Sexual molestation is an ugly thing. Violation of a child’s sense of trust by an adored authority figure such as a parent, teacher, or babysitter, does enormous damage to the emerging personality, provoking a lifetime legacy of emotional pain, not the least of which is an inability to maintain intimate personal relationships. All children crave love and affection. So much so that infants who do not receive it literally die. This is a verifiable medical diagnosis known as “FTT” or failure to thrive. We are born with a need to be touched, petted and stroked. Giving manifestation to what we feel in our heart. So what happens when the caress that is supposed to make you feel good ends up making you feel nasty and unclean?
Afraid that other people could smell my shame, I would wash, and wash, and wash. I never wore the same article of clothing twice; it had to be laundered before I could even think about putting it next to my skin. I was diligent about trying to remove the filth from my body so no one would ever know my disgrace. By the age of eight, even though I didn’t know the word for it, I felt like a pariah. The most innocent touch left me feeling contaminated. Fear of transferring the “infection” dictated that I should not touch anyone else. As you might imagine, I was a very lonely child.
Always on the fringe, I would never allow myself to participate in group endeavors. I was more comfortable being a loner. My attackers had warned me, “You’d better not tell”; so I lived in abject terror of being “found out”. I had a secret that set me apart from polite society. The physical pain of loneliness is very real. It literally felt like I had a deep aching hole in my chest. This didn’t make any sense because I couldn’t see what was wrong with me. There was no wound to visualize. Why did it hurt so much?
Necessity being the mother of invention, I got busy making the pain real. I ate until my stomach felt like it was about to burst. Fist fights left bruises that I felt and saw. As an adolescent, I began cutting my wrist, my hair, and my clothing. Sexual promiscuity was another way of placing me in harm’s way. Alliance with abusive partners was actually a learned behavior. My earliest experiences had taught me not to depend on those charged with my protection. They would always let me down. I expected abandonment. I anticipated dying alone, emotionally and physically. Assuming the role of victim made me a target for victimization. A pattern of self-destructive behavior ensured that I would get hurt. Now I owned the pain and it was sweet. Now I was in control.
I could not only control how much pain I was in, I could also decide how the pain was inflicted. What a marvelous sense of power! I could control the amount of toxic waste to swallow. No one was sticking foreign objects or body parts into my mouth, my vagina, or my rectum. I was now doing it to myself. It took awhile to realize this was a vile form of masturbation. This self-stimulation triggered self-loathing, the very feeling I was trying to wash away. Back to square one.
In a weird way, I had finally learned to be responsible for my feelings. Now I needed to learn how to do it in a healthy manner. Having no memory of the incidents of sexual abuse, I still did not know why I hurt so much, but I did know I was tired of the pain. Intuitively I understood that I had been breast fed a litany of, guilt, shame, and blame and I was sick of it. I was sick of the lies and innuendo. What happened to me was not my fault. What I was doing to myself was. Between the ages of 19 and 21, I began to work on healing.
I laid hand on every self-help book I could find, including the Holy Bible. I had done some form of psychotherapy off and on since the age of 13 with poor results. You can’t find yourself if you don’t know who you’re looking for. Now I was digging through the wasteland of my life searching for a foundation of truth. Now I was trying to cut and paste my shattered personality back together again.
First, it was imperative to stop listening to the old “tapes” looping in my head. I was not a stupid, lazy, ugly, crazy liar. I was academically talented. I did have a solid work ethic. I was beautiful. I was discerning. I was creative. In addition, curiously enough, I was full of love. Imagine that. She who was “unlovable” was actually full of love!
I started by loving others. I went to nursing school in order to attend the sick and needy. Is that ironic or what? I was still sick. I was still needy. Working 12 hour shifts 7 days a week trying to fix everybody else only exacerbated my own problems. Back to square one.
Now in my early thirties, refusing to give up, I went back into therapy. Thank God for the gift of Douglas Nance. Doug was the mother I wished I had growing up. He mirrored for me healthy images of emotional well being. I also learned to sit at home and watch movies. Sure, it was situational and contrived some actor merely portraying life. But, it was an opportunity to see emotional response in some sort of context. If the film was funny, I laughed. If it was sad, I cried. I left the scary stuff alone.
When the memories came screaming back I thought I would lose my mind. I was feeling what I should have felt at the time each incident occurred. Except now, I was feeling it all at once. This much intensity was scary. Old wounds were open and oozing. Why would anyone do such things to a child? Why didn’t somebody rescue me? People knew what was happening to me and did absolutely nothing to stop it. What do I do now?
Acknowledge the fear, the pain, the anger, the resentment and disappointment, the bitterness of childhood interrupted. All appropriate emotional responses to abuse. Now it all made perfect sense. I previously believed myself to be a “night owl” up and working 7pm to 7am suited me just fine. Now I know I am afraid of the dark. Lights out was the trigger for a reign of terror. The pain in my chest was real. As a small child, I was sat on and crushed beneath the weight of a fully-grown adult. When the man stuck his penis in my mouth, I bit off and swallowed a piece of his foreskin resulting in my need to chew the pain away. Poked, prodded, pinched, slapped, and struck with whatever was handy. Not even 5 years old yet. No wonder I did not want anybody to touch me.
Until now. Now I hug anybody who will open his or her arms to me. Intimacy is a wonderfully fulfilling gift of the Spirit. If I get hurt, which sometimes happens, I confront the pain and move on. I no longer chew and choke on self-righteous anger. Vengeance being such a lazy form of grief, I have stopped beating myself up. I have also stopped fighting, leaving folk to battle their own demons without my assistance. If I am happy, I laugh. If I am sad, I cry. It is no longer acceptable for anyone to tell me who or what I am, particularly when it runs contrary to my own experience. When overwhelmed I have a tendency to throw dishes. For some reason the sound of breaking glass releases anguish. There is still so much that I do not remember. There are things that I remember and forget again.
My primary attacker is alive and well, and still abusive. By choice, I no longer have much to do with her. I doubt that she will ever change. That is not my problem. I have changed, or maybe I have not changed so much as I have become aware of who I am.
He claims I am obsessed, but I remember. I remember realizing that Gabriel suffered the same signs and symptoms of sexual abuse as I once did.
