevoldsen is cofounder of Overcoming Sexual Abuse, an online resource for male and female abuse survivors looking for practical answers and tools for healing. Christina’s passions are writing and speaking about her own journey of healing from abuse and inspiring people toward wholeness. She and her husband live in Los Angeles and share three children and four grandchildren.

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Power Trip: How to Journey From Overpowered to Empowered

Christina Enevoldsen — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 22:02:12 +0000

Christina Enevoldsen

by Christina Enevoldsen

When I was a kid, The Wizard of OZ aired on television once a year. I didn’t know any families who didn’t anticipate this event. My family never missed it. We’d eat dinner early, make popcorn and enthusiastically settle in.

The Wizard of Oz is an enchanting story of a twelve-year-old Kansas farm girl, Dorothy Gale and her dog Toto. They are transported to the magical Land of Oz, where she sets out for the Emerald City to ask the Wizard of Oz to help her return home. On the way, she meets a Scarecrow, a Tin Man and a Cowardly Lion, who join her, hoping to receive what they lack themselves.

When the Wizard is unable to give any of them what they search for, they discover that everything they were looking for was already inside them. In the end, Glinda, The Good Witch of the North, tells Dorothy, “You don’t need to be helped any longer; you’ve always had the power….”

I’ve had my own Oz experience. Like Dorothy, I had a “Meek and Mild” image of myself that led me to seek out “The Great and Powerful” to make up for what I thought I lacked. I didn’t know the power I had and set out to find others who would share theirs with me—many of whom turned out to be abusers. My childhood sexual abuse taught me that I was at other’s mercy and that I was powerless to do anything to help myself. Dorothy’s Wizard claimed to be able to grant wishes, but first she had to appease him by very nearly giving up her life. I didn’t have to bring any wizard a witch’s broomstick, but I had to submit to degradation, humiliation, and control. In the end, my abusers couldn’t offer me what I was looking for anymore than Dorothy’s Wizard could.

Click Your Heels Together Three Times

I never had a witch tell me I had the power I needed all along, but I’ve realized a little at a time over many years that I really am capable of improving my own life in big and small ways.

Some time ago, I made plans with my friend to see a movie. She planned to pick me up at 3pm, but phoned at 1:30pm to say she was an hour ahead of schedule and that she’d pick me up in 30 minutes. She thought it would be fun to go shopping first. When she called I was just making something to eat and her schedule change meant I wouldn’t have time to eat before she arrived. I had something planned right after my outing with her, so lunch was my last chance to eat until the end of the day.

After we hung up I got really angry. I’ve learned to pay attention to my feelings–when they start and where they come from– and I realized that I was angry because I felt powerless. I felt like I didn’t have a choice. In my mind, my friend was keeping me from eating. I challenged that thought. Did I have a choice? I realized I wasn’t being forced to follow her plan so I examined my options. I could eat first while she waited for me or I could just cancel if she didn’t want to wait. Once I realized that I had options, my anger went away. I was empowered.

I learned to listen to my thoughts and be alert to whiney expressions. As a childhood victim, I was at everyone else’s mercy and my only power was complaining. One day I was about to whine to my husband that he never spent any time with me, but I stopped myself. That sounded like an accusation, not the invitation that I intended. I was blaming him and placing all the responsibility for our relationship on him, as though I was powerless. In the past, whining didn’t accomplish anything other than drawing us further apart, which was the opposite effect I wanted. This time, as an empowered person, I said to my husband, “We haven’t spent any time together lately and I miss you. Are you free for dinner on Thursday?” I took responsibility for my feelings and my relationship and I had a date.

On another occasion, I remembered something I wrote in the eighth grade:
“I was passing by a bakery one Sunday afternoon,
The little cookies smiled with tempt but I couldn’t smile back
I was dieting to lose some weight and couldn’t give in now
I was almost to the corner when they caught me looking back
I had to eat their chocolate eyeballs out for torturing me like that.”

It struck me that I even felt pushed around by food. I personified it and made it more powerful than me. As long as I did, it ruled over me. Realizing how ridiculous my beliefs really were has broken its spell over me.

Pay No Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain

Though Dorothy imagined herself powerless, she found that she had power all along while the Great Oz portrayed himself as powerful, yet was an unsure, frightened man. That’s the way abusers are. The image they portray is just as much a facade as the terrifying image of a gigantic head, surrounded by flames and thunder. They hide behind the curtain of intimidation and manipulation, hoping we will yield the power they lack.

Knowing I’m empowered to take care of myself, to improve my life, and to be responsible has freed me of my need to be taken care of by others—especially those who are likely to exploit my neediness and cause me harm. My thinking no longer draws me to depend on abusers. I don’t feel locked into a certain position; I know I’m free to grow and develop to change my direction. I don’t feel imposed upon by other’s decisions; I speak my mind and express my needs. I’m no longer driven by circumstances; I’m an active participant in shaping my life. I’m on a power trip and I won’t be returning.

[read Christina's story here]

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Power Play: How To Recognize An Abuser

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 22:04:45 +0000

Christina Enevoldsen

by Christina Enevoldsen

It was the first time in weeks since my husband and I had been on a date. Don held my hand and I rested my head on his chest while we waited in line for the planetarium show at Griffith Observatory.

The young couple a few feet in front of us caught my attention. The woman appeared to be about seven months pregnant and was struggling to reach the price sticker that her companion stuck on her upper back. The man with her seemed to delight in placing the sticker just out of her reach. Abuser. I immediately saw the scene play out in my head and cringed. They were both laughing, though she was noticeably frustrated. When the sticker fell off, he flicked her hair. She tried to smooth it out. He poked her in the stomach. She poked him back but he seized her arm and forced her to hit herself. When he let go, she grabbed his arms, but he easily broke free and gripped her wrists tightly enough to leave red marks. She gave up and he won.

It was easy to recognize the true motive behind the seemingly playful exchange. It was the same ‘game’ my ex-husband played. I’ve lived with abusers for most of my life and though I wouldn’t have called them abusers at the time, I’ve come to easily recognize the quest for power in everything they do.

My former spouse placed a high value on good food. Part of his image of a good wife meant being an excellent cook. I’m a good cook, though I didn’t know it when we were married. He convinced me I wasn’t very good. He pressured me into cooking, but he was constantly dissatisfied with what I made or how I made it. Sometimes, instead of eating what I made, he’d make something else. Other times, he’d take over the cooking as a ‘favor’ to me. He won no matter what. If I cooked, I lost because it wasn’t good enough. If he stepped in, I lost because I wasn’t a good wife.

That gave him power. I felt like a bad wife so whatever he did to me, I deserved it. In my eyes, he was tolerant of my inferior quality so I was lucky to have him.

I was terrorized by the way he handled our finances. I craved financial stability, but when I asked about our bills or bank account, he talked in circles. I felt stupid. He made major financial decisions without consulting me, yet dictated how I earned and spent money. When I refused to work for him, he shut down his lucrative business in retaliation. I was defeated and deflated, but blamed myself.

Being in a relationship with an abuser was extremely frustrating. It was like trying to figure out the rules to the game, but the rules kept changing. I knew our marriage had problems, but I thought I was the problem. No matter how hard I tried, it never helped. I always felt like the loser.

In a healthy relationship, there is equality and mutual respect. Both people work for the benefit of each other. There’s a desire for communication, cooperation, participation, understanding, support and validation. When problems arise, they are solved together. Compromises are made. In a healthy relationship, nobody loses because neither party thinks in terms of winning or losing; it’s not a competition.

But you can’t have a healthy relationship with an abuser. Abusers must dominate. Everyone is either a superior or a subordinate; there are no equals. Abusers have no sense of personal power so they gain power by controlling others. Their personal worth is achieved by one-upmanship. If you try to assert your own power with an abuser, he will escalate until he wins.

The game you play with an abuser is really war. He may make light of things, “I was only joking,” or “You’re being too sensitive” but each move you make to explain yourself or question him is seen as an act of hostile aggression. The abuser thinks in terms of defending his territory. Attempts you make to understand the situation is a challenge to his power. He rarely shares his thoughts, feelings or plans and you don’t get the clarification you ask for because in the abuser’s eyes, that would make him vulnerable.

I know this about abusers now. Although my ex-husband was the most damaging abuser in my adulthood, he wasn’t the only one. I’ve had abusive friends, bosses, coworkers, teachers, and pastors. Abusers come in all packages, male and female, large and small. I’ve found them everywhere I go and they all seek power. But they won’t steal mine anymore.

[read Christina's story here]

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