Overcoming Sexual Abuse » healing sexual abuse

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.

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.

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

[read Christina's story here]

Understanding My Abusive Parents Didn’t Heal Me

Christina Enevoldsen — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 18:45:48 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

After I watched the movie, “The Joy Luck Club”, I felt hollow and sad. The feelings haunted me for days. In the story, four daughters struggle against their emotionally abusive mothers until they discover their mothers’ difficult and tragic pasts. Through understanding, the daughters begin to appreciate their mothers’ trials and their relationships are restored.

I thought that was my solution—not only with my parents, but with myself over my guilt for being angry with my parents. I tried to resolve the sexual abuse from my father and neglect from my mother by understanding them and their childhoods. I told myself, “My parents didn’t know any better” and “At least I had it better than they did.”

I validated their pain, but by doing so, I invalidated my pain. I identified with their feelings and experiences more than I identified with my own. While I allowed their childhoods to excuse their abusive behavior, I remained unreconciled to myself.

I’ve heard it said that people are products of their pasts. I understand that the way my parents where treated by their own families handicapped them. But to say they are “products” of their pasts as though they are inanimate objects who don’t have any choices about what their pasts “make” of them is an excuse. Yes, they were influenced. There are sick things they were taught to view as normal and things that they weren’t equipped to give me because of their own neglect, but they are responsible for their actions, no matter their past.

Even if they were robots who were at the mercy of their programming, all that type of reasoning did was to keep me trapped in my pain. Now that I’m being honest with myself, it’s true that my dad never threw me through a window like his dad did to him, but the things he did to me were equally destructive. Even to say “equally destructive” isn’t really relevant. I’ll never know everything my parents lived through as children and maybe they did have it worse than I did, but so what? It doesn’t matter who was hurt more. Comparisons don’t heal anybody.

In “The Joy Luck Club”, the daughters discover that their mothers have good motives for their mistreatment—the mothers are attempting to spare their children the harm they experienced. I tried to find relief and “make peace with the past” by looking for ways I might have misunderstood my abuse—they couldn’t have meant to hurt me. But those things couldn’t have been done unintentionally or without forethought. My dad didn’t use me as a sex toy and allow other men to rape me for my benefit. I don’t think any amount of digging into his history will explain away that kind of behavior.

Instead of admitting that my parents didn’t love me, I tried to find some other explanation. Attempting to understand my abusers was my way of separating from some of the pain. It was a lie to “protect” myself from really seeing the awful betrayal that I suffered. And their present treatment shows me more clearly just how little they care about my feelings.

A few years ago, the patterns from the past were repeating and weakening my relationship with my mom. Out of an effort to be closer, I confronted my mom about the ways she hurt me. Instead of hearing me out, she threw everything back at me. She sarcastically apologized for not being perfect and insisted that I needed to honor her. She didn’t care anything about my pain, only in defending herself.

My father still denies sexually abusing me and lets everyone believe I’m the liar. There is no remorse or admission of wrong-doing. Both of them continue to accuse me and lay all the blame at my feet. Neither of them have my best interests at heart now any more than they did while I was growing up. The way they treat me now is the way they’ve always treated me.

It really doesn’t matter if my parents intentionally hurt me or not; the bottom line is that their neglect and abuse damaged me. Whatever my parents’ histories, whatever their motives, they still hurt me and I still have the effects to deal with. As long as I looked for reasons and answers in my abusers, I remained damaged. In the process of searching for the solution with them, I missed finding the solution within me. I had to recognize that no matter how the wounds occurred, they did occur but healing is in my hands. I’ve made peace with the past, but it’s only come through facing the truth—and the truth can’t be found in them, but I did find it in me.

[read Christina's story here]

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]

Healing From Sexual Abuse: Celebrating My Victories

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 13:10:05 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

When my two-year-old grandson accomplishes anything—big or small—he celebrates. Benjamin gets a huge grin on his face and claps his hands vigorously when he goes potty on the toilet. When he puts all his toys away, he jumps in the air and shouts, “I DIT IT!” He doesn’t hide how delighted he is to master new things and he’s not ashamed to show his pleasure in himself.

As I look back at how I’ve reacted to my accomplishments, it’s not anything close to delight and I seldom rejoiced. Instead, I felt shame. I couldn’t celebrate anything I did because I never thought it was good enough. The bar had to be higher. I couldn’t celebrate until I did better. But better was never good enough.

Instead of praise, I criticized myself:

“I guess that’s fine for now.”
“What took so long?”
“Anybody could have done that.”
“It could have been better.”

If I felt any sense of pride:

“Don’t get too big for your britches.”
“Pride goes before the fall.”

I carried those voices into my healing from sexual abuse. Whatever breakthroughs I had, however I grew, whatever I faced, it wasn’t good enough. I always wanted to be healthier than I was. I thought if I was happy with my progress, I’d become too comfortable and I might quit. I believed I needed to be hard on myself to motivate me to keep going—the same motivation that was used on me by all my abusers.

My abusers “promised” me approval and acceptance if I could just do this one more thing. If I did that thing, I would be loved; if I didn’t, I wasn’t worthy. So I’d sweat blood to do that one thing and then suddenly, it wasn’t that thing, it was something else. I was a continual failure in my abuser’s eyes and in my own.

I was convinced I was a failure, though I was driven to prove I wasn’t. I thought if I could do something so great and so big that nobody—not even my toughest critics—could dispute or ignore it, THEN I would really be somebody. In my mind, since my abusers denied me the approval I craved, they were the sources of it. I didn’t see any other way to be worthy. But somewhere on the way to my grand accomplishments, before I was able to yell, “Look at me!” I burned out. I drove my body into the ground and nearly couldn’t function at all.

When I recognized why I was so hard on myself, I grieved. I grieved the lifetime of missed rewards and celebrations. I grieved the loss of my emotional and physical well-being while I was desperate to earn my value. I grieved the pleasure and satisfaction I was denied from my work. I grieved that I never knew how wonderful I am apart from my efforts.

Love and approval were withheld from me by others, but I don’t have to continue to withhold it from me. I was never celebrated by them, but that doesn’t mean I’m not deserving of it. Now that I know the truth, I’m free to honor my accomplishments because I’m able to honor me. I can jump in the air and shout, “I DID IT! I learned to celebrate!!”

Speaking of accomplishments, Overcoming Sexual Abuse’s birthday is this week! My daughter, Bethany, and I founded OSA two years ago. To commemorate the occasion, we’re sharing the victories of the healing journey. The administrators of OSA will be sharing our own progress on the Overcoming Sexual Abuse Facebook Page and we invite you to share your own progress here in the comments and on Facebook as we celebrate OVERCOMING !!

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]

Why Was I Afraid of Healing From Sexual Abuse?

Guest Contributions — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 17:02:47 +0000

by Penny Smith

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

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

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

Yes, my first instinct was to go running towards freedom, but then I looked at all the coping mechanisms I’d used to make my life bearable, to survive what I’d had no control over. These were what I perceived myself to be and I was afraid to leave them behind. I felt a sense of control over my life because I had learned to cope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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]

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.

Overcoming Sexual Abuse: My Healing or My Marriage?

Christina Enevoldsen — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 05:26:07 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen

I saw myself standing next to a long line of people waiting to have their requests fulfilled. I wasn’t in the line; I was standing to the side, waiting for permission to get in the line. I wasn’t sure if it was the sea of humanity who decided if I was allowed to enter the line or if it was particular individuals. I only knew that there were a lot of people standing between me and my fulfilled desires. That’s the image I had for most of my life.

When it came to healing from sexual abuse, I had that same sense. I thought I had done my healing work years ago, but when it became clear that I still had work to do, I didn’t know if it was “my turn” to heal. It was my habit to ask “permission” when I wanted to start something new in my life. I would mention my new idea to the people closest to me and wait for their replies.

When I talked about delving deeper into the sexual abuse history, I was particularly interested in my husband’s response. I knew the process would put the most strain on him and on our relationship. Don was unaware that I was asking for his approval; he thought I was simply asking for his support. But it was his approval, not his support that I wanted.

I’m not sure what I would have done if Don had questioned the timing or asked how long the process might take or said anything else that would have discouraged me. I probably would have shrunk back and been angry that it wasn’t “my turn” yet. I would have likely felt rejected and resented serving and serving others, not knowing when I could attend to my needs.

Though Don was extremely encouraging of my journey, I tried to keep my healing in as small a space as possible—only heal when nobody was looking. I wanted to rush through my healing or to hide it in a box. “Is this okay? Am I bothering you? Is my mess making you uncomfortable?” I didn’t want the unpleasantness to spill over into his “space”. He never expressed any impatience or displeasure but when would his patience run out? When would he tell me enough was enough?

This was my issue and it wasn’t fair that he had to suffer through this process with me. When Don married me, we both thought I “had it together”. He didn’t bargain for the drama that this process brings.

Though I tried not to let my process show, I’ve had sudden angry outbursts, I’ve been morose for hours or days, I’ve cried for unknown reasons. Don has been here through it all. He’s listened to me pour out memories, he’s witnessed me beating my pillow to smithereens, he’s held me when I’ve cried and he’s stayed out of the way when I needed to be alone.

His unwavering love made me even more nervous. I’d never been able to trust in anyone’s love before or to have a relationship that wasn’t based on what I could do for them. I was married to an abuser for twenty-one years before marrying Don and I was finally facing the truth that I never had my parent’s love. And in the thick of the healing process, I didn’t have very much to give. Since I thought giving and serving was my only worth, I was terrified of losing my husband’s love. I knew he’d never leave me, but the thought of him staying while not loving me seemed worse. My past experience was screaming in my head that I couldn’t trust him. His love would run out and trusting in his support was setting me up for a fall. I knew his permission to heal would be withdrawn at any moment.

After all the losses I’d already experienced and all the times I’d had a broken heart, I thought I couldn’t afford to find out if this relationship was real. How much pain and loss could I handle? But the more I thought about it, I’d already experienced so much betrayal and hurt that I couldn’t afford to settle for another relationship that wasn’t based on real love. I had to confront my fear that I’d be abandoned if I asked for real love. I finally acknowledged that I needed it and was starting think that maybe I deserved it.

Telling myself that it wasn’t fair to inflict my process on him was really just an expression of my fear that he wouldn’t love me if he felt slighted. It was true that he never asked for this and it wasn’t fair to him. But I never asked for any of this either. Should I keep myself in misery so he wouldn’t be inconvenienced? Should I deny myself healing to spare him its intrusion? I don’t have to apologize for my healing process or the things it brings up.

Why did he get to decide if it was alright for me to heal? I had to take back the power to grant or withdraw permission. Whether my husband violently opposed my investment in myself or he was my biggest cheerleader, it became MY decision.

If you ask my husband what has been the most difficult part of my healing process, he’ll tell you that there have been more rewards than challenges (isn’t he diplomatic?) and it’s true that he’s benefiting from my growth. But for once, it’s not about him or anyone else. This process is for me.

I’ve chosen myself first for the first time in my life. I’ve dared to put my healing before my marriage or my husband. It’s challenged all my fears and I’ve learned that my husband loves me. When I started this process, I didn’t know if I’d still have his love on the other side of this. But I had to decide to love me most. And what I got after that was the security of the love for myself, my husband’s love, and a very satisfying healing journey.

I don’t see myself waiting on the side of the line anymore. In fact, I don’t see the line at all. I know there’s nobody waiting at the front of any line handing out my needs. I’m the person handing out the answers to my needs. And I don’t have to wait anymore.

[read Christina's story here]

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Stand-In or Star: Taking Center Stage in Your Healing

Bethany Ruck — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 19:31:39 +0000

by Bethany Ruck

A friend of mine used to be a stand-in on a network show. While the actors were in their trailers, he stood in front of the camera. He was examined from every angle while the crew perfected the lighting and worked out the camera positions before filming. But when the time came for the director to yell “action”, the real actors were brought in to perform.

He was the same height and build as the star he filled in for. He had the same hair color and skin tone as the actor. But he was no replacement for the talent. His only purpose was to help the crew prepare before the real work began.

Here at Overcoming Sexual Abuse, our writing team is like the stand-ins. Having a stand-in allows you to be able to see a situation on someone else before you try it on yourself. You can view it from different angles and see how the same might apply to your life. You have the opportunity to see if you identify with a story, a situation, or an emotion.

We have the unique dynamic of being a mother/daughter team. Many readers tend to label me as the child. Since my first post, messages have flooded my inbox. Some of them have been people who wanted support in their healing process, but the majority are survivors who offer to help or comfort me in my own healing.

You’re the star of your own healing journey.

No matter how far along in my healing or what I write about, many survivors see me as struggling in pain or still victimized. They assume that I still feel the emotions that I haven’t felt for months.

But I’m just the stand-in for your healing. Empathizing with the pains of my past does nothing for your own healing. It’s necessary to try the emotions on for yourself. What do you feel?

It’s hard to acknowledge such painful memories. It’s much easier to imagine my pain and to seek to comfort my inner child than your own. Empathizing with my emotions is easy. It’s safe. Cheering me on might help you feel like you’re above the situation instead of in the middle of it.

It’s even harder to realize where those feelings come from. Maybe your favorite uncle didn’t love you after all, maybe your mother betrayed you, maybe your family really did know what was going on. Facing those truths can be agonizing. It’s much easier to help me heal than to help yourself. Dealing with my inner child does nothing for your healing. Identifying with someone else’s story isn’t doing the actual work. There’s no replacement for the star.

You’re the star of your own healing journey. Healing requires you to allow the spotlight to be on you. Healing means sifting through your past, getting into the character of that inner child and reliving emotions that are dark and painful. Healing takes facing the lies you believed and seeing the truth. Being the star is hard work. But the star gets the biggest pay-off. Your healing journey is unique to you. Let your healing take center stage instead of being upstaged by the stand-in.

[read Bethany's story here]

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UNDERprotected

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

by Bethany Ruck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[read Bethany's story here]

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Why Was I Abused?

Christina Enevoldsen — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 15:26:30 +0000

Christina Enevoldsen

by Christina Enevoldsen

Just a note: Sometimes I believe things because they are true; other times I believe things because an alternate truth would be painful. One of the indications that I’m invested in a particular belief as a coping method is that I defend that ‘truth’ as though my life is threatened. When I notice inordinately strong emotions about a point of view, I ask myself: “What purpose does this belief serve in my life?”; “Do I NEED to believe this?”; “What if it isn’t true?—then what does that imply?”’ “How did I come to believe this?”

My intention in writing this isn’t to convince anyone to come to the same conclusions I have. This issue isn’t just about this issue. I could have written this about many things stored in my belief system.

When I was about eight or nine years old, my mom told me that the bad things in my life were because I was meant to do great things. “Special” people had to go through special training. They had to endure hardships—more than “ordinary” people. They had to experience shame and degradation so they wouldn’t be puffed up in pride. They had to experience pain so they could learn compassion for others. They had to be broken so they could become stronger in those broken places.

It’s something she said on several occasions and it appealed to me. The abuse told me I was worthless, but my mom redefined it: The abuse wasn’t an indication that I was nothing; it was an indication that I was special. My mom had some kind of “higher wisdom” that provided a reason for my pain. I wasn’t suffering without cause; there was something noble about my abuse. I wasn’t a victim; I was a hero.

I learned from an early age to call it something else other than the violent and traumatic death of my innocence. My father also redefined my abuse. He told me that we were “having special time”. He said the abuse was love. I preferred his version since the alternative was that I was living with a monster and that my father abandoned me and his fatherly role.

I was terrified of abandonment—not only from my father, but from God. I thought the only possibilities were that God was either involved—and the abuse was meant as a good thing—or that he completely abandoned me. I preferred a God who passively or actively participated in abuse to one who abandoned me.

Believing those things when I was a powerless child helped me to cope so I could and would want to survive. But they weren’t the truth. The abuse gave me false messages about myself and to believe that my abuse was part of some bigger plan was to pile more lies on top of lies.

I wasn’t born to suffer just so others would be spared or comforted. My abuse wasn’t “worth it” just because I’m helping others now. The abuse devalued me, but I couldn’t earn my worth through being a savior to others. I had to deal with my shame instead of covering it with noble deeds.

I wasn’t selected by God or the universe to be abused. My abuse wasn’t about me; my abuser didn’t even see me as a person, but rather as an object. Masking my pain with grandiose ideas didn’t heal me. I was treated as though my existence didn’t matter except as an instrument of pleasure. I had to look at the ways the abuse told me that my existence didn’t matter and that I was only an insignificant object. Confronting those lies released me from the need to see myself as more important the “regular” people. I’m at peace knowing my true value instead of needing to have a “special” position.

My abuser wasn’t an innocent pawn in the universe’s hands. He had a choice. He wasn’t serving some divine purpose or serving me. He was a nasty self-serving pervert. I had to acknowledge and express the pain that my dad gave me attention to serve himself, even if it meant destroying his daughter. Believing that we are all just helpless participants in the hands of Fate prevented me from resisting more abuse. That belief robbed me of protective anger and of my boundaries. As long as I believed that it was all planned, I remained a powerless victim.

Even if I ended up being a strong, healthy, happy, compassionate person who helps people, my abuser gets no credit for that. The saying, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is a lie. The abuse didn’t make me stronger. The abuse left me in a weakened state and it was only because I’ve worked on my healing for years that I’m functioning now and in a position to offer hope to others. Good didn’t come out of the abuse; good came from the overcoming of it. I don’t know who I would have been if I’d never been abused, but I know how many of my resources have been spent rebuilding my own life and I wonder how much more productive I might have been if I hadn’t needed to do that.

Some people point to the work I do now and say, “See, without your abuse you wouldn’t be doing what you love so much.” But my life isn’t defined by the sexual abuse or any other type of abuse. I consider my purpose to inspire and encourage people to be who they were created to be so they can find fulfillment and discover their own unique place in the world. Healing from sexual abuse is necessary to do all those things. If I hadn’t been abused, I would still be doing something similar to what I’m doing now—helping people get to where they want to be.

I was born with the gifts that equip me to inspire and encourage others. My abuser didn’t give them to me. They are ME. They are part of my uniqueness. No experience—good or bad—can change who I am.

Why was I abused? Because people have a free will and some people make horrible choices. But knowing or not knowing the reason why doesn’t settle anything or change the past. I still have healing work to do and I’m determined to continue.

[read Christina's story here]

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