Overcoming Sexual Abuse » overcoming sexual abuse

The Lie of “Letting It Go”

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

by Christina Enevoldsen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now that you’ve heard my experience and thoughts about this, I’d love to hear yours. Please comment below and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments so you can continue to partake in the discussion. If you would like to protect your privacy, you don’t have to use your real name. Email addresses are never made public.

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

[read Christina's story here]

Perpetuating the Abusive Cycle

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

by Christina Enevoldsen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[read Christina's story here]

Why It’s Important to Heal My Own Way

Patty Hite — Sun, 16 Sep 2012 03:43:24 +0000

by Patty Hite

When I started on my healing journey, I wanted someone to just give me the answers, show me the way and tell me what to do. I wanted to be taken care of because I didn’t have the confidence to take care of myself.

There wasn’t anyone to talk to or to show me how so I turned to books. There were only a few library books on abuse, and even fewer books about healing. Most of what I found were stories from survivors. In their stories, they wrote about what they did to heal.

Most of them went to therapists and I felt defeated because I couldn’t go to one. I came from a very small town and there were no therapists or counselors. Even if there had been, I wouldn’t have been able to afford it and I honestly don’t think I would have told anyone else about my abuse. I was afraid of a professional telling me I was crazy.

Some of the survivors from the books I read were facing their abusers. I wasn’t ready for that at such an early stage in my healing and I felt so weak.

I tried their ways and only found myself feeling more and more helpless and hopeless. My only recourse was to lay the thought of healing down—forget about it and try to continue living my life the way I always had. That didn’t help either because when those flashbacks came, I had no way of releasing the pain they left.

I had to find out what worked for me, but finding my own answers was one of the hardest things for me. I was always afraid I would mess up or do the wrong thing and then I expected punishment when I failed.

My childhood was ruled with a strict hand and we were treated like property. I learned by watching my brothers being punished, to obey without questioning. They were lined up and, depending on the crime, were beaten with a stick off the tree, a paddleboard or a leather belt. They weren’t allowed to cry or get angry. No emotions were allowed. To me, that was terrifying.

My adult life was controlled by more abuse so I was trained to just follow other people’s rules to try to survive. When I married my first husband, I learned the lessons even more. He used many tools to get his way. I learned about emotional abuse, sexual abuse, and physical abuse. He manipulated me with blame, shame and guilt and he forced me with his hand and other weapons. I was punished when I made a mistake, when I didn’t do things right, when I spoke out of turn, or when I showed emotions.

No matter what I did, I could never do it right. Abusers had to have control over me and in order to remain in control they had to belittle me and come against anything I said or anything I did.

By the time I wanted to heal from my abuse, I was used to complying. If someone told me to do it their way, right or wrong didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had to obey their rules.

I also knew that failure brought punishment and pain. Even though no one was going to beat me anymore, I was afraid of letting others down. If it was their way, they could determine if I was doing it right and punish me for not doing it right. I was going to pay a price for failing, no matter what I did.

Since I couldn’t tell at that time whether someone was helping me or abusing me, I felt it was important for my healing to not be around people who wanted to give me the answers. I could listen to other survivors, but I needed to find my own way. I needed the freedom to discover what was right for me and what worked for me. I needed to be able to make mistakes without retribution and fear of punishment.

I was set up to fail as long as I tried to heal someone else’s way but I found out that I have no problem with making mistakes or wrong choices when they are mine. I can usually pick myself right back up and look for Plan B or Plan C.

One day I had a flashback of me as a child sitting under a tree in our back yard. Anytime I felt sad that is where I would go to talk things out. I felt free to cry and get angry.

If that worked for me then, maybe it would work for me now? And that is what I did. My first step for healing was finding a secluded place and talking about how I felt. I love looking at the beauty of nature, so it was easy for me to sit under a tree and tell God how much I hurt, and face those areas of fear. I love to write so it became natural for me to write about my abuse. I love to take long baths with soft music and candles, so it was easy for me to do that when I was in a critical part of my healing. I realized that by doing things that brought me comfort and that I enjoyed, I was also nurturing myself, which made it easier to face the traumatic times in my life.

Before I started to combine my nurturing needs with my healing needs, I waited until I couldn’t take another breath before I would face that pain. Sometimes I would have anxiety attacks all day long. I couldn’t sleep. I’d crawl in a corner on the floor, feeling like every nerve in my body was coming through my finger tips. I’d dissociate and have so much rage before I would break down and face that pain.

Finding what works for me has been a lifesaver. I make the rules, I face it when I am ready and I do it my way. For me, nothing is better and more empowering than that.

Patty Hite is a facilitator of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to have found the meaning of true love, a respectful relationship, and support with her late husband, Lonnie. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty'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]

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.