Overcoming Sexual Abuse » Christina Enevoldsen

The Lie of “Letting It Go”

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 16:59:33 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

My lifetime of abuse gave me the feeling of being the constant target of a nameless, faceless bully. Unable to conceal my terror or prevent whimpers from escaping, every sign of protest fed his lust for more suffering. He was never satisfied; the more he saw the pain he inflicted, the greater his appetite for more.

My only hope for relief seemed to be in pretending I didn’t notice. I desperately wanted to be the person who could say, “Is that all you got? You hit like a girl.” I couldn’t have conceived of chasing off my attacker or in defending myself. The only thing I could imagine was coping better by developing tougher skin.

It’s not a mystery to me where I learned to cope. While I was growing up being sexually and emotionally abused by my parents, I had no voice, no impact. There was no escape from the bullies in my own home and it was unthinkable for my child self to say, “Mom and Dad, the way you treat me really hurts me and I deserve to be valued and respected. If you don’t change, I’m moving out on my own.” I was at their mercy. The way they treated me was what I was stuck with.

My survival strategy was to try to avoid more abuse. Nobody had to tell me to overlook the ways my parents hurt me. Of course I had to “let it go.” It was survival to discount myself and focus on pleasing them so they might love me.

As an adult, those lessons of abuse were so engrained that I was still convinced that I didn’t have any other options. When I didn’t overlook insulting or degrading treatment, I was punished. Even weak objections were met with accusations:

“You blew it way out of proportion.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
“There you go again, putting words into my mouth.”
“You’re always thinking the worst.”
“Why do you have to be such a victim?”
“You’re always overreacting. Just let it go!”

The verbal assaults increased when my former husband and I visited my parents. All of them would join together in discounting my objections to abuse. It was better to trivialize insults than to be ambushed. I didn’t seem to have any other option than to let it go.

In a healthy relationship, vulnerability is wonderful. It leads to increased intimacy and closer bonds. When a healthy person realizes that he or she hurt you, they feel remorse and they make amends. It’s safe to be honest.

In an abusive system, vulnerability is dangerous. It’s considered a weakness and showing “weakness” is an invitation for more mistreatment. Abusive people feel a surge of power when they discover a weakness. They exploit it, using it to gain more power. Crying or complaining confirms that they’ve poked you in the right spot.

I’ve been physically, sexually, spiritually, financially, and emotionally abused and the most pain I’ve experienced is from the emotional abuse. The message of my dad’s sexual abuse communicated to me that I wasn’t good for anything except sex, but my mother’s emotional abandonment—treating me like I was invisible—told me that I wasn’t good for anything. With her, I had absolutely no impact. I couldn’t do anything, good or bad, to gain her attention or win her affection. It was like I didn’t exist. I don’t know any pain worse than that.

I coped with the pain of having no impact by trying to tell my abusers that THEY had no impact. If I ignored their hurtful behavior, maybe they’d wonder if they had any effect on me, which gave me a false sense of power instead of having any real power.

I convinced myself I was the “bigger person” for letting it go. The truth is, I didn’t overlook cruelty or rudeness out of a sense of personal empowerment, but out of my belief that I was small and insignificant. My experience taught me to avoid feeling even less significant by keeping my mouth shut.

“Letting it go” sounded like a shield against the mistreatment, but that was no protection at all. Ignoring the problem didn’t make it go away and pretending like it was no big deal didn’t render it benign. I wasn’t letting anything go. It was all being compacted deep inside of me. While I was telling myself it was all rolling right off my back, it was infecting me, making me feel smaller and smaller.

The only way I’ve taken my life back from my abusers and from the effects of abuse is to embrace the truth. The truth is that the abuse did hurt me. The truth is that in standing up for myself, I don’t have power to change my abusers, but I still have options other than enduring the abuse.

This past year, I’ve stood up for myself in big and small ways. One of the most significant ways I’ve objected to abuse is when I confronted my dad for sexually abusing me. I knew there wasn’t much chance of any change of heart or action on his part, but just speaking up was liberating. I’ve never felt so empowered in my life. I didn’t feel any smaller when he refused to apologize or admit his crime. It wasn’t about his response or lack of response. Standing up for myself was an expression of what I already knew about myself—I matter. I knew that no matter what he did or said, it didn’t define me or inform me of my value.

That’s the truth I know today that I didn’t know when I was a child. The way I’m treated doesn’t actually define me. I’m valuable whether or not others recognize that. Knowing that truth empowers me. Now, I’m free to act independently of other people’s actions. I can afford to acknowledge the impact others have on me since I’m the one with the biggest impact in my own life.

Speaking of having an impact, one of my favorite things to get in my inbox is “Notification of Donation Received”. It’s not just that it’s such a big help in continuing this work, but it says to us, “I’m with you, I love you and I’m glad you’re here.” It’s a huge emotional boost, no matter the size of the gift! I want to let you know that no matter how you contribute to OSA, either as a donor, as a commenter, or as someone who shares our website with others, you are very much appreciated. We’re with you, we love you and we’re glad you’re here!

Now that you’ve heard my experience and thoughts about this, I’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. If you would like to protect your privacy, you don’t have to use your real name. Email addresses are never made public.

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 five grandchildren.

[read Christina's story here]

Dysfunctional Family Holiday Survival Tips

osa — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 14:32:51 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen with Bethany Ruck

When I remember holidays with my family, I think of stress. The image that comes to mind is everyone else laughing and having a great time, while I was miserable. I don’t remember many holidays as a child, but as an adult, holidays used to be times of emotional abuse from my parents, mostly my dad, and from my ex-husband.

While we were married, the usual pattern for my ex was to work up my emotions right before we arrived at my parent’s house. He’d feign a misunderstanding or falsely accuse me of something or criticize me–whatever would upset me. By the time we arrived, I’d be on the verge of tears or I’d be angry. Then my parents would correct my bad attitude and all three of them would join against me for ruining the special day. My daughter, Bethany, and I were both the targets of comments about our weight or other parts of our appearance and whatever other “weakness” my dad could find.

In our healing from abuse, Bethany and I have learned a few things about getting through this stressful time of year. Now we know that we deserve to have a nice drama free holiday. We haven’t had a relationship with most of our family members in a few years and we celebrate the holiday differently each year–but each year, we make decisions based on what’s good for us rather than what tradition dictates or what is “expected” of us.

Being a child in a dysfunctional family taught me that I’m responsible for others and that caring for myself is wrong. I had a tendency to take care of other people’s feelings and to neglect my own. When I focus on them, I lose clarity about me.

I used to think people earned certain rights to me if they were “nice”. If they gave me gifts or said kind things to me, I believed that gave them access to me and that I couldn’t say no. But I’ve learned that nobody has the right to buy me or rent me through “loving” things they do. Love that comes with obligation isn’t really love.

I don’t have to label my family as abusive to justify not spending the holiday with them or to set boundaries with them. I’ve been in many relationships–with family and otherwise–where I didn’t feel comfortable walking away until I could prove they’d done something wrong. Now I know that I don’t have to be with anyone I don’t want to be with. I have permission to decide how to spend my time and who I spend it with. I don’t have to label them as bad to separate from them and being separate doesn’t make me bad.

Bethany and I have taken years to feel comfortable saying no without the need to offer an explanation or excuse. We’ve gotten better at saying “yes” to ourselves a little at a time. Now we are confident that we are adults and don’t need permission from anyone to chose what’s best for ourselves.

If you do chose to attend your family’s gathering, here are some tips we’ve found helpful:

1. Empower yourself by acknowledging the choices that you have and by deciding on your boundaries beforehand.

“I’ll join them, but I’m only going to stay for two hours.”
“If they start talking about embarrassing things I’ve done, I’m going to leave.”
“I’ll go but if they start getting drunk I’m leaving.”

2. Take an ally with you.

If your family treats you like a child, it’s easy to fall back into that role. Taking a friend can ground you to the present day and remind you that you’re an adult with choices. That may help you resist falling back into patterns of the past. Having an ally may help you feel more confident to walk away from poor treatment or to stand up to it.

Also, some family members may not be as likely to be abusive or disrespectful if you have someone with you who cares about you. They may not want a “witness” or anyone who would confirm how devaluing their treatment is.

3. Have an escape plan.

Make sure you have your own transportation and can leave anytime.
Only ride with someone who is willing to leave with you at any time or else have the number to a taxi service.

4. Know what coping methods to use and what not to use.

If you need to stay away from the adult drama, play with the children or keep busy by helping in the kitchen. Drinking won’t help you to stay empowered and may make you more vulnerable. Stay present so you can monitor the situation and your feelings and take action if necessary. If you feel the need to drink, let that be an indication that you are feeling stress about something and do what you need to do to take care of yourself.

5. Plan another place to go in case you do need to leave.

Have a backup plan that’s nurturing. If you go home, have food prepared. Have a choice of comforting or empowering things to do–like watching movies or something else that you enjoy doing. Finish a project if you feel up to it or call a friend. If you’d prefer to be with a friend, let your friend know ahead of time that you may show up at his or her house and that you may not want to talk or you may need to talk things out.

I haven’t been around my family in years, but when I spoke to my father a few months ago, it stirred up a lot of emotions. First, I felt exhilarated for standing up to him. I was so proud of myself and I was on a high for a few days. Then, I reached a new level of truth and grief came with it. I realized in a deeper way that my dad would never love me or be the father that I wanted.

The encounter with my dad was on my terms and it was helpful to my healing, but it still left me exhausted. During that time, I took special care of myself. I reached out to supportive people and was more gentle with myself than usual. I ate healthy food and got a lot of rest. I never know what feelings will come up when I have contact with my “family”. Sometimes, I don’t feel much of anything and sometimes hearing from one of them stirs up a plethora of emotions. Often, I have a delayed reaction. Whatever my response, I’m careful to give myself the love that I never got from them.

Bethany and I no longer feel victimized by the people who supposedly love us and we choose to spend the holidays in ways that empower us. We wish the same thing for you this year. Whether or not you have a supportive family, we hope you know you’re not alone this holiday season. Your Overcoming Sexual Abuse family is always here for you. Happy Holidays!

In the spirit of the holidays, would you consider helping us meet our expenses? We need to cover our budget by the end of the year and we need your help. No matter the size of your tax-deductable donation, we very much appreciate it. The donate button is on the top right of this page and it’s fast and easy to use. Thank you!

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 participate in the ongoing discussion. If you would like to protect your privacy, you don’t have to use your real name. Email addresses are never made public.

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 hair stylist and works in television, film and print.

Confronting My Abuser

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 07 Oct 2012 17:20:08 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

I didn’t actually plan to confront my dad. I didn’t think it would do me any good.

This is what I wrote a few years ago:

“My dad has displayed his selfishness for as long as I’ve known him. I’m not under some delusion that he’ll suddenly develop a conscience and confess how he hurt me. He covered up his abuse when it happened without regard for how that would hurt me and he’s still doing that now. Holding out hope for some kind of healthy, compassionate response from him would keep me under his control and I’ve spent too many years there. I’ve moved on without involving him. He’s the one who would have destroyed me; he’s not the one to repair me.”

Before my recent phone discussion with my dad, I hadn’t talked with him in four years. I’ve been healing just fine without him and since my dad and mom walked away from me before specific memories of the sexual abuse surfaced, I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to stand up to him anyway.

I’ve confronted my mother a few times over the recent years, which is the only communication I’ve had with her in that time. I’ve objected to her lies that I’m living in a fantasy world and I’ve stood up to her assertions that I needed to forgive and stop dwelling in the old, dead history. On the several occasions that I’ve confronted my mother, my dad was silent.

In the early stages of my healing, I wrote a very angry letter to him, but I didn’t feel the need to send it. I didn’t write it for him, I wrote it to articulate to myself just how I felt and to validate my anger and pain so I didn’t need him for that.

For me, confrontation, even in the form of a letter gave him too much power. Even if it didn’t obligate me to hear any kind of a response, I didn’t want to imply that I wanted to open a discussion. Now that I look back on it, I really just didn’t want to open the door to hope that he would somehow soften toward me and I didn’t want to face that pain of rejection if he didn’t respond or if he responded with more painful words.

My dad heard about what I was writing and saying about him but he never bothered to contact me. Instead, he defended himself to my son, “I can’t believe she would say something like that. I love her. I would never do anything to hurt her.” My dad can really stir up trouble, but he can be a real smooth-talker too. When I heard his response through my son a few years ago, even though I had clear memories of the abuse and had been living with the effects all my life, I still questioned my sanity because of his almost convincing words. The truth is, I wanted to believe that my dad loved me. It scared me that he could still influence me that way.

A few months ago, I heard through my son that my dad’s health wasn’t very good and that he wanted to talk to me. I’ll be honest. As much as I’ve sorted through all of this, when I heard that my dad wanted to talk with me, I was very emotional.

As sick and perverted as he was toward me, my dad was not only my sexual abuser—he was the closest thing to love that I had. My mom was cold but my dad was very emotionally and physically affectionate. To my mother, I was invisible, yet with my dad, he sought me out. My dad pursued me for his own gratification, but as an emotionally starved child, I couldn’t afford to be picky. My dad took me places and treated me “special”. We picked out our family dog together, he drove me to Girl Scout Camp (those poor girls), he threw me in the air when I was convinced I could fly like Mary Poppins. My dad was involved.

Yes, my dad caused me enormous pain, but he was also the only person I felt any amount of connection with while I was growing up. Though the comfort I got from him was mixed with fear and the “love” from him carried the price of sexual compliance, that was as close to love as I ever had.

When I got the message that my dad wanted to talk with me, I hated that I wanted to talk with him. I judged myself for still having a soft spot for him and I was afraid that all my boundaries would crumble and I’d sacrifice my wellbeing for his, just as I had for most of my life.

I also hated that I had hope. I wanted to believe that I didn’t have hope of him finally coming to his senses and loving me, but I did. I had to admit to myself that I wanted his love, though I also had healed enough to know I no longer needed it.

In the midst of sorting out those feelings, I heard myself think, “Parents aren’t important.” That stopped me. That’s not true—parents are very important, and not just in childhood. I’d lied to myself as a shield from the pain, but I was ready to face another layer of that. My life would have been better if I’d had loving parents, but the way they are, my life is better off without them. I want parents, but I don’t need them now.

For a few days, I grieved the loss that the new truth brought. It was both painful and empowering. It felt good that I was cleansing myself of another lie and I was proud of myself for acknowledging the truth

Afterward, I still wanted to talk to him, but I felt differently about it. I didn’t feel the same longing, just a calm. I decided that I could afford to talk with him. I didn’t know the reason he wanted to talk with me, but I wasn’t afraid of the outcome. No matter what he’d say, I’d stand up for myself. It was okay to have hope because I could afford a disappointment. I wasn’t depending on him for a good outcome since I’m fine without him.

The phone call

Almost as soon as my dad answered the phone, he told me that he loved me. I was silent. He repeated it, “I love you more than you’ll ever know. You know that don’t you?”

Those words might have stung if I’d heard them a year or two ago. It was one of the things I wished for the most. But that day, they were just empty words.

I told him, “What I do know is that you and mom have both chosen abusers over me and hurt me very much. I’ve felt affection from you, but the way I define love is to do what’s best for the person I love. If I hurt them, I try to make amends instead of causing more pain. Both of you caused me more pain. Mom accused me of being a liar and you hurt me with your silence.

“Four years ago, I told mom that I wanted to stop brushing things under the rug and to stop pretending like things are okay. I wanted a better relationship because you’re important to me.

“It stirred up a lot of feelings when I heard you wanted to talk to me. I felt like a vulnerable little girl who wanted to be able to trust in your love. In the years since our separation, I wished for either of you to call me. I wanted you to say that we could talk about whatever we need to talk about to resolve this.

“When I heard that you wanted to talk to me, I thought it could be one of two things. That you wanted to have peace by finally admitting the truth or that you wanted to talk about pleasant memories and good times we’ve had so you could say goodbye. But in that case, I have the rest of my life to live knowing that all of our relationship was just about taking care of you. You get peace either way and I’m willing to give you that, but I want the same thing I wanted four years ago. I want to talk things out.”

Without skipping a beat, my dad responded, “You don’t know how much we love you. We’re not hateful and we want to get things so we have a loving family. I said to your mother wouldn’t it be fantastic if our daughter would come up and knock on our door? We prayed that we would have a life together again. You don’t know how much we love you and we’ll always love you. I’d give anything to hold you and kiss you one more time and your mom feels the same way.”

Wow, the only response to my request was that he loved me, but that wasn’t good enough anymore. He wanted me to be the one to come to them, without either of them taking any responsibility for the disaster our relationship was. Yes, he wanted reconciliation, but he wanted things to go back to the way they were. Same old story!

I told him, “I love my kids so much and there are things I’ve done in the past I’ve done to wound them. I’m willing to hear their anger and pain and to validate their feelings and their experiences. I don’t try to gloss over it by saying, ‘I know but I’ll always love you.’ I sit with them in their pain. I don’t try to protect myself from it. That’s how I define love. That ‘s what I wanted from you and Mom. I wanted to talk honestly about things and not just cover it up with, ‘I love you’. If you really want to communicate love to me, say that you’re ready to talk about my pain.”

He replied, “Uh huh, I guess from the standpoint of my approving of the way you presented this, that’s really difficult for me. Because I never once said the things you said I was doing. Your mom and I have wondered why you would put us in this position to say I’ve done these terrible things and I would never do those things. I can honestly tell you that I would never do those things because you’re my daughter and I love you.”

I was prepared for his denial. I asked, “Are you saying I’m making up the sexual abuse or that I imagined it? That’s one of the worst things you could say to me. That’s not love.

“You said that you prayed that I’d show up at your door but the ball is in your court. If you want that to happen, it’s up to you. You walked away from me. The way our relationship used to be made you happy, but it didn’t make me happy and that’s not healthy. I told mom that I wanted honesty and openness and that’s what I still want. There’s a lot about the past that I could forgive, but neither of you asked for forgiveness. If you want a relationship based on the honestly that I asked for, I’d be interested in that. The only way we can go forward is if we deal with the past.”

I also confronted my dad about betraying my daughter when he defended my ex-husband’s sexual abuse and tried to bribe her to keep quiet. He made excuses and I confronted him about his excuses.

He ended by reminding me that he loved me.

Confrontations aren’t usually so mellow. Our conversation was punctuated with memories of happier moments and we even laughed a time or two.

The only hint of any hostility from him was when he denied sexually abusing me. He used the excuse that he didn’t approve of me bringing it up in public, but he had a kind tone in nearly the entire time we talked.

In the past, that’s been the most difficult time for me to speak up for myself. It’s much easier to maintain my boundaries when people are mean. When I started getting good at standing up for myself, I could stand toe to toe with someone who was overtly opposing my wellbeing, but responding in a healthy way to the sweet talkers has been a weakness. Until now. As “nice” as he sounded, he didn’t lull me into falling for his lies.

I felt so empowered to be both gentle and strong. I was firm in speaking the truth and didn’t feel bad if the truth happened to hurt him. I also didn’t lose sight of my needs even in the midst of my dad repeatedly discounting and ignoring them. Every time I told my dad what I wanted, he changed the subject, but I kept going back to what I wanted. Afterwards, I felt so free that I could tell him how I felt and what I wanted, yet not feel like that made me vulnerable. In the end, my dad’s actions told me that my needs still aren’t important to him and I was okay with that. MY needs are important to me and they are no less valid just because he refused them.

I was willing to talk to him one more time to say goodbye. He didn’t deserve it, but I gave him peace. All my life, I’d put his and everyone else’s needs above mine and I knew I wasn’t doing that this time. I didn’t compromise myself in reaching out to him. This time, I not only didn’t lose anything in giving, I had some major breakthroughs.

I thought that nothing would likely be gained by confronting my sexual abuser, but I’ve changed my opinion a little now. It wasn’t what my dad could give to me in the encounter, it was what I gave to myself.

Please make it easier for us to continue to stand up to abuse and to spread the hope of healing by making a donation today. Overcoming Sexual Abuse is a 501c3 non-profit, but more than that, we’re abuse survivors trying to make the world a better place. Please join with us!

[read Christina's story here]

Perpetuating the Abusive Cycle

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 23 Sep 2012 18:48:03 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

When I discovered that my husband was sexually abusing my daughter, I went to what I thought was the highest authority—our pastor. In our church, if something wasn’t Christian, it wasn’t to be trusted. Secular authorities like the police were inferior because they didn’t know God or his will.

When my husband and I met with our pastor, he prayed with my husband and told me that I could prevent my husband from molesting our daughter by being a supportive wife, trusting him, building up his self-esteem, submitting to his will, and to submitting to sex whenever he wanted it.

In my mind, this man was speaking for God so I didn’t question his instructions. I’d been indoctrinated in the abusive system since before I could talk, so it sounded right to me.

In the abusive system, the abuser is the victim and the victim is the abuser. When the abuser does something destructive, it’s really the victim’s fault for not doing things right. It’s the victim’s responsibility to keep the peace and to keep the abuser happy so that nobody gets hurt. The abuser has no responsibility.

If a boy was yelled at, it was because he wouldn’t listen.
If a girl was raped, it was because she was too sexy.
If a wife was beaten, it was because she was a bad cook.

I accepted this “truth” that the abuser is the victim because it helped me cope in the abusive system. As a helpless child being sexually abused by my dad, I survived by convincing myself that I could do something to stop it. I couldn’t face the truth that I was completely at my father’s mercy and whatever he wanted to do, he could. I couldn’t admit my complete lack of power, so I invented it. I told myself that I was powerful, so powerful that I controlled my dad. I was too pretty or I was being bad and that’s the only reason my dad stuck his penis in my mouth. I wasn’t a victim, my dad was. I just needed to figure out how to stop being too pretty or being bad and I could stop the abuse.

In the abusive religious system I was in, I survived the same way. Appease, placate, keep my head down, don’t question anything, follow the rules.

I made plenty of other disciples of this same sick system, passing on the coping methods that I used. I taught classes on how wives should submit to their husbands in the same dysfunctional way that I lived. Submission was supposed to “win your husband to Christ”, so it became an approved form of manipulation. You could make your husband be a better person if you were good enough. In my mind, I was saving women and their families from abuse since I believed that good behavior was the best way to be protected.

Of course, placating abusers is no protection at all and only perpetuates the cycle. I discovered later that my husband continued to abuse our daughter for another eleven years. The pastor’s instructions to me only gave my husband more power and left my daughter in a more vulnerable place.

The only thing that stops abuse is standing up to abusers. To stop being a victim, I had to admit that I had been a victim. I had to recognize how powerless I was as a child under the hand of my father—that there wasn’t anything I could have done to stop him. I had to see that it was a lie that I could control an abuser by my good behavior.

Only by identifying with my powerlessness then, could I take back my power now. Now that I stand up to abusers instead of trying to make them happy, for the first time in my life, I’m not being abused.

A note for clarification: This is my EX-pastor and my EX-husband. My ex-husband is serving a 15 year sentence for sexually abusing our daughter. The man I’m married to now, Don Enevoldsen, is not an abuser and works with me in this stand against abuse.

[read Christina's story here]

It’s Not About You, Mom

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 16:11:35 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

Yesterday was my 46th birthday. Birthdays prompt me to reflect on my life—where I’ve come from and where I am now. Some of those thoughts included the woman who gave birth to me. My mother walked out of my life a few years ago and adamantly denies that my father sexually abused me, but it appears she was thinking of me too since she left a comment on my blog post, My Story by Christina Enevoldsen:

“Christina has dreamed up her sexual abuse–accusing her father of horrible, evil behaviors that far, far from his character. Christina is using these accusations as a way of hurting her parents and getting the attention she craves. So sad that she is willing to create a fantasy world where she is the hero / victim. Will she ever come to her senses and ask for forgiveness? That is the first step to real healing…“

Though it wasn’t the typical warm, fuzzy sentiments that other mothers might send, and she most certainly didn’t intend to help me in any way, this turned out to be a key to my favorite gift this year—a gift that came from me.

This is my response:

To Mom,
It hasn’t been easy to heal from all the damage you caused me. All my life, you walked away from me and I chased after you. I thought if I was good enough, you’d finally love me. When I asked for a more authentic relationship, you insisted that I was the one with the problem. Your rejection told me I wasn’t worth the effort. That was my fear all my life—that if I stopped performing for you, you’d abandon me. I was afraid of being confronted with the truth I already knew in my heart—that you didn’t really love me and never would.

I was hurt and angry about the ways you betrayed me, not only in my childhood, but throughout our relationship. When I finally acknowledged to myself the ways that you failed me, I wanted you to feel the same pain I felt. Mostly, it wasn’t to actually cause you to suffer, but so you would understand. I thought if you only knew what I felt, you’d have compassion for me and maybe even love me.

When you accused me of dreaming up these things about Dad because I wanted to hurt you, I realized how much I’m over you. I don’t feel pain over your abandonment anymore and I don’t have any need for you to understand. I don’t want an apology and I don’t care if you believe me.

If you came to your senses and suddenly saw the truth and admitted your gross error, I’d get no satisfaction from it. I hope, for your sake, that you do deal with your issues, but not so I can benefit from your healing.

All the things I needed from you, I learned to give to myself. Mostly, when I think of you, I feel nothing. There is only one thing that I can think of that still angers me, but not because of how it affects me, but how it continues to harm others. You present yourself as an elegant woman of God, but you are rotten inside. You deceive all those people at church by the masks you wear. I’m saddened by how you use the adoration of those people to exploit them, the same way you did to me.

I used to wish we could have an honest conversation, apart from the religious rhetoric that you like to spew. To do that, you’d first have to be honest with yourself and I don’t think you’d consider letting yourself see or hear the truth. I’ve accepted that we’ll never be mother and daughter again.

So you’re wrong that I want to hurt you and Dad. I don’t feel any pleasure in hearing about the difficulties you and Dad are dealing with now. But if the truth causes you pain, that’s not my problem. If you wanted me to say better things about you, you should have been better parents. Neither of us can change the past, though you’d rather ignore it.

I stayed silent for so many years out of a desire to protect both of you. I refuse to stay in the same dysfunctional role that I played most of my life. As your child, it was your job to protect me, not the other way around. I’m finished protecting you.

In truth, I don’t write about the harm you and Dad did to expose you. I’m not motivated by you at all, though I understand that since our entire relationship was all about you, you’d think it’s still that way. It’s not about you, Mom. My healing would have no relevance or context without including how broken I was and since you did the breaking, you’re a part of my story.

In one of your last emails to me, you insisted that you’re my mother (and I presume that you were demanding that I give you the honor that goes with that title). I may refer to you as my mother when I’m talking to others, but only for clarity. As I refer to you by that title now, it’s only for my convenience.

A title signifies a function or description. Does “Mother” describe what you’ve been to me? I don’t think so. I’ll tell you when I’ll honor you as my mother. I’ll do that when you act honorably. You’ll never be my mother as long as you cling to your lies—not just the ones about dad’s innocence—but about the pain from your own childhood. You didn’t marry such a horribly cruel abuser by accident. Dad wasn’t the first abuser in your life that you covered for. I suspect you’re covering for your own childhood abusers to cover your own pain. But that’s for you to deal with. Hey, I know a good website that deals with that kind of thing if you’re ever interested.

Christina

With each passing year, I look more and more like my parents and I used to HATE that. Every time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of their rejection and I felt ashamed of the people I came from and fearful of ending up like them.

This year, I’m amazed by how comfortable I’ve become with myself. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see my parents. I see both the innocent little girl that I was and I see the incredible woman I have become. Instead of feeling shame for the family I had, I feel very proud that I am nothing like them.

People say life is a gift, but the life I have now is the one I worked and fought for. The “life” my parents gave me left me hollow and empty. The life I celebrate on my birthday and every day is the life I gave to myself. It’s been a very good birthday.

Speaking of gifts, Overcoming Sexual Abuse is funded by the generosity of our friends and by the survivor community. At this time, we need help in covering our expenses. If you believe in the hope and help we offer or have benefited from OSA, would you consider making a donation? Gifts are tax-deductible in the U.S. and are very much appreciated. To make a donation, look for the donate button on the top right side of the page.

[read Christina's story here]

The Truth About My Abuser’s Threats

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 08 Jul 2012 07:25:51 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

When I was ten, I wet my pants in school. We were taking a very long test and our instructions were to remain silent at our seats. No talking, no asking questions, no moving around. Since that ruled out raising my hand to ask to go to the bathroom, and I wasn’t even allowed to wiggle in my seat, I only saw one choice.

As a child, I went to great lengths to avoid getting in trouble. Following the rules felt like a life and death matter. I didn’t need any type of punishment; it was punishment enough for anyone in authority to be displeased with me. The worst thing I could imagine was being labeled a bad kid.

That fear followed me all my life and it crept up when I started talking about my childhood sexual abuse. The first time I told my story publicly, I heard a little girl’s voice within me say, “You’re going to get in trouble now.” For a moment, fear gripped me and I was at the mercy of my parents again, subject to their judgment and the abandonment that went with it.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that I’m not that vulnerable child anymore and I continued to talk openly about the things my dad did to me and the things he let other men do to me. After a couple of years of sharing my story publicly, I didn’t know how much that old fear of getting in trouble still haunted me. I hadn’t had contact with my parents during that time, though I’d heard from a few people that they didn’t like what I was saying.

Then I got a certified letter from my mother:

Jan. 31, 2011

Christina-
I am writing to inform you that your malicious slander of your father has not gone unnoticed. You have built an entire world out of your fantasy. In dreaming up your sexual abuse you have maligned your father’s character and deeply hurt his heart and mine. Your lies shall surely catch up with you.

I want you to know that if you have any plans of writing a book, we will sue you and anyone who has anything to do with it. Your defamation of your father’s character will stop. You will not enjoy one penny from any book published about this gross lie.

And I should let you know that we filed some of your inflammatory statements about your father and me, along with your threat against me, with the Mesa Police Dept.

And I will always be your mother whether you recognize me or not as such.
Your mother-
Mary Schamer

When I got this, there were two voices in my head. I heard my adult voice, who had healed enough to see the truth behind the threats, but I also heard the voice of the little girl inside of me who was still vulnerable to abuse and rejection. I had to dissect this letter to face my fears and to recognize the lies behind them.

“I’m writing to inform you…”

The way my mom phrased that statement was so impersonal, as if to emphasize her distance from me. My mom distanced herself from me all my life and this was a painful reminder of that. Though it didn’t appear to be a threat, it served as a threat to my child-self. Even though they’d already walked away from me a few years before, it was a reminder of the original abandonment of childhood that said, “You’re not good enough to be around, so get in line or we won’t love you anymore. You’ll be all alone in the world and nobody will ever love you.”

The fear of abandonment forced me to comply as a child, but I’m not forced to comply anymore. The key people in my life did reject me for telling the truth, but I’m not alone. Even if the consequence for telling the truth is rejection from everyone I know, that’s not the same death threat that it was when I was a child. I’m a self-sufficient adult and abandonment no longer means the end of my life.

Actually, separation from my abusers has brought me a much more affirming life. I haven’t had a relationship with my parents in years so I know I can live very easily and happily without them, but it was good to remind my child-self of that.

“I’m writing to inform you that your malicious slander of your father has not gone unnoticed.”

The little girl inside of me panicked. “Oh no! They don’t like what I’m doing and they caught me telling”. I’d learned from my family that it was acceptable for them to violate my innocence, but it was unforgivable for me to talk about the violation. But I don’t live by those incest family values anymore. I didn’t do anything wrong by talking about the things my dad did to me.

“Malicious slander” sounded so evil. It was that same fear of being labeled “bad”. That’s a huge part of my need to follow the rules. Being treated like trash gave me the message I was trash so I tried to perfect my way out of the shame. Even though I’d dealt with the majority of that, I still needed to assure myself that I’m not the bad one here. I carried my dad’s shame for what he did to me long enough. I wasn’t the one who had done anything wrong—he was.

“You have built an entire world out of your fantasy.”

When I first started talking about my abuse, it felt like I was lying. I didn’t feel connected to what I knew. It all felt distant and surreal, like a dream. Added to that, I didn’t have any emotions about it for a long time. It was as though it happened to someone else. I didn’t think it was possible to experience such horrible things and not feel anything about it, so on some level, it seemed like I was making it up. Eventually, the emotions came and I KNEW those things didn’t just happen, they happened to ME.

Even though I couldn’t be shaken from the truth anymore, my mother’s claim that I was making this up was crushing. I’d felt invisible to my mother my whole life and now she was tossing me aside with the same dismissive attitude. “Your abuse didn’t exist and neither do you.”

In my mind, I was a small child standing before my mother, pleading for her protection and comfort. Not being believed or acknowledged was life threatening then, but I acknowledge my own life through my healing and I don’t need her to believe me now. Coming face to face with this pain showed me what validation I needed to give to myself.

“In dreaming up your sexual abuse you have maligned your father’s character and deeply hurt his heart and mine.”

In their twisted world, they are the victims and I am their abuser. This kind of manipulative guilt trip used to work on me. I was trained to take care of their feelings in the hope that if they were fulfilled, they’d finally take care of me. I waited for the “validation” for most of my life that my needs were important too, but it never came from them. Their manipulations stopped working when I realized my value and stopped needing their permission to put myself first.

“Your lies shall surely catch up with you.”

I heard this as, “It’s not only your dad and me who will act in opposition to you, but powers bigger than us will ‘get you’ and you’ll be sorry you ever crossed us.” That struck such a nerve and I realized that I’d always been afraid of that. I had a vague fear that God or some cosmic force would punish me for talking about my abuse. Sometimes while I was driving, I was sure another driver would be an instrument in the universe’s hand to pronounce judgment on me. I was afraid I’d discover some gruesome disease overtaking my body. I was always on guard, never knowing which direction retribution would come from.

I’d pushed that fear aside and dismissed it as silly, but reading my mother’s words showed me just how much power that lie still had over me. As a child, my parents were gods to me. They were all powerful and they held my life in their hands. The child within me still saw them as gods and to cross them was to cross the Maker of the universe. When I confronted that lie, the illusion shattered. Not only are my mother and father not God or gods, they don’t represent God or his interests. When I stand against my parents, I’m really standing against injustice, abuse and lies. They do not represent anything to do with God and they do not have any power to pronounce judgment on me.

“I want you to know that if you have any plans of writing a book, we will sue you and anyone who has anything to do with it. Your defamation of your father’s character will stop. You will not enjoy one penny from any book published about this gross lie.”

I thought it was interesting that the threat to sue me was only if I wrote a book. The audience that I’ve reached through my story has reached tens of thousands already. Yes, I plan to write a book, in fact, several books, but why not sue me now? If they truly had a case against me, there is plenty of “evidence” of my “slander” and they don’t need to wait for me to write a book.

“And I should let you know that we filed some of your inflammatory statements about your father and me, along with your threat against me, with the Mesa Police Dept.”

When I first read that, I was a little girl again, terrified of getting in trouble. It was one thing to be sent to my room and another thing to be sent to jail. But what had I done wrong? I’ve done nothing illegal or wrong. My dad is the criminal, not me. I’m doing something right in telling my story. I’m standing for the truth and making it easier for other abuse survivors to tell their story. As more of us speak out, maybe more abusers will think twice about hurting other children. Maybe more parents will be diligent. Maybe more survivors will heal. I’m helping to make the world a safer place by talking about how dangerous my childhood was. If telling the truth was illegal, I’d still tell the truth.

Though my mom claimed she and my dad reported me to the police, I don’t know if that’s really true. There’s one thing I have to keep reminding myself: abusers lie. They will say anything to preserve themselves, which to them means maintaining their position of power.

One of the biggest things that stands out to me about this letter is that it’s written by my mother. In fact, this is one of three letters I’ve received from my mother since our “divorce”. In the years that I’ve spoken publicly about my abuse, my father has never contacted me directly. He’s never made any effort to clear up any “misunderstanding” or to ask me why I’d “lie” about him. Though my mother is claiming to speak for both of them, my father has been silent. He’s told plenty of other people that I’m lying, but he’s never faced me. I can only conclude that he doesn’t want to face me because he knows that I’ll never be manipulated into silence again. His feigned protests to other people and through other people are an attempt to manipulate them, not me.

This threatening letter was a turning point in my recovery process. A few days after receiving it, I realized that I hadn’t really been standing up for myself enough and decided to report my dad to the police. Seeing how much my parents discounted me stirred something in me. I saw how much I’d been discounting what my dad did to me.

I’m more motivated than ever to stand up for the truth. Even if my mother and father do sue me, the burden of proof is on them and I’d actually love to have my day in court. I doubt they want to give me any more opportunities or other platforms to expose them, but if they pursue legal actions, I’d welcome the chance to tell a judge and jury what my dad did to me.

My mom did everything she could to appear as powerful as possible. That’s as much as she had and it was nothing. She meant to intimidate me into silence as though I was still that little girl that she could manipulate and control. She did her worst but she can’t shut me up.

[read Christina's story here]

I Blamed Myself For My Abuse Since I Didn’t Tell

Christina Enevoldsen — Thu, 24 May 2012 09:10:01 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

When my daughter was nineteen and her father and I were in the middle of a divorce, she shared the horrible truth about what her dad had been doing to her for most of her life. As I tried to wrap my head around the fact that I had been completely blind all those years, a few words slipped from my mouth, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I know now how painful those words can be. They communicate that all would have been well if only she would have come to me. That question might have also meant, “If that’s really true, then why are you only telling me now?” But I never doubted the truth and I didn’t blame her. My reaction came from feeling like a fool for being deceived by my husband all those years.

Bethany didn’t want to feel responsible for the breakup of her family, so she held onto the secret until I left her father for other reasons. It was apparent to me that my daughter’s silence stemmed from an effort to survive the best she could, but I didn’t see things that clearly when it came to my own abuse.

For a long time after I started talking about my abuse, I felt guilty for not speaking up sooner. It didn’t seem as though it could have been so hard to tell someone that my dad was hurting me. I thought I must have either been a very stupid or weak child or that I must not have wanted the abuse to stop.

I didn’t believe I really had a right to complain about my abuse since I hadn’t complained about it while it was going on. If I hated it so much, why didn’t I say something then?

As an adult, I wanted to scream at my child-self, “JUST TELL!!!” I was blaming the little girl I had been for all my pain. I thought if she would have just pushed a little harder, she could have saved us both.

There was one time I remember specifically that I had a chance to disclose my abuse. I was ten years old and a psychologist from the school district pulled me out of class after observing students for a few days. I knew she had singled me out because there was something wrong with me. I already felt like I had some kind of sign on me that told everyone that I was bad and disgusting.

The woman asked me why I seemed sad and I struggled for an answer. I didn’t relate my sadness to what my dad was doing to me. I didn’t even consider that those things weren’t normal. I tried to come up with the “right” answer, so I told her I didn’t have any friends. That wasn’t really true, but I did feel very alone.

The woman seemed disappointed and annoyed with me. I didn’t know what she wanted or expected, but I wasn’t doing something right. She worked with me and taught me social skills for a few months and then I was on my own again.

I felt like the whole world was against me, so reaching out for help didn’t seem like a possibility. I felt like I deserved bad things. I didn’t have hope for my life being any less painful so I focused on not making it any more painful.

Even though I judged myself for not figuring out how I could be saved, I can see now that I was very smart in some ways. During those years of incest and other abuses, I adapted by developing my intuition. I learned to read people very well so I could prepare myself for what was coming. I could anticipate what they would do and sometimes avoid more harm. Without knowing how I knew, I knew certain people weren’t safe.

Looking back, nothing about that psychologist told me that I could trust her. She seemed to view me as a project rather than a person. I had the feeling she was more interested in her own success than in truly helping me. I couldn’t trust this stranger, but why couldn’t I trust my mom? Why didn’t I tell her?

When I was in my early forties, I stood before a group of people and named my father as my abuser. It felt good to let go of the secret, but when I went to bed that night, I felt horrible guilt for “betraying” my dad. I heard a little girl’s voice tell me that I was going to get in trouble. I knew that was a voice from the past and assured myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong, but deep down, I believed I deserved to be punished for telling.

I didn’t know what the “punishment” might be until I got a letter from my mom. For years, she’d accepted that I’d been sexually abused, but when I uncovered my father as my primary abuser, she accused me of lying:

Christina-
I am writing to inform you that your malicious slander of your father has not gone unnoticed. You have built an entire world out of your fantasy. In dreaming up your sexual abuse you have maligned your father’s character and deeply hurt his heart and mine. Your lies shall surely catch up with you.

I want you to know that if you have any plans of writing a book, we will sue you and anyone who has anything to do with it. Your defamation of your father’s character will stop. You will not enjoy one penny from any book published about this gross lie.

And I should let you know that we filed some of your inflammatory statements about your father and me, along with your threat against me, with the Mesa Police Dept.

And I will always be your mother whether you recognize me or not as such.
Your mother-
Mary Schamer

The violence of her words devastated me. The denial of my sexual abuse felt like a denial of my life and existence. She insisted that I remember that she’s my mother. Those words stung. I realized that I didn’t have a mother—not just now that I’d told my secret, but that I’d never had a mom who loved and supported me.

I felt invisible to her my whole life. I’d constantly tried to be good enough, to work hard enough, to live according to her rules. I was too busy trying to earn my mother’s love to notice that there was no love to earn. She hadn’t suddenly changed into a mean person. She hadn’t recently turned her back on me. She was treating me the way she always had.

That showed me another perspective. The closest thing to love I had as a little girl was from my dad. Even if I had to trade my body for a little attention and affection, my dad was the only source of anything that resembled love. Even though I didn’t like what he was doing to me, I felt more security from him than I did from my mom. Telling wasn’t an option when I was being abused since the punishment for breaking my silence was that I would be completely abandoned by both of my parents.

Examining the past has shown me the truth about myself and about my abuse. I know in my head and in my heart that I’m not to blame for what happened to me or for the abuse continuing. I’m content knowing that I listened to my intuition and even if I couldn’t stop the abuse, I was successful in surviving it.

Blaming myself was another method to survive. It was an attempt to take control of a situation where I had no control. Instead of admitting that I was a helpless child, I envisioned myself having power. I tried to change the past through self-blame, but as long as I did that, I remained a victim to the past. When I finally acknowledged that I didn’t have power or choices when I was a child, I was released from guilt and blame so I could be empowered now. I can’t change the past, but I’m very capable of healing from it.

[read Christina's story here]

Why I Talk About My Childhood Abuse Over and Over

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 13 May 2012 06:43:00 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

When I used to talk about my childhood sexual abuse, I heard familiar accusations: “You just want attention” or “Nobody likes a crybaby.” As I poured out the same story again and again to my friends, I felt guilty for wasting their time.

I believed that there was a rule that I was allowed to share a bad experience with one or two people at the most and then I had to stop talking about it or I was “just being a victim”. Yet I was compelled to keep talking about it even with the internal accusations and the guilt that it caused.

I was warned that “dwelling” on things doesn’t serve any purpose—that it would just make me feel worse. But I was already depressed and it wasn’t from talking about my abuse. I was depressed because my trauma and the feelings that went with it were locked up inside of me. As I started to see some benefit from talking about my abuse, I started to question the limited talking “rule”.

Where did I get the idea that attention is bad or selfish? When I wanted someone to hear me, why did the voice in my head say, “You think you’re so important, but you’re not”.

One of my earliest memories is of myself as a two year old. I don’t remember what I needed or if it was a physical or emotional need, but when I found my parents, they were with my baby brother. They acted annoyed that I had needs too. Their reaction communicated that I was expecting too much, that I was selfish, that having needs was something to be ashamed of.

Throughout my childhood, that message was reinforced in so many ways. I was emotionally abandoned if I cried or expressed “negative” feelings. My parents ignored my crying, so I coughed instead. My dad would come to my crib and mock my fake cough, but he wouldn’t acknowledge my needs or tend to them. His mocking told me that my needs weren’t important and added the additional message that I was a liar who exaggerated my needs.

I learned that I wasn’t tolerable unless I was happy so I learned to shut up about my needs and my pain. Acting like everything was okay was the only way to avoid more pain from rejection.

As an adult, whenever I talked about the past, I hated myself for exposing my “badness” and “making” people walk away from me. I expected to be abandoned the same way my parents had abandoned me and I abandoned myself during the times that I needed the most comfort.

Seeing where those beliefs and behaviors came from allowed me to see that I’m a worthy of love even when I express my pain or talk about the awful things that happened to me.

In my healing from abuse, I’ve found that there are two parts to recovery: Dealing with the damage and providing the things for myself that are lacking. Talking about my abuse is the means to both of those things.

1. As I’ve talked about my past, I’ve come to accept that it really happened. After repressing the memories of my traumatic childhood, it was unbelievable that the images in my head really happened—and they didn’t just happen to someone, they happened to ME. I went over it again and again—in my mind and with others. Sometimes, when I shared my story, I felt like a liar even though I knew I wasn’t making it up. I’d go in and out of denial and then at some point, I really got it. Talking about my abuse helped me accept the truth. This wasn’t a TV show or news story—this was my story.

Talking to understanding and compassionate people was the gateway to feeling compassion and pain for myself and acknowledging the depth of my loss. When I finally sat still with my experience and listened to my heart, I finally FELT heard.

2. I talked about my abuse because I needed to know what happened to me really mattered. The way I was treated as a child told me that my feelings didn’t matter—that I didn’t matter. I was wasting someone’s time since I was a waste of time. The horror and tears on a friend’s face told me that what happened to me really was bad and that I wasn’t making a big deal out of nothing. What happened to me was wrong. I deserved to be treated better.

3. Telling my story has been a way to reach out for the validation I never got. Since I dissociated during my abuse and for so much of my life, I wasn’t connected to myself, especially to my emotional self. Talking to understanding and compassionate people was the gateway to feeling compassion and pain for myself and to acknowledging the depth of my loss. When I finally sat still with my experience and listened to my heart, I finally felt heard.

4. Talking about my abuse allows me to hear myself. As I listen, I hear myself emphasize details that I’d thought were insignificant. It’s given me greater understanding of my feelings and behaviors today. I’ve make connections between past events and current feelings and behaviors. I’ve solved today’s problems by looking back at how I got here.

For the most part, when I talk about my abuse now, it’s for someone elses benefit. However, when a new memory surfaces or I delve into a deeper layer, I share it with my friends and I give myself all the time I need to process it.

I used to feel the pressure to get it all out quickly since I wanted to stop before I was abandoned, but now I’m patient with myself and no matter how long I talk or grieve, I don’t abandon myself in the process. I know I’m worth all the time it takes to heal.

[read Christina's story here]

Peace and Protection From Abuse

Christina Enevoldsen — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 18:30:22 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

The sun was falling behind the trees, the wind was gusting and the child desperately sought refuge, though not from the elements. The same man who had hurt her before in ways she couldn’t understand was getting closer. The girl spotted movement in one of the houses. A woman was inside, cheerful watering the dozen or so plants that hung at her window. The small fists banged on the door, “Let me in…Help me, PLEEEEASE!” Getting no reply, she ran to the window, frantically motioning for the woman’s attention. Seemingly oblivious to the sobbing child’s face pressed outside the glass, the woman continued humming to herself.

With nowhere else to go, the little girl tried to hide, willing herself to be invisible, hoping the danger would pass if she stayed quiet and still. But as she crouched in her makeshift refuge, the man was beside her, hovering, reaching down…

My mother wouldn’t tolerate anything that was disturbing. If her peace was threatened, she had a way of locking it out with something stronger and colder than bars and gates. Over the years, I made several attempts to ask for help, for protection, for comfort, for guidance from my mom. I told her things that would have unsettled her if she’d actually heard me. She either walked out of the room or if she stayed, she remained unmoved, vacant. She loved her peace.

I wanted peace too. I wanted to be able to sleep securely in my bed instead of being violated by my dad before the sun came up. I wanted relief from my role as a sexual toy to my father and his friends. I wanted freedom from the vague but constant feeling of being hunted. But my mom wanted peace, so there wasn’t any peace for me.

I pursued peace all of my life and I thought I knew the way to get it. Surviving the abusive system meant that I learned “my place”. I believed that placating abusers was the way to achieve peace. There were rules to follow and as long as I was “good”, I’d be safe: Keep quiet; don’t expect better; don’t question anything; don’t resist. Conflict was life threatening and there was no standing against it. Abusers always win, which meant more punishment if I didn’t cooperate. I adapted by becoming very sensitive to other people’s moods so I could fix them before something bad happened. It’s no wonder I grew up a people pleaser.

Like my mother, I learned to keep my head down and keep the peace. I didn’t question the rightness or wrongness of that system—I just accepted it. I tried to live in peace by being peaceful, but that didn’t work. I was victimized more, not less. There was no pleasing abusers. In all my efforts, in all my experience with a lifetime of abusers, not one of them ever stopped hurting me because I finally “won them over” by being good enough. Whatever I did, they always found ways to criticize me so they could punish me with more abuse. I wanted peace, but they wanted power.

Believing I lacked any ability to impact my environment, the only “safe space” was the false safety I created within my head. I dismissed potential danger; I ignored possible threats. My mantra was “It will be okay”. For all my efforts, peace eluded me.

Escaping into my head was the only place I could go when I was a child. But the abuse and the abusers were in my head too, manifested through the lies I believed about myself. To really have peace, I had to fight. I had to wrestle with the truth within myself.

The truth is that I’m not a child anymore, whose only hope of survival is to gain acceptance. I’m a capable adult and I won’t die if I oppose someone. Their displeasure won’t kill me and their rejection won’t harm me. I don’t have to go along with things I don’t like and I don’t have to be quiet. When I stopped fearing the consequences of conflict, I learned to oppose abuse.

Years ago, I thought the most frightening thing in the world would be to stand up to abusers. But the willingness to stand toe to toe with an abuser isn’t where I needed the most courage. I showed the most courage when I started to stand up to the lies within me—when I began to challenge the false messages I learned from the abuse. When I was finally able to confront what really happened to me and really understood the truth, confronting abuse outside of me became much less difficult.

The old role of “peacekeeper” sometimes tries to pull me back in. In a moment of panic, I feel like the same little girl who had no impact, whose only defense was to submit and hope “it” wouldn’t be too bad. But I’m not that helpless, frightened little girl anymore.

When abusers go unchallenged, when victims go unheard, there is no peace. I’ve declared war on the abusive systems of the world. As I’ve stood for the truth, truth has caused conflict in my relationship with others, but I don’t try to control that anymore. I don’t need others to affirm the truth for me to believe it. I don’t have to have “peace” with others to have peace within myself. Yes, I’ve made some enemies but I can finally sleep peacefully.

[read Christina's story here]

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.