Overcoming Sexual Abuse » significance

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]

Domestic Violence: Why Did I Stay?

Patty Hite — Sun, 30 Sep 2012 16:36:35 +0000

by Patty Hite

Everything I did was for my husband. Any ideas or suggestions on my part would end in Bill physically or emotionally abusing me. I always felt my life depended on making a perfect meal. When he didn’t like it, he would knock me out of my chair and force me to eat “that crap” off the floor. There was never a choice in how I wanted to style my hair. My choice gave him the excuse to take the scissors to my hair and cut it the way he wanted. Choosing my own eye shadow was disastrous. Bill rubbed it all over my face and forced me to wear it out in public.

I was never allowed to go to the doctor by myself (he had to be able to give false reasons for my bruises and scars) and especially when I was pregnant. While the doctor was giving me a pelvic exam, Bill would watch my face and make sure I wasn’t enjoying it.

When I finally got the nerve to leave my abusive ex-husband, one of the many questions I kept asking myself was, “Why did I submit to so much abuse?” I couldn’t help but wonder why I didn’t walk away from it the first time he slapped me across the face, dragged me by my hair to the bedroom and raped me. Why didn’t I call the police and why didn’t I run away? Why did I take it, day after day, year after year?

Dr. Heyward Ewart author of “Am I Bad?” explained it so well for me:

“All people cross the line from childhood to adulthood with a secondhand opinion of who they are. Without any questioning, we take as truth whatever our parents and other influentials have said about us during our childhood, whether these messages are communicated verbally, physically, or silently.”

As I started to re-visit my childhood and my past, I was able to take a long, hard look at the child I used to be—the little girl who still lives inside of me. I began to know what she thought, what she saw, what she heard. By seeing those things, I was able to understand her decisions to submit to abuse rather than stand against it.

When I was a child, I learned the rule, “Speak when spoken to.” In other words, shut up unless you have broken a bone or are bleeding to death. My parents entertained friends and relatives all the time. There were always adults in our house. When the adults were gathered around the kitchen table, I was sent outside to play. They were always talking about adult stuff so I was not allowed to hear such things. The rule was, “Stay outside until we call for you. Don’t talk to us unless we talk to you.”

Interrupting the adults with, “So-and-so called me a bad name” was not allowed and I was told, “Stop acting like a baby”. “I fell off my bicycle and scratched my knee” would only receive a glance at the scrape and told, “Stop crying over such a small cut and tough it out.” I got a harsh stare from my dad and warned I’d better have a good reason for coming into the house. I never really knew what a “good reason” was and what would “allow” me the right to speak, so I submitted to the rule and remained the good little girl.

When my uncle started to molest me, when I went inside the house to use the restroom, I didn’t speak. The fear of being told that I wasn’t important enough to break the rule and the fear of rejection and not being believed, spoke louder than the abuse. I found a secluded spot outside, crawled into a ball and cried while I waited to be told I could come back into the house.

Another rule I learned was “Obey your mother and father.” I knew that meant, “Do what I say or else”. The “or else” meant beatings with a belt, a slap against the head or the most horrid of all, finding your own stick off the tree to be hit with. I didn’t endure much physical punishment, but my brothers did. I saw the whippings because they were done in front of all of us, and I heard their stifled cries of pain because they were told, “You’d better not cry or I will give you something to cry about.” Looking up at an adult with a weapon in his hand was a scary sight. I chose to be the good child and to obey my parents.

When I saw my dad molesting my sister, I obeyed him. He told me not to tell my mother so I did what he said. This was so traumatic for me that I dissociated it for twenty years. I always thought I hid within myself because I saw what he did, but it was being told to “obey” and the fear of not obeying that caused me to protect myself with dissociation.

I was also taught, “Respect your elders.” But what happens when an adult doesn’t respect a child? My first day of kindergarten, the teacher was calling out our names and we were told to raise our hand and say, “Here!” The teacher called out the name Patricia. I didn’t know my name was Patricia because I was always called Patty Jane. She moved closer to my desk and kept calling out “Patricia” and I could tell she was getting louder and more irritated. She stopped at my desk, grabbed my ear and pulled me out of my seat, demanding to know why I didn’t respond. I was terrified, in shock and crying, explaining that my name is Patty Jane. She slapped me in the face and told me to respect my elders and warned me that the next time she said my name, I’d better answer or else.

I was sent home with a note pinned on my dress. I don’t know what the note said, but I remember trying to explain myself to my dad. I told him how my teacher pulled my ear, yanked me out of the chair and smacked me. He looked at my face, told me there were no marks, and that I needed to respect my elders and stop embarrassing my family. I got a smack to my butt and told to go outside and play.

As I grew older, there were many adults in my life who harmed me and molested me. I was afraid to tell my parents. I was afraid to tell anyone. I didn’t want to embarrass them. Would I be told again that I deserved the abuse and there was no excuse for not obeying my elders? I felt my pain would not be validated and I would be sent “outside” again.

By the time I was physically abused by my first husband, I’d already spent my entire childhood being a “good girl” following the rules of not resisting and not complaining. I never knew how much pain I was suppose to endure because none of my pain was important enough for anyone to pay attention to. What was the limit?

Bill’s rejection was just as painful as the fear of being rejected by my parents. The fear of embarrassing him in front of others, like family, friends or even the police, was a rule I had to obey. Making him look bad in front of others meant I would be spanked, invalidated and abandoned.

Children learn from birth to cry and scream when they are hungry or in pain or fear. Healthy parents stop the crying by taking care of their child’s needs. I learned how to stop crying through fear and submission. My pain didn’t matter and I didn’t have a voice.

Teaching a child rules to live by should be for the child’s good, not just to make the child less of a hassle. The rules I learned taught me to be a submissive person—an adult with no personal boundaries, no limits to what people could do to me. I was in fear of being rejected and not able to protect myself because I was an adult still thinking like the child I was.

I am not a piece of property. I am a human being with feelings, emotions and thoughts. I feel pain and rejection and abandonment. But, I didn’t believe this until after I started to see the reason I believed these lies. I am no longer the submissive child/adult I used to be. Now I know I’m a valuable person, worthy of a life free of abuse. I’m able to recognize the false beliefs and lies from my childhood, live in the truth of who I was meant to be.

Will you help us? We’re having a particularly difficult time meeting our expenses and we need your help. Would you consider making a donation today? We’re a 501c3 non-profit so all gifts are tax deductible in the U.S. To make a donation, look for the donate button on the top right side of the page. Thank you for making it easier for us to continue to speak out about abuse and spreading the hope for healing!

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 participate 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.

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]

Standing Up For Myself: Reclaiming My Self-Worth

Guest Contributions — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 15:48:51 +0000

by Penny Smith

Sometimes in the healing process it feels like I’m not making much progress. Then something will happen that helps me see just how far I’ve come. That was the case recently during a run-in with some abusive people.

They tried to dump a lot on me—criticisms and false accusations. In the past, I would’ve taken it, absorbed it, begged for forgiveness and ended up feeling even more worthless.

They echoed the voices from my childhood: “You’re no good and never will be. No one truly loves you. No one would believe you if you told. You are just bad.”

Those are just some of the things my abuser told me over and over again when I was a child. Those lies and many others were reinforced by other abusers. They were designed to make me powerless, to keep me under their control, and that’s exactly what they did.

Even after I became an adult, I remained powerless. Those lies were so ingrained in me that I was constantly trying to be “good enough”—trying to prove myself worthy of love, which made me an easy target for more abuse. It didn’t matter what was asked of me, I would do it whether I wanted to or not. I thought if I said “no” I wouldn’t be loved. I was desperate to try to keep people happy so they wouldn’t leave me. I was willing to be the scapegoat and to accept whatever abuse was hurled at me. I had been taught that this was what I deserved and I believed it.

The power that each of us is born with, the power that inherently belongs to every human being, the power to stand up for myself, to say “no”, to believe that I had worth just because I was me, had been robbed from me.

When I finally faced up to my past and began the healing process, I know I didn’t have a very good opinion of myself. Actually, that’s putting it mildly–I hated myself. I still viewed myself through the eyes of my abusers and I desperately wanted to know who I really was.

Through each step of my journey, each little victory, I’ve reclaimed myself little by little. The lies that made me feel worthless and powerless were exposed. As I realized more and more that what I’d been taught by my abusers wasn’t true, I also began to see that I have worth—not because I’ve earned it but simply because I’m me.

The first time I told someone “no”, I was terrified. I felt like I was breaking some kind of law and I kept waiting for the repercussions to come crashing down on me. When nothing happened (other than losing a “friend” who wasn’t truly a friend) I was elated. For the first time in my adult life, I realized that I was allowed to say, “no.” The more I continue to heal, the healthier my view of myself becomes.

With this recent attack, I took back more of my power. They tried to attack my hard-won sense of worth, name called, questioned my parenting skills, berated me as looking for pity because I’m facing my abuse and then they finally got frustrated enough to tell me I’m crazy and have “gone off the deep end.”

I felt like poison was being spewed at me but at the same time, I was surprised how calm and rational I was able to remain. I refused to accept the abuse and told them as much. I was able to stand up for myself in a way that I never could have before I began to heal. I could see that what they were doing to me wasn’t my problem. I didn’t ask for it or deserve it. I was just the current target but, they soon discovered, no longer an easy one. As difficult as it is to realize that some people can no longer be in my life, if they can’t give me the basic respect that I deserve as a human being—they don’t belong there.

I am the first to admit that I still have a long way to go. I have breakthroughs and setbacks. In times like these I can see that I have made progress and it feels good. I am no longer powerless. I am exposing the lies for what they are and in the process, reclaiming my self-worth. I didn’t deserve to be abused then and I don’t deserve to be abused now. I am worth just as much as anyone else and that knowledge gives me the power to reclaim my life.

Have you ever felt this way? I welcome your thoughts. Please comment below and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments so you can continue to partake in the discussion.

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.

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]

My Fear of Being Alone

Christina Enevoldsen — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 16:44:50 +0000

Christina Enevoldsen

by Christina Enevoldsen

I wrote a fictional story about a little girl being sexually abused by her father. It was for a project I was working on and I didn’t intend for it to be autobiographical, but when I came to the part where the child was lying in bed listening for her tormentor’s footsteps, it hit me. I was flooded with an overwhelming sense of being alone. When nobody else was around, HE could get me. I wasn’t only physically alone—unprotected—I was completely without an ally. There was nowhere to run, nobody to hear my cries for help, nobody to believe me or comfort me. In the whole wide world of people, I was alone.

To my mom, I was in the way. I was nobody but a trouble-making weirdo. I intentionally did things to get her attention. I shaved off my eyebrows, I wet my pants in church. But she never addressed those issues. She pretended that she didn’t see. Just like she did with the abuse. I was alone.

The sexual abuse wasn’t limited to the night and neither was my fear. I don’t remember anytime when I wasn’t afraid. Even when my dad wasn’t around, the abuse awakened my awareness of how bad the world was. I KNEW evil. I had seen it and it had touched me. The world was a bad place and I couldn’t keep bad things from happening to me. I wasn’t enough.

I couldn’t tolerate being alone, so when I was seventeen, I married my high school sweetheart. Not only was the marriage abusive, but it didn’t cure my loneliness. I had someone there physically, but I was just as alone as I’d always been.

I always had to have a best friend. Being best friends was a mutual agreement to always be there for the other. It was a kind of guarantee—just like I thought marriage was supposed to be.

I was driven to be with others, but whatever the relationship, I always felt alone—as though I lived in a bubble, isolated from human touch. Whatever piece of my soul that was supposed to connect with another person was broken. I didn’t have any sense of self, didn’t have my own feelings or desires. Not being with someone else made me feel like I didn’t exist. I had no sense of being without being with somebody.

To my father, I was an object to be used and to my mother, I was invisible, so I learned that I wasn’t a valid person. I was a lonely spirit floating above the earth, an observer, never able to participate in my own life. Without power to affect anyone with my presence. A hollow being.

I’d tried to escape that feeling all my life through relationships, but none could fulfill me. Nobody could validate my existence. My invalidation came through others—namely, my parents—but my validation had to come from within me. But I’d already learned that I had no effect so how could I have power to make any difference in my own life? If I was my only hope of an answer, then I was hopeless since I knew I was NOT ENOUGH!!!

At first I was angry with myself for not being enough and then I was angry at my parents for pointing out that I wasn’t enough. And then something happened. While I was busy articulating what I was angry about, I realized that my parent’s treatment lied to me. I’m not just an object. I’m a human being who deserved to be protected and treasured. I am worthy of being seen and acknowledged and valued. They didn’t see me as a person, but that’s not a reflection on me; it’s an indication of some fault in them.

Nobody heard my cries, but I deserved to have them heard. Removing my anger from myself and giving it to my abusers allowed me to have compassion for myself. I started to feel the love and affection toward me that they never did. I could listen. I could see my pain. I could comfort myself. They weren’t there for me, but I could be there for myself.

I learned to listen. One day I wasn’t feeling well emotionally or physically. I was tired from overworking and from being around draining people. I heard myself say, “I wish someone would take care of me.” Other times, I’d had that thought and wondered why nobody did take care of me, but this time, I knew I was that someone. I was asking me to take care of me.

I didn’t need other’s permission to nurture myself. I could pamper myself and be as good to myself as I wanted others to be. I could draw limits around my time. I could rest and fix something healthy to eat. That was liberating.

I’ve been slowly learning how to be there for myself and I’m getting better at it all the time. I’m growing in trust toward myself because I’m becoming more consistent in being able to depend on me to fulfill my needs. I’m a good friend to myself.

My parents weren’t there for me when I needed them, but I’m here for me now. I’m really here. I was all by myself one Sunday afternoon and I thought, “I’m not alone, I’M with me.” It was so real to me that I’m a whole person by myself and I’m good, fulfilling company. I’m enough.

[read Christina's story here]

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

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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What If My Family Rejects Me? Part 3

osa — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 18:29:45 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen & Darlene Ouimet

Christina: The other day, I was felt unsettled about some things and, as usual, I poured out my heart to my husband. He’s a good listener, so as I processed my feelings I realized that part of the solution had me stumped and part of it I just didn’t want to do. That left me with my pain. I changed the subject and we discussed a mutual friend’s issues instead. When I just about had the friend’s problems all figured out, it occurred to me that I changed the subject as a form of denial. It was easier to talk about what our friend should do to improve his life than to talk about what I needed to do to make mine better.

I think that’s what happens sometimes when we focus on the reaction of people outside of us. We get hung up on what they are doing instead of on what we need to be doing. So many survivors of abuse stay focused on the whys? the hows? And the what ifs? “Why don’t they believe me?” “How could they protect my abuser, but betray me?” or “What if I talk to them one more time?”

When I first separated from my parents after they refused to honor my boundaries, I celebrated my freedom. But eventually, the pain pierced me. The loss of my mom haunted me for months. In my desire to stop the pain, I grasped at the ‘what if’s?’ “What if she misunderstood me?” “What if I explained it better?” “What if she’d like to make up, but is afraid?”

I got caught up in those questions as though the answers would extinguish my burning ache. It didn’t make sense that the person who was meant to love me, protect me, nurture me, and teach me right from wrong would betray or reject me. Could this be a huge misunderstanding? Was I taking what my parents said too seriously?

Darlene: I kept second guessing myself, because that is what they taught me to do. They taught me that I was wrong. They taught me that I was the one who had the problem and that I was selfish and self-centered. I think that is why I kept trying. I really believed that before I could hear myself, they had to hear me. I wanted them to suddenly realize that I had been wronged.

I wanted to prove several things to them; that I had in fact been abused, mistreated and unprotected, and that I was worthy of love. I got stuck when the condition that I put on myself was that when they would finally agree with me, I could believe it. The problem was that I would not hear or validate myself until they heard me. I thought my freedom and wholeness depended on if they said I could have it or not. I thought that I had to prove that I was right in order to draw those boundaries. I thought that I had to prove (to myself even) that I had been neglected, or emotionally abandoned by my family before I could actually stand up to them.

One day I saw this for the truth that it was. I realized that I was rejecting my own truth by letting them decide if I was telling the truth or not. I realized that I was letting them define me as unworthy and unlovable. I was now doing what they taught me to do—discounting myself; abandoning myself; mistreating and devaluing myself and neglecting myself. As long as I was doing this to myself, they didn’t need to bother too much with me because as long as I was fighting for them to SEE me and HEAR me, they actually had control of me and the situation.

Christina: That’s a good point, Darlene. We’re so used to remaining the child in the relationship, that we feel the need for their permission and validation. I had to own my own power, recognizing myself as a mature adult. I also had to own my own feelings and opinions. Right or wrong, they are mine and I don’t need anyone’s permission to think or feel them.

The abuse violated my boundaries. Someone invaded my body and soul. They disregarded my will and my feelings. One of the most powerful expressions of our boundaries is the word “no”, and yet the abuse took away my “no”. Part of healing from the abuse is to take back my “no”:

“No, I won’t stay silent about the abuse.”
“No, I’m not going to protect another’s reputation at my expense.”
“No, I’m not going to continue to submit to your abuse.”

The abuse taught me that I’m responsible for others and that caring for myself is wrong. I’ve had a hard time saying “no”, but I also had a hard time hearing “no”. Many of us continue to struggle with confused or blurred boundaries throughout our lives. We have a tendency to either take care of other’s responsibilities or neglect our own—or both.

My family was saying “no” to me when they rejected me:

“No, I do not believe you.”
“No, I won’t support you.”
“No, I won’t admit I did anything harmful to you.”
“No, I won’t apologize.”
“No, I won’t stop telling you to get over it.”
“No, I won’t end my friendship with your abuser.”

To focus on other people’s boundaries—their behavior, their responsibilities, their choices, their beliefs, their opinions, their feelings, their attitudes, their values—is to assume responsibility for them. Focusing on my parent’s boundaries keeps me from my own responsibility. When I focus on them, I lose clarity about me.

My family may not behave, think, or feel the way that I would or the way I want them to, but they are free to make their own choices (and free to reap the consequences of those choices). It’s not my job to correct them, convince them, or punish them no matter how they failed me.

Darlene: Yes, Christina, that is exactly how I feel too. The key to freedom is not in understanding why other people didn’t take care of us, or why we were emotionally, physically or sexually abused; The key (well at least one key) is in understanding that we were powerless and that we are not who “they” say we are.

I will never understand my mother, and I don’t even want to. I don’t know if I ever did get my head around it, but what set me free was that I got my head around that it was up to me to take my life back. I realized that this was about HER and not about me. I don’t have to take it and I don’t have to understand it. I found the truth about her and then about me and what she taught me about me was all lies.

When I stood up for myself and when I stopped asking, hoping and waiting for them to hear me, believe me and validate me, I began to blossom and thrive. I began to grow into the person that I believe I was born to be. I met myself on the road to healing and for the very first time I felt like an individual. It wasn’t long before I stopped chasing the lie; I stopped believing that the illusive butterfly of happiness could only be found in parental love and acceptance which would set me free and solve my problems.

Christina: I may never know the answers to why? how? And what if? But I don’t care anymore. Those answers promise protection and closure, but they fail to deliver. They don’t have power to help me move on. Knowing the answers doesn’t change anything. They won’t take care of me, take away the pain, or make up for my loss. The past still happened, and I am the one who has to deal with it. And as an adult, I’m equipped to do that successfully. The responsibility for taking care of me lies with the person who cares the most: ME.

Darlene Ouimet is an inspirational speaker, certified professional life coach and mental health advocate. While speaking in mental health seminars about her complete recovery from dissociated identity disorder, chronic depression, and a lifetime of low self-esteem, Darlene realized that her journey to wholeness had a unique kind of impact and she embraced a new life purpose—to deliver this message of hope, healing and full recovery to a hurting world. Darlene authors a high traffic blog called “Emerging from Broken—from surviving to thriving on the journey to wholeness.”

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Unfriending My Abuser

Patty Hite — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 17:45:47 +0000

by Patty Hite

I remember quite a few years ago, I was watching Oprah while she was telling her story about her childhood sexual abuse. She had come back from visiting her family and stated how she sat at the same table with her abuser, talking to him over their meal. Her guest asked her why she had done that. Why did she converse with her abuser as though nothing had happened? Oprah was stunned when the guest asked her that and I realized at that moment that I was too.

I waited for her answer but she couldn’t give him one. He told her that she had the right to refuse to sit with her abuser and that the reason she didn’t was because she didn’t value herself. I was stunned. It never dawned on me or obviously to Oprah either, that we had a right to stay away from our abusers. We could put our foot down and make a statement that we refuse to be a part of their lives.

With this epiphany, I couldn’t help but reflect on my life and the many times I continued hugging, having conversations with and sharing a meal with some of my abusers, as well as the abuser who molested my sister. It seemed like a natural thing to do. There was never any doubt that I shouldn’t treat them any differently than I always had. I wasn’t even angry with them. My uncle, who molested me many times, would hold me on his lap while conversing with the other adults, and I sat there laughing at his jokes.

Even after I remembered my sister’s abuse by my dad, and my dad blaming her for it, I continued to have a relationship with him. I wanted him to love me, to hug me. I wanted him to accept me and would even go as far to stand toe to toe with anyone who would dare have a harsh word about him. I continued to respect him as my dad and as a man. I knew what he did, I saw what he did, yet, I continued the same relationship with him.

Many years later, after seeing the effects the abuse had on my sister, I started to question my relationship with my dad. I saw pain and hurt in my sister. She never sought healing and spent her life being promiscuous, fearful, erratic, and as an alcoholic. She started to announce her anger at our mother because our mother had allowed her to be sent away while my dad remained in the home. Even though she had every right to be angry at my mom, I asked her why she wasn’t angry at my dad, since he was the one who abused her. She did everything to get close to my dad. When they were in the same room, you could feel this “thing” between them and there were rumors that they were still having sex. It became very confusing to me.

I didn’t understand the emotional ties that bind a daughter and her father, even after the father becomes the predator. But I did understand the effects that sexual abuse and false beliefs have. I understood my sisters “acting out” behaviors and I understood the fears and the pain that she tried to hide behind the alcohol and sleepless nights. But I didn’t understand her loyalty to him and why she wanted to be near him.

It wasn’t until I saw Oprah that day that I found myself doing the same thing that my sister had done. I wanted my dad’s love and affection. Not only I, but all my siblings. We would tap dance for him if he asked us to. It was then that I started to get angry. I felt like such a fool. I knew my thoughts of disgust for him were becoming real. I wondered how he could live with himself and sleep at night. I wondered if he had sexual thoughts about me like he did my sister. I questioned the times he gave me a hug and wondered if he was fantasizing about raping me. There was no end to the daytime nightmares that infiltrated my thoughts. I could not stop thinking about how my dad had betrayed me by being a molester.

I knew that the only way I could ease my pain was to speak about his molestations. I talked to my siblings about him and all but one wanted me to keep quiet. They honored him and respected him and did everything to remind me of what a wonderful dad we all had. No matter how much I talked about it with them, they would not take up the offense of my sister. All they saw was the after-effects of her sexual abuse. To them she was to blame and she deserved to be abused because she asked for it. I realized now that the more I tried to change their opinion of my dad, the more it caused them to focus on the infidelities of my sister. She died a few years ago and hearing my siblings bad mouth her was more traumatic to me than my justifications of having them fight for her cause. I may have lost the battle, but I didn’t lose the war.

It doesn’t matter who believes me, and it doesn’t matter if others still support the abusers. I can’t change their opinions nor can I make them fight my cause. All I can do is tell them the truth and hopefully they will guard their children and grandchildren from him. What does matter is that I know the truth and I do not have to sit at the same table nor talk to the abuser. I don’t have to tap dance or honor or be loyal any longer. I am free to talk about it and I am allowed to get angry over it. Thank you Oprah for that show so long ago.

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

[read Patty's story here]

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Why Do I Need to Tell?

osa — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 20:21:33 +0000

by Christina Enevoldsen, Bethany Ruck, Patty Hite & Jennifer Stuck

Christina: When I talk about my childhood sexual abuse, I see it as an opportunity to validate my inner child. As I reveal the horror of what happened to her, I’m inviting her out of the shadows of fear and shame. She’s accustomed to other’s dismissive denial, but telling the truth gives her the honor she deserves.

Bethany: I remember my childhood nightmare of screaming with all my might but no noise would come out. Holding in the secret abuse is just like that. I was constantly screaming inside but no one heard me. Finally, I made myself heard. I first began sharing when I was nineteen. My parents had just divorced, so my reason for keeping my secret was now obsolete. I pulled my mom aside and shared in very little detail that my father had sexually abused me for over twelve years. She put her arms around me and we both cried. What a relief it was! I could finally breathe again. This secret I held in all those years was out. It was a huge weight off my shoulders.

Once I told my mom, I didn’t feel like I had to keep the secret anymore. But I didn’t shout it from the rooftops either. For the first year I only told those who I trusted. Their reactions were always comforting and they were all willing to help in any way I needed. The validation I got in the safe circle of friends was crucial in being able to talk about it confidently now. I internalized my pain but talking about it helped me get it out.

Patty Hite: The first time I wrote my story about abuse it was kind of vague and straight to the point. I omitted who it was and the details. I remember being so afraid that if I wrote out everything that it would become too real. I was in denial at the time and didn’t want to believe that those I loved had hurt me in that way. After a few years of flashbacks and nightmares I decided to let it all out. Even though I was shaking as I wrote, I described the abusers and gave accurate descriptions of everything they did.

I discovered the feelings I felt at the time of the abuse. It was an awakening for me because up until then, I hadn’t realized how important it was to investigate the emotions, the smells, and the touch of the abuse. It was freeing. I felt liberated and empowered. Describing the abuse showed me how strong and courageous I was. Even though I hid my abuse from everyone as a child, it intrigued me to see what avenues I developed to cover it up.

Jennifer: Years ago, I spent a short time trying to heal from my abuse, but I quickly regressed back into denial, convincing myself that nothing ever happened. I lost any progress that I had made up to that point. It wasn’t until I started to write out and share my story with other survivors that I was truly able to start the healing process. I sat down with my laptop and typed out as much as I could remember—what they did, how it made me feel about myself, how my family reacted. I sent it to a trusted friend for her to read first. After that I slowly started letting more survivor-friends read it.

Just that one small step made the biggest difference for me. Sharing my story made it real in my own mind. I could no longer shove it to the back of my head and pretend it never happened. I had to start facing the facts. One piece at a time I looked at my own story. I was finally able to see things from a different perspective. Up until then I only remembered the abuse through my own eyes. I would always down play it and the effects it had on me, but when I saw my story written down I could read it like it was another person’s story. Would I blame them or say it was nothing if that were another person’s story? NO! So why was I doing that to myself? That realization was a huge moment for me. By sharing my story I was finally able to shed the guilt and shame I carried with me for so many years.

There are so many benefits of telling your story. Here are a few of them:

1. Abuse is devaluing. Talking about it is a declaration that you and what happened to you really matters.

2. Your experience may have been denied by others, and maybe even denied by you, but telling your story acknowledges the truth. It’s difficult to deny your abuse once you’ve revealed the secret. Telling the truth keeps you honest with yourself.

3. If you were threatened not to tell, telling helps to overcome the fear of breaking the secret.

4. The secrets you hold actually hold you, keeping you captive to the abuser’s power. Telling is a way to break free from the bond the secret created between you and your abuser.

5. Shame thrives in secrecy. Talking about your abuse helps to cast off the shame, both for yourself and other survivors.

6. Releasing the secret in this area helps you live more freely in other areas.

7. As long as you’re holding onto the secret, you’re also holding onto the pain. Sharing helps you access the feelings associated with your experience so you can release the pain.

8. Abuse is isolating. Telling is a way to connect with others. Having feedback from others heals the pain of isolation and makes support possible.

9. Telling may help you recover new memories and/or help you to see old memories in more detail. Telling the truth often leads to more truth.

Christina: A lot of people think that by telling my story, I’m living in the past. I feel just the opposite. The more I talk about it, the more separated I feel from the abuse and my abuser. The secret kept me imprisoned. I was locked up by my dad’s rule not to tell and I shared a bond with him as long as I kept that secret. It was as though he possessed me—that I belonged to him. As I protected him, I thought I was protecting me too.

I didn’t realize I felt that way until I told a crowd of people. I had the feeling I was betraying my dad, like I was cheating on a lover. In my heart, I accused myself of being disloyal. It was as though he cast a spell on me and the secret held the power. Breaking the secret broke his power over me. I was finally free to think and behave without considering how it would affect him. I didn’t have to protect him or our “relationship”.

Bethany: Before I broke the secret, I lived by my abuser’s rules, the most important was the rule not to tell. Breaking that rule took me out from under my dad’s control and made me the master of my own life. It didn’t happen overnight. Taking back my life fully has been a process. My dad’s control began to diminish little by little over time as I claimed my life as my own by accepting my own truth.

Telling broadened my horizons. It took off the limitations and put me in the driver’s seat of my own life. Some of the choices I made were good and some of them were bad, but they were finally MY choices. The decisions I made all had one thing in common: they were bold!

I was looking outside the window last night taking in my life as I know it. It occurred to me that where I am right now is now “normal” to me. Six years ago, before telling about my abuse, my world was so small. I could have never imagined a life outside my town, outside of what I was doing, or outside of the relationships I relied on. But when I told, my limited think began to change. My world got bigger and bigger.

It’s not easy to talk about our own abuse until we’ve heard the stories of other survivors. Reading other’s stories has many benefits:

1. Abuse and the secrecy surrounding it is isolating. Reading other’s stories tells you that you are not alone—that you aren’t the only one who suffered in that way.

2. Another common effect of abuse is the feeling that you are different. Reading other’s stories tells you that your feelings and the effects you experience are normal for the trauma you suffered.

3. Hearing other stories helps you see your own abuse in a different light. You may feel blame for your own experience, but seeing how blameless others are may inform you that you aren’t at fault for your abuse either.

4. If you don’t feel compassion, anger or other emotions concerning your own abuse, hearing other stories can help you to access those emotions so you can process them and heal from them.

5. Reading other survivor stories inspires courage so you can speak out about your own experiences.

Patty: When I first read a survivor’s story from a book, I cried for days. I was so relieved to know that I was not the only one. Her abuse was different, but the trauma from the abuse was the same as mine. Even though I didn’t know her and never spoke to her, I felt so close to her. As I continued to read about her abuse, I grew stronger. I was no longer alone. For a period of time the only books I read were stories about survivors; I didn’t want to read about healing. I wanted to become a part of a group of survivors. There were no survivor groups where I lived and there were no computers at the time, so the only connection I had was with the survivors who so graciously shared their stories. It was life changing for me. I continue to read survivors stories because it continuously brings me into the circle.

Jennifer: I wasn’t able to admit that I was a victim of sexual abuse until I started reading other people’s stories. They described the same types of things that happened to me as a kid. The only difference was that they had a label to define their experiences. I had always thought of it as “stuff that happened”, stuff that I didn’t think about, let alone talk about. It never occurred to me until then to attach the word abuse to my memories. If I hadn’t read the accounts of other survivors, I would most likely still be in denial today. I am so grateful to all the brave men and women that have opened up and shared their stories. They have paved the road for me and future generations to tell our stories and begin the healing process.

If you’d like to share your story or read other survivor’s courageous stories, visit the Overcoming Sexual Abuse discussion forum.

Related Posts:
How Do I Disclose My Abuse?

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.

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

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Cracking Up Keeps Me From Falling Apart: How Laughter is Part of My Healing

Guest Contributions — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 14:23:58 +0000

by Nikki Stone

“I use to think that keeping up with my appearances mattered. However, I have seen what age does to the body and quiet frankly I can’t run fast enough to keep up with such appearances. So I have settled to frighten myself every morning when I get up to look in the mirror. Of course it takes a half an hour to realize that the person starring back at me is myself. Until then, I am thoroughly convinced it is a robber who does not have the sense enough to flee the scene and instead is spying on me, stolen my birthday suit and it appears they have really done some damage to it.” –NkstOne

“Being a child of a Navy veteran and preacher, I stayed in the state of confusion though I will admit it is familiar territory. I have always been able to find my way around in such a state. Actually I have never figured out if I am to be a saint or to be a hell raiser, at times these two clash. The doctors call it bipolar; I call it an undeclared war. My heritage is very colorful—from preachers to thieves, from peace keepers to warmongers. I had no chance really because the Mason Dixon line runs right through my brain being that I have both Confederate and Yankee blood. It is constantly an uncivilized civil war in which has been turned into a hippie movement with Lithium and Elavil. Now it’s a fizzled out firecracker that sparks a few thoughts.” -NkstOne

I took life serious one time and that was the last time I made that mistake. Instead I take life in moments of reality; some days in small doses and some days in large doses. However, I will never again try to overdose on such—it doesn’t go to well with my mental health!

Hello, my name is Nikki Stone. I am a Mental Health Advocate, Writer, Photographer, Artist, Domestic Engineer (a professional way of saying I am a housewife), Wife, Sister, Daughter, Friend, and ultimately a human being—at least that is what I have recently discovered.

I have Bipolar Disorder that I am in recovery with and I am also a survivor from sexual, mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical abuse. I know the effects of abuse very deeply. Three years ago I came to a total standstill in my life—actually I hit a huge brick wall and ended up having a nervous breakdown.

I lived in so much fear, anger, denial, shame, and guilt that I could not see any point in living. To be honest, I would not let anyone help me. Many tried, but I was in such a thick web of pain and lies that I could not see the truth about me or about my life. I believed that I was evil, worthless, a waste of space and time. This belief was built upon years and years of lies I chose to believe about myself. I believed these lies so much that when someone would tell me the truth I didn’t believe them.

Though going through the nervous breakdown was a very dark time in my life, in a way I am kind of thankful it happened. I know that may sound weird, however, it has been through the process of facing my worst fears and surviving them that I am now beginning to be the “REAL ME”.

Until then, I was running on automatic. I was whatever people wanted me to be. I was on a dead end road and I thought that death would solve my suffering. However, I am glad that I made the choice to live. I call my life now the gift of a second chance. Now, I don’t have to be someone I am not just to be a person of value. I am of value because I am a person. It has been hard for me to realize this but there is so much truth to that. I am on the road of healing, recovery, and ultimately living as a whole person and not a fragmented shell of a being.

The truth is, being a human means that we have our strengths but we also have our weaknesses. I am not ashamed to be who I am, because no one else can be me thus no one else can tell me that I am doing it all wrong by being me.

When abuse occurs we are led to believe that we caused the abuse—that we are at fault. And that is what many abusers want us to believe. The truth is the fault lies with the abuser. What I have realized in my abuse that if it wasn’t me, then it would have been someone else, because the problem wasn’t me. The problem was within the abuser. I can point this out because what I have realized in my own journey in healing is that I too became an abuser. Where the abusers left off in my life I picked up and began self-abusing and I became abusive towards others. That is what happens when we do not see the truth—we become the very thing we despise.

In my “warped” belief system I thought that in order for me to accept myself I had to have other people to accept me. In truth I had that all backwards. I have learned that I have to accept me “warts and all,” meaning accept myself 100% including but not limited to my weaknesses, my shortcomings, limitations, failures, and mistakes as well as my strengths, talents, abilities, and victories. This is what makes me human and there is no shame in that.

I am not talking about being selfish or conceded or prideful. I am talking about really truly learning to love the person I am and if I can love me “warts and all,” then I am able to truly love others. Love begins within us before we can truly give it. I had a light bulb moment a few weeks ago over this, that light bulb moment was I realized that I can’t give what I don’t have, so if I don’t love me for who I truly am then how can I honestly give what I don’t have? At that point I realized “Wow, and the truth shall set you free!” Because I lived years and years believing that if I loved me that I was being prideful, that I was being selfish! Now I know that is a lie and to be further honest to understand my motives I needed to quit listening to the world and listen to my own heart and compare it to the truth.

One of the vital tools that has helped me is to have a sense of humor. Laughter is the best medicine! Now I am finding many reasons to laugh and to find humor in everyday life. I still face difficult times and I still have struggles but they are not like they use to be. In other words I am not consumed by them to the point that I shut down, instead I face them and when it seems that the issue at hand is too overwhelming I am not afraid to reach out to get help. I realize I was not created to become “Wonder Woman.” I have not yet found my lasso or my golden arm bands thus I know I am really 100% human and not some fictional character from a comic book who was sent to rescue and save the whole world. And to be honest “THANK GOD” because I can be me and not have to be a superficial person who has to be strong all the time. And to be honest Popeye lied; spinach does not make us super strong. I have found strength in being able to laugh again. No matter how thick the clouds in my life may get, if I can come to a point where I can laugh then the burden isn’t so hard to carry.

It is being able to find humor in life that has helped me to see the truth of many things. It is okay to be who we are and to be able to laugh at ourselves, just as it is okay to cry and to lean on each other’s shoulders for support at times. I tell people quite often “Don’t give up when it is the darkest hour of your life because usually that is when the sun will soon rise.” Now I am proactive in my own life. I am learning to take responsibility for my life. I am neither hopeless nor helpless. It has been a long hard road to get to where I am at right now and even though it has been painful, it has been worth it.

Being able to see certain parts of my broken life becoming whole again has been amazing to me. And the beauty of it all since I have had to make that huge U-turn in my life and face all the things I was running from, as well as speaking out about these things there have been others who now have found strength to do the same. Yes, our life counts and we do affect each other one way or another. I used to think that my life had no affect, however I have been proven wrong and I am thankful that I can now see the truth and not be a prisoner to the lies I once believed.

Nikki Stone (aka NkstOne) is a mental health advocate in the state of Mississippi as well as a mental health consumer. She lives in North Mississippi with her husband and Cairn Terrier, Oz (who is her fur baby and therapy dog). She is involved with NAMI Mississippi and a trained Connections Facillitator, and “In Our Own Voice” Presenter (IOOV). If you’d like to read more of Nikki’s blogs, visit her site: This Human Life

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