Overcoming Sexual Abuse » denial

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.

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.

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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]

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]

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]

Male Childhood Sexual Abuse: Suffering in Silence

Guest Contributions — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 17:27:36 +0000

by Gordon DeLand

I have been silenced, me and my trouble.

I first silenced myself in shame, not even knowing exactly why, but somehow… it was wrong, what had just happened. And I knew it. I looked for a friend but got something else. The trust I had put in him had been violated, shattered. I was pretty sure it was wrong, but there was no one to ask without shaming myself for “not knowing better” It was just a vague feeling then, but it needed a private answer and there was no one to ask. So I silenced The Question. Thus The Silence began.

Then my abuser said, “Don’t tell.” We both knew what had happened. But both of us—my abuser and I— had The Question. But it was a hard question, hard to figure out what the question really was, too hard to figure out the answer alone, and it was too shameful to ask anyone else about. So my abuser told me what he told himself: “Just shut up about this—tell no one.”

Finally, I felt so much shame and guilt that I finally did go ask. I asked someone in charge of me, asked The Question, or what I thought was the question: Was it okay doing that? But when I asked, they did not know the answer, and more than that, they were shocked at the very asking of The Question and the questions that The Question brought up. I was told to be silent. Or that I was wrong, it couldn’t have happened, could it? Or at very least, be very quiet about it now.

So, there! I knew I was right. What I had done was something bad! Now I knew. What a relief! Except that, now, I was bad. Asking the Question had proved that. And now it was my responsibility to maintain The Silence about the bad thing I had done. Telling would not help, I knew that now for sure. And telling more people now—any other people—would also be bad, just like my abuser said it would be. The abuser was right. I was wrong. And I was the bad one for trying to tell. Bad, stupid me. And The Silence got stronger.

But there was hope: I could be a good boy, a big boy, by keeping The Secret and The Silence.

And life went on. The abuse went on, too, although we didn’t call it that. We were friends. Nothing violent or hurtful. Just Special Friends. There were times in between abuse when I could forget and just be a good, big boy and do my duty to not tell. Then more abuse and again I was a good quiet, obedient boy for my abuser, even though I knew that, somehow, pretty sure, less sure, that this was bad. And The Silence grew again.

Then the day came that Someone Else found out about us and the abuse stopped. No more being good for my abuser even if it was wrong and even if I was bad for doing it. The Someone Else who found out made us stop. They told, but they didn’t keep telling because it was nasty, dirty and bad. And no one wanted to hear that. And soon everyone forgot about the whole thing. Everyone but me.

And two things happened. First, I didn’t get to be with my abuser anymore, and the sudden, complete separation from the only one I dared be close with made me think maybe this would happen to anybody I got close to. Second, there were some new rules. First New Rule: No getting close to anyone sexually. Maybe when I was older, or married, they said. But not now. So I figured, no friends allowed (what other way of being close was there?).

I was told boys don’t do that kind of stuff with boys. It was nasty, dirty and bad. So, Second New Rule, one I thought up all by myself: Since boys don’t do that, and since I did do that, I was not really a boy. Not a girl, for sure. But not a boy. BOYS don’t do what I did. So…I wasn’t sure what I was, but not a boy or girl. And whatever I was, I was nasty, dirty and bad.

Also, I was told boys don’t do that kind of stuff with boys. It was nasty, dirty and bad. So, Second New Rule, one I thought up all by myself: Since boys don’t do that, and since I did do that, I was not really a boy. Not a girl, for sure. But not a boy. Boys don’t do what I did. So…I wasn’t sure what I was, but not a boy or girl. And whatever I was, I was nasty, dirty and bad. And The Silence and the shame and guilt and confusion grew.

Steadily, slowly, they expanded as I got older and my own world expanded. My guilt and shame were always there for me, familiar, comfortable. And they and the confusion always expanded to fill whatever new experiences I had, experiences that made me grow up and out of childhood. Grow up into…what? Good question. Into what? Manhood? I knew I was different because I had not been a boy. So, now, how could I be a man? Not a girl, not a woman, for sure. But what, then? Very confusing. And no one to ask. So I kept silent. And The Question still remained.

And besides, I should be able to answer all these questions for myself by now, for god sake! I’m an adult! And who cares anyway? It was a long time ago. The other guy is dead now, even. Forget it. Shut up. Keep silent. Please.

“Please, please, please! Just SHUTUPaboutit! For god sake just shut up!” That’s what I kept telling myself.

But as an adult, the day came that someone found out about me. What I thought I had hidden so well, for so long, all came out.

It happened a little at a time at first and then more and more, faster and faster. This person kept finding out things about me. They found out that it was me who had been abused, not the other guy. They found out that it wasn’t something I asked for—it was plain, simple Male Childhood Sexual Abuse. And they found out that it wasn’t my fault, that I was a victim. And then they did the one thing they promised never to do: They told The Secret. They told on me. They told the worst possible person they could tell, too. They told ME.

Yes, the person who told, was the same person being told on. I told on me, to me. I quit lying to myself and told myself The Truth. I quit lying about the abuse, that it didn’t happen, that it didn’t matter, that it couldn’t have been me that it happened to, that it was all my fault, that I asked for it. I quit lying that I was the nasty, dirty bad not-boy who was responsible for it all.

And in the end, I listened to myself. And I believed.

It has been only the last six years that Gordon DeLand has actively addressed the fact that he is, indeed, a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. In that time, one of his main passions has become writing about his journey of healing and helping others who are on that same journey. Gordon is a semi-retired “jack-of-all-trades” ranging from pastor to plumber and resides outside of Dallas, Texas.

Child-on-Child Sexual Abuse: It’s No Game

Guest Contributions — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 15:54:51 +0000

by Jennifer Stuck

Still to this day, anytime I hear the phrases “playing doctor” or “show-and-tell,” I feel a shiver run down my spine. Only recently have I realized that this is because my mother used those phrases to make light of my abuse from an older neighbor boy. She would even speak to other people casually about it right in front of me, like it was no big deal, saying things like, “I caught Jenny playing doctor with the neighbor boy again.”

I think using playful terms like those helped ease her own guilty conscience for not protecting me. If I was just “playing doctor” she could tell herself it was normal childhood exploring instead of seeing the reality that I was being sexually abused by an older child. When she said those things, it only added to the shame already felt about my abuse; it made me feel like I wanted to climb down inside myself to hide from the world so nobody could see how bad I was.

There are some instances where normal, healthy children may touch themselves innocently or may be curious about the anatomy of another child. However, what the neighbor boy did to me was so much more than normal childhood exploring. He taught me to perform sexual acts, forced me to do things with other children for him to watch, and degraded me in horrible ways. He even urinated on me as part of my abuse, like a dog marking its territory.

When a child acts out sexually on another child the way my abuser hurt me, that means he or she experienced some type of abuse themselves. That of course doesn’t make it okay for them to hurt and abuse another child, and it didn’t make it okay for my abuser to hurt me. The truth is, all abuse is damaging, and abuse from one child to another is just as damaging as abuse from an adult to a child.

When my mother failed to see the seriousness of the situation and called my abuse things like “playing doctor” or “show-and-tell”, then scolded me for allowing those things to be done to me, she put all the blame on me and none on the abuser. It made me feel like I had done something wrong. Instead of protecting me and keeping this older, more aggressive child out of our home, she told me not to LET it happen again. That was a responsibility I shouldn’t have had to carry at that young age, and it was something that kept me from reaching out for help for many years.

Those terms were also highly confusing to me. At the age my abuse began, I had no idea what sex was or that what was being done to me was wrong. All I knew was, parts of it made me feel really icky, parts of it felt good, and my abuser told me I would get in trouble if I told anyone. Then when my mother found me being abused and I DID get in trouble, and nothing happened to my abuser, that sent the message to me that my abuser’s lies were all true.

Had my family only understood how damaging child-on-child abuse is, maybe they would have stepped in. Maybe they would have kept my abuser away. Or maybe they just didn’t care enough to protect me. I’ll probably never know for sure. But one thing I do know is, now as an adult with children of my own, it’s extremely important for me to spread the word about how damaging child-on-child sexual abuse really is. It’s no game, and it’s nothing to be made light of.

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.

Jennifer Stuck is whole-heartedly pursuing physical and emotional health and is determined to heal the wounds of her childhood sexual abuse. She loves to write, especially poetry. She is currently studying for a career in Physical Therapy. When she isn’t in school Jennifer is at home spending time with her two beautiful daughters.

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]

Dating After Sexual Abuse: Who Was I Attracting?

Bethany Ruck — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 17:19:16 +0000

by Bethany Ruck

I grew up watching Disney movies, dreaming that one day I could be the heroine of the story or wed a handsome prince. I yearned to live out an epic romance, where I would be swept off my feet by a loving man. I wanted a guy to see me and think, “Wow! That’s the type of woman I’ve been searching for my entire life.” And I thought I knew just the way to achieve that.

I have naturally curly hair—the kind of curls that go “boing” when you pull them. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been flooded with compliments from people who were jealous of my spiral, blonde locks. But for just as long, I’ve despised my hair. I was different from the other kids, and always found myself wanting smooth and sleek hair. I spent the majority of my life angry at genetics, wondering why I had to be born with this curly mess of a head.

I thought of curly hair as something that should be reserved for little girls, like Shirley Temple, Little Orphan Annie, or Curly Sue. To me, a little girl was someone who couldn’t protect herself—a victim. As a little girl, I had no control over the sexual abuse I experienced. It was terrifying to know that I never had a choice in what was done to me. I was powerless to stop my abuser, because I was a defenseless little girl.

I didn’t want to be that little girl anymore. I thought that if I could shed that image, I would have the control I craved. I wanted to become a woman—in control of my life and my sexuality. I saw beautiful woman with their perfect Victoria’s Secret-esque blowouts and wanted what they had. With their smooth hair and every lock in its place, they seemed like women who had it all.

By the time I was in junior high, I began experimenting with different straightening methods. My efforts only resulted in having a slightly less curly ball of frizz—not the look I was going for. Until my senior year of high school, I was still attempting to tame the curls I was born with, but with no luck. My battle with nature always left me defeated and frizzy. I finally retreated with my tail between my legs. I wasn’t happy to have curly hair, but I decided I would no longer make attempts to fight it on a monthly basis.

When I was twenty-one, I finally happened upon a blow dryer that made all of my hair dreams come true. Sure, it took me an hour, but I could get silky-smooth hair with a simple blow out. I’ve been concealing my curly hair ever since.

Everything seemed to change for me after that. For the first time in my life I felt sexy. I would walk into a room with the song, “Man-Eater” playing in my head. I no longer saw myself as a cute girl, but as beautiful woman, the object of desire, someone in control.

I’ve been taking a look at my dating life with a magnifying glass lately—or rather, my lack of a dating life. The type of men who approached me were the charmers, the players—guys who were just looking for a one night stand. I could see right through them, but I couldn’t understand why I kept attracting that type of guy.

The illusion of control didn’t actually give me control. I wasn’t any less vulnerable just because I changed my appearance.

My hair dreams came true, but my romantic dreams didn’t. Then, I had an aha moment. For five years, I’ve had the bombshell hair I once coveted, but what I failed to realize was that those girls were lusted after, not pined after. Straightening my hair was a method of concealing my former self and hiding the vulnerable little girl inside. I thought that if I could look different, I could be someone else. But the someone else I became was neither good, nor fitting. The illusion of control didn’t actually give me control. I wasn’t any less vulnerable just because I changed my appearance.

The person I really am is a fun, quirky girl who is wholesome. The image I was trying to put on contradicted that. I was attracting men based on my false identity. I was walking around with the image of a femme fatale because I pictured that as someone who was in control, and that’s what guys were picking up on. My hair changed my perception of myself, but it also changed others perceptions of me. Until I changed the image I had of myself, all I would get was men attracted to me for the wrong reasons. There was nothing wrong with a beautifully blown-out hairdo. There was something wrong with the false identity I put on.

I didn’t want a casual affair; I wanted a romance. I began seeing myself for the woman I had become, despite what my hair looked like. I’m no longer a little girl. I’m strong and outspoken. I came to my own defense when I reported my father for sexually abusing me. I stood up to my family. I protected myself. Those actions require a confident, independent woman–which I had become. As I changed my perception of myself, my perception of curly hair began to change. I no longer saw it as the mark of a victim. Curly hair doesn’t mean I’m out of control. Regardless of what my hair looks like, I’m not defenseless. I’m empowered to do something about my life.

I finally gave up trying to be something I’m not and embraced my curls. I own my curly hair. Instead of feeling like a victim of genetics, I feel like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel, written just for me. I now see my curly hair as romantic, something that adds to my beauty. For the first time in a long time, I feel like myself. I’m comfortable in my skin (and in my hair). I have hair that matches my spunky personality. Instead of seeing myself as different like it’s a bad thing, I see myself as set apart. Others are seeing me that way too. Since changing my perception of myself, I’ve changed the men I’ve been attracting. Now that I’m presenting my real self, I’m ready for a real relationship.

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.

[read Bethany's story here]

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Is Overcoming Sexual Abuse Really Possible?

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 16:50:33 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

I hate blood and gore, but I love watching medical shows. When they show mangled flesh, I have to cover my eyes. It’s hard to imagine all the pain the person is suffering and even if they can be saved, the struggle that recovery requires. Sometimes I think it would be easier to let the person die because I don’t understand how someone could possibly recover and have a real life after having their body so torn. But the doctors don’t think like that; they understand the healing process and they’ve seen what their skillful work plus the restorative abilities of the human body can accomplish.

When I was a teenager, a classmate of mine was severely injured in a motorcycle accident. Paul wasn’t expected to live, but somehow he survived the first days and weeks. When I first saw him, he had already come out of his coma but he could only make moaning sounds when he tried to talk. He looked and sounded like something out of a horror film. He needed to be cared for like an infant and there wasn’t much hope he would ever change. But slowly, over the next few years, Paul repaired. He learned to feed himself, to talk, to walk and resume his life. The last time I saw him, he was a normal teenage boy.

I was one of those people who was mangled—not physically, but emotionally. Sexual abuse at the hands—and other body parts—of my father and the emotional abuse and neglect of my mother left my soul and my life a wreck. There were some who saw me and looked away in disgust. There were people who observed my woundedness and judged me to be beyond recovery.

I don’t know what made me think I could heal. Maybe it’s because shortly after I remembered my sexual abuse, I heard a courageous woman speak about her childhood incest. She was someone who I admired and it gave me hope to see another survivor who wasn’t a wreck. I didn’t know how to fix me, but I knew it could be done.

I didn’t know that I could do my own healing work. I didn’t realize that I have within me the ability to heal my inner being just like my body has the ability to heal and, in fact, is designed to heal. I didn’t see any doctors rushing to fix me, so I took up the task.

Over the next twenty years, I found solutions from a variety of sources that helped me recover. I’ve taken long breaks, but I’ve never quit. The past few years of my healing have been the most productive.

I’ve gone from being used and abused in relationships to being surrounded by people who love and respect me; I used to be intimidated by anyone abusive, but now I stand up for myself; I used to only live day-to-day, glad to just get through it and now I have dreams and goals and am actively pursuing and fulfilling them; I used to get overwhelmed with any obstacle and now I face them confidently; I used to hate myself and constantly fight critical inner voices and now I love myself and I’m my own best friend and fan.

There are those who say that it’s impossible to truly overcome something so horrific as sexual abuse. They say that to make that claim is wrong because it sets the bar too high. I find that insulting now but when I was in the abusive system, I believed things like that. My abusers convinced me that I wasn’t capable of anything on my own and that I needed them for survival. They undermined me and caused me to second-guess myself so they could control me. So why is that bar too high for me? Am I too dumb or too weak? I’m not sure what’s worse, telling me to just “get over it” or that I’ll never get over it.

Maybe those people who think “overcoming” is out of reach believe that to say you can overcome somehow minimizes the damage or invalidates the pain. I don’t think it does that at all. My soul was mutilated. I was unrecognizable as the person I was meant to be. I don’t know how I survived. But I not only survived, I overcame. I’m so happy I didn’t pronounce myself too damaged to live. I’m so glad that even though others turned away in disgust, I didn’t lose hope in myself. I don’t know what else to call it. I was a half-dead person and now I’m fully alive, living with purpose and enthusiasm. I call that overcoming.

I may not ever be finished with my healing, but I’ll be overcoming until my last breath. Thank God that all those years ago, I heard a voice of encouragement and hope instead of someone claiming I was doomed by abuse.

Thank you to Patty Hite, the courageous woman who inspired me and gave me hope so many years ago. It’s a joy and an honor to be spreading hope and healing side-by-side with you, my friend!

[read Christina's story here]

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