Catharsis

This morning a dear friend posted an incredibly personal Facebook status about her personal experience with violence and harassment and filed it under the YesAllWomen hashtag. And as a result of that, we had a private conversation where we agreed to write the details of our own stories and when we were done, we would decide whether to post them or not. Here is her story. I think she has more guts than I do because she hammered that story out in no time despite the misgivings of her family. So, now I am telling mine from beginning to end, in detail because as she says, #SilenceisViolence and #YesAllWomen.

When I was about three years old, the preacher's son and daughter at my church took me and my best friend to the basement of the church to play hide and seek. They separated us. I'll never know why. Was his sister in on it? Did something similar happen to my friend while we were separated? I really don't know. I remember that a few minutes later when we were united, she was crying and wanted to go upstairs so maybe something did happen to her as well. It gives me a little bit of delight to think that her tears struck fear in the hearts of both of them that we might tell. Alas, we never did and I have never come to understand why. Anyway, he stood me up on a table, pulled down my panties and touched my vagina with his cold fingers. A very deliberate act. I can still feel his cold hands and smell him. To this day, that smell makes my stomach turn. I said "Stop." pulled my panties up and got down off the table. I don't remember anything else until I was reunited with my friend.

Years later, as a junior in high school, I was one half of an abusive relationship. It wasn't physically abusive so much as mentally so. I was controlled, manipulated and guilted into staying. Afraid to say "No." Afraid to stand up. Afraid to dress a certain way. Afraid to talk to certain people. Afraid, especially, to talk to other boys.

There were multiple "incidents" in high school but the one that sticks out most in my mind is the time that he kicked the cafeteria door pretty much off its hinges because some other boy had touched my arm.

Yep, you read that right.
Someone else touched my arm and he kicked the cafeteria door so hard that it knocked it off its hinges.

 I thought going far away to college would be easier for me than breaking up with him. Surely the relationship wouldn't survive such distance and even though, I didn't know how to be myself without him, I secretly, desperately wanted to try it. So I went somewhere more than 3 hours from home. And I came home every single weekend during that year except the handful of weekends that he came to see me. I put on such a good show, that none of my friends suspected a thing.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure there was nothing he could have done that would make me leave until I was ready and there is nothing anyone could have said that would have made me see the light. I had to do it on my own. At that point I had put up with so much already. I knew that he slept with other girls because I wasn't giving it up. I knew that he was jealous, controlling and belittling. None of that mattered. I think my own experience is why I hate hearing people essentially participate in victim blaming when they say things like "You need to wake up" or "You need to leave" because the fact is, it's hard and when an abuser is using mind games, those are the hardest things to break free of. Because even when you aren't with them, they're still controlling you.

I went to college believing that I was 'cute' but not really 'hot' and that not many guys would like me or find me attractive. The thing about college is that, there are so many different kinds of people and generally no one is hung up on the cliques of high school and there's lots of parties and alcohol to attend and really, there's someone for everyone. What I found was that there were lots of guys who thought I was worth looking at. I wasn't stuck in the box others had built around me in high school. I wasn't any of the labels I had learned there. Just his girlfriend. I could be whoever I wanted. Or so I thought.

That year of college was torturous. Not at all the freedom I thought it would be. My phone bill was constantly through the roof because I could not get off the phone with him. He scoured my computer when he was visiting to see what I had been up to. He hated my friends. Hated any guy who looked my way. He found a saved instant message from another guy one time. This guy had tried to kiss me one night and I resisted because I had a boyfriend I was scared of and confused about but not really committed to.

One weekend a friend asked me to come home with her to meet her parents and see her hometown and I agreed. It sounded fun. I was excited. But scared. How did I tell him I wasn't coming home the following weekend? My friend didn't know he would lose it so she innocently said "What are you going to do next weekend without Kristina? She's coming home with me."

Cue the rage.

We started yelling at one another. He followed us down the stairs of my dorm and out to my friend's car, where I proceeded to get in the backseat and tried to shut the door but he wouldn't allow that. He almost ripped the door right off. We went to breakfast hoping he'd be gone by the time we got back. He wasn't. He was waiting on us. He followed me up the stairs to my dorm room and I told him to pack his stuff and get out. He grabbed his stuff and I managed to push him out the door but he refused to leave my dorm. He yelled so loudly that he woke up the other people on my hall. They all came out to watch the spectacle. I was so scared to leave the room and I had to pee so bad, that I peed in a cup rather than face him in the hallway. Of course in hindsight, we should have just called campus police but I was so confused about what love really looked like and all of my feelings were tangled up in my confusion.

At some point, he finally left.
We were done.
I was devastated.
Completely and totally, irrationally devastated.
It makes no sense at all, right?
Right in that very moment, I was finally free. I could be whoever I wanted to be. Nobody was boxing me in anymore. And yet, I didn't know who I was without him.

Academically, I wasn't doing too hot. I wasn't doing hot at all. My family would have told you it was because I partied too much or because I didn't study enough or because I was homesick and blah, blah, blah. The truth is, they didn't and still don't, know jackshit. They've always tried to box me in with their ideas about who they thought I should be, not who I really am. I never felt like I could really tell anyone what was going on so I let them continue to believe their fallacies about me.

I think only a handful of people know what I'm about to say and it has until this point remained my most shameful secret, which is really saying something because I have a lot of things I thought were shameful secrets.
Whew.
Deep breaths.

I failed out that year. My GPA was so ridiculously low. If I wanted to go back, I had to pay out of pocket because I lost my financial aid. I've always kept that a secret because in my mind, it meant that I wasn't smart. That people would think that I was all of the things that my family thought about me.

I had to tell my mama, whose approval I had always tried to win, that I had flunked out and lost my financial aid. That could have easily been the most difficult moment of my life.

Sometime during the summer that I was home, we got back together. Don't ask me why. I will never have a good answer for that. Things were different this time. I pretended I was the one calling the shots. I believed in my worth just a little bit more. Believed in my value and myself just a little bit more. I tolerated a lot less from him. It lasted about 6 months before I was finally done for good. The last straw was seemingly so insignificant considering the other very loud moments in our relationship that should have woken me up. He promised to change the oil in my car but the night before he had a huge party with lots of pot and alcohol and he said he didn't feel like it. That was it. I don't know why that was my smelling salt moment but the switch went off and I said to myself 'I am worth more than this and this time I'm going to keep believing it.'

After that, I dated quite a bit. I never really let anyone in, though. I was always too scared of being controlled or being hurt, so I was the one who did all the hurting. The minute someone got too close, I broke it off. He knew I was dating a lot and so every now and then, he called me. A lot of times, I answered the phone and we talked. I was still so confused about what real love looks like. I suppose one could make the argument that I "led him on" but I never gave him the idea that we would ever be a thing again.

There was one guy who lasted longer than any of the rest because he moved very slow and that kept me feeling very comfortable. And then I got the call. I had participated in all the rest so why not this one? I liked this new guy so I told him not to ever call me again. I was seriously done. And that's when the real harassment started. Driving by my house at all hours. Texting me and calling me at all hours. Sending people to check up on while I was at work. I was scared to be out anywhere at night. He was constantly calling me really nasty names, assuming all kinds of things about the sexual relationships I had with the guys I was dating. I don't even want to say any of that stuff here because it still feels so dirty and none of it was true.

In what was perhaps her most bold moment, the one that still makes me think somewhere under all the rest of the shit I've dealt with, my mama really, really does love me, she called him herself. She left a message on his voicemail telling him to leave me alone and then the next morning she took the day off from work and drove me to the courthouse where she harassed every county employee until someone called a judge in to sign a temporary protective order based on the texts I could prove I'd received. Then she walked me over to the sheriff's department so she could make sure they were given all the information they needed regarding his home and work situation, so they'd know where to serve him.

A week later, she took another day off work to accompany me to court to testify for the year long protective order. I was so nervous and terrified. I had heard through mutual "friends" that he planned to show up for court and tell them I had initiated calls to him and also that I used to talk to him when he called. As if that mattered. It didn't matter. Because when I said "Stop calling me. I'm done for real this time." that should have been it. I should not have had to go to court to get him to stop calling me. 'Stop' should have been enough. My words should have been the only thing he heard. His behavior was not justified because of my previous actions. I did not deserve to be harassed just because I had previously acquiesced when he called.

In the end, he didn't show up. The judge granted the protective order. He was served later that day. I never heard anything else from him but that didn't stop me from being scared. I ended up moving out of my parents house and into my own apartment. Partly because of trouble with my mama and partly because I wanted to feel safe, like he didn't know where to find me. I struggled with hyper vigilance, anxiety, insomnia, hearing and seeing things that weren't there. If you're guessing PTSD, you'd be right. I paid a whole lot of money for therapy to learn that.

 It was years before I ever saw him again. By that time I had been married for a number of years; Fifi was a baby. I was strong and sure of myself and Daniel would never dream of treating me that way. And yet, when I saw him, I was scared all over again. It's funny how much I've grown and how different I am but that whole experience still enslaves me to some degree. I don't talk about it much. Not in detail. I avoid people we used to know. Places we used to go. I don't say his name. Don't talk about that first year in college. Until now.

 Someone told me once that "everyone has a crazy ex and if you didn't, then you were probably the crazy one." Why do we talk about it that way? Why is having an abusive boyfriend the norm? Why do we act like it's no big deal or that it must be her fault because she led him on?

I didn't want to write this. I put it off all day long. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I have read so many other stories that seem so much worse than my own. My perpetrator as a child stopped when I told him to and he never touched me again even though I saw him for years after the incident. My boyfriend only verbally and mentally abused me. I don't have any visible scars to show. I've never actually been raped because I fought it off the one time it could have happened. It seems to me that I've gotten off pretty easy compared to the other stories I've heard and read.

The only reason I actually wrote it is because the mere thought that any of the things that have happened to me could happen to my own daughter make me sick. I could recount so many other incidents of harassment from random men that left less of an impact on me but I think they would look much like stories every other woman has. Y'all know the ones. Cat calls, giving a fake phone number, telling him you have a boyfriend and hoping that's enough to make him leave you alone.

Why do we accept those things as a normal part of being a woman?
 I don't want them to be normal to my daughter.
 I want them to infuriate her as much as they infuriate me. I never want someone to tell her it's normal to have been in an abusive relationship.
 It's not normal.
 It's not okay.
 Physical abuse does not equal worse than verbal or mental abuse. Your boyfriend does not have the right to tell you who you can hang out with. He does not have the right to tell you what you can wear. He does not have the right to demand you come home every weekend in college. It is not normal or okay for him to threaten to set fire to your dorm if you don't come with him. It is not normal to be afraid of the person who says he loves you. That is not okay.

Let's stop telling each other it's normal or okay. Let's stop blaming each other for staying or for "allowing" ourselves to be abused. Let's stop being complacent with the way we view our roles. Let's stop being afraid of speaking up. Stop being afraid to say "No."

#YesAllWomen #SilenceisViolence

The Whole Truth: Part V

  The author of this story is very dear to me. She kept this secret for 25 years. The first person she told was me. It was a whirlwind of her finally telling someone, deciding to write this post for this blog and then realizing her power. I believe that little girl would be proud of the woman she became.
                                                                                                                                                                        
 I don’t know how old I was but I was old enough to remember. I don’t know how long it went on but it never should have happened. I knew it was wrong but I didn’t have a voice.

I do now.

My grandmother owned a two family home in Greenfield, MA. After my parents divorced when I was 2, we moved into the first floor apartment.  After some time, my mother remarried and after a while we moved to the apartment on the second and third floors. My grandmother found tenants for the bottom apartment; a nice young couple just starting out.

          
The details from that time in my life are hazy at best. A couple of years passed and my mother remarried a verbally abusive and controlling man. She divorced again (thank God), and we were on our own. We were happy about that. Looking back, and now being a mother myself, that must have been the hardest thing for my mother do to-be a single parent.

         
 When I was growing up, I struggled with the absence of my father. All of my friends had the “perfect” family; mother, child, sibling, and father. I struggled, I was confused, I was angry, I thought I was missing out.  So when the nice man who lived downstairs started to talk to me, I was loving the attention.

         
I remember his name. I remember he was tall, dark haired, had a mustache, and married. He also had a computer. Which was just so exciting to me because this was back in the 80’s, and we didn’t even have a cordless phone. It all started over that damn computer. The computer and a game of SIMS. I still can’t handle looking at that game, or seeing the commercials. He would invite me to come downstairs to play SIMS. It started with me sitting in the spare bedroom on their swivel computer chair, learning how to build my homes and cities. He would come in, ask me how it was going, ask if I f needed help and if he could show me how to do something. I stood up, he sat down, and I sat on his lap.

           

This is what hurts…the innocence of my actions…I don’t know how a grown man go see a child as anything but pure innocence.

 I remember my mom had bought me little tank tops to go under my shirts because I saw her wearing a bra and I wanted one. One was red and white, the other blue and white. They had a little lace trim. I was so grownup. So proud. And so embarrassed- when one day, while I was sitting on his lap, his hand went up the back of my shirt and started rubbing my back.  His fingers traced the lace trim, and I remember him smiling and giving a little chuckle. I can still feel my embarrassment. I can still feel the feeling of “wrong”.

           

The lap sitting and back rubbing continued. His wife was always cooking dinner in the next room.

 The room began to change. The computer was moved to the back corner of the bedroom. The back corner of the bedroom that used to be mine. I had my rocking chair and my teddy bear in that corner only a couple of years before. All of a sudden there were tall metal shelves that divided the room- placed perfectly to obstruct the view of the computer from the kitchen. They were filled.

The lap sitting was usually on one leg. I don’t remember the first time…but I remember him moving me so that I was sitting on both of his legs, with mine spread over the tops of both of his. His hands eventually began to find my legs. First my shins, and then my thighs, and then he moved to my inner thighs. It was almost as though he was testing me. Would I say anything? Would I react?

 I remember moving my legs together and he would tickle my knee to draw attention away from my reaction and to make me laugh. One of those times his hands moved to my private area. That’s what my mom called it. I remembered my mother’s words, “private areas are just for you. Only Mommy, the Doctor, and Grammy can look or touch”. But I also remembered my mother’s words, “You don’t correct adults. You respect adults. You can trust adults”. So I said nothing…

I remember him moaning. I remember him touching me; my back, my thighs, my vagina, and him moaning. He would always say that he was moaning because his back hurt.

 We would play a card game called Mille Borne. I loved it. I loved that he had time to play it with me. We would sit in their dining room at the table. He would always sit across from me.  I don’t remember his wife being home. He would make me question my moves in the game, he would joke with me saying I messed up, and that I was going to, “get it good”. He stared. Oh my Lord, did he stare. He would just stare at me from across the table. His smirk is what still gives me goose bumps. He would always make sure that my chair was pushed in nice and close to the table, because when it was, he could reach my vagina with his foot from the opposite side of the table. When I tried to sit on my knees, he would remind me that his wife would get mad if I marked up the white cushion, so I needed to sit on my bottom.  He would rub me with his foot and smirk. I tried to scoot my bottom to the very back of the chair…but it was never far enough. He never let me win...

 I remember him picking me up. Like you do to hug a toddler. He would wrap my legs around his waste and have me wrap my arms around his neck. We would dance. He started to lower me, so that I wasn’t around his waste. I would now be hanging from his neck with my vagina directly over his crotch. I could feel him. He would bounce me up and down, as he thrust towards me as I came down. Again the smirk…and the moaning. He would then tip me upside down, with my hands searching for the ground below me. I have a memory of my shirt starting to fall up my torso and over my head. I tried to pull it back down, but he would swing me, so my hands would let go, and my shirt would leave me exposed. I remember his hands roaming up my belly and finding my nipples. He would pinch. He would grope.

The last memory I have is we were sitting on the couch. I remember this being after the “dancing”. He sat down on the couch and had me straddle him. He would say things, daring me to do things. He would say, “I bet you can’t bounce up and down”. So I did. I remember him grabbing my hips while I did this. He would say, “I bed you can’t move back and forth”. So I did. He would grab my hips and hold me down as I moved back and forth…pushing me harder and harder into him.  He would be moving too. Grinding his hips as I moved too.

He then asked me to kiss him.
 I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss.

 I had always kissed my grandfather, my dad when he came to visit, and my uncle. So I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. He asked for another one. I leaned over to kiss him again, and he held me there. He held my head. I couldn’t move. I remember his scruff. I remember his mustache. I remember his stinky, hot breath. He held me there with one hand, while his other hand went down the front of my pants. He was still on top of my undies, but he was rubbing me, while kissing me. Grinding and moaning.

 I didn’t know what he was doing, but I knew it was wrong.
So wrong. I could feel him.
Knowing now that he was so turned on and had an erection.
But at that time, I thought that there was something hard in his pocket.
Innocence.

Again, I don’t remember how long this went on. At least a year. But I know I told my mom I didn’t want to go downstairs and visit anymore. I told her that it was boring.

My mom was friendly with his wife. We had gone to see her act in the play The Sound of Music. I remember clapping so hard because she was just so fantastic as one of the sisters at the convent. My mom invited her up for coffee.

I had to live in the apartment above him. I had to see him still. I had to walk down the stairs, past his door. I remember him opening it a couple of times and looking at me. Just staring. Staring and smirking. At first I would say hello. I then began to just stare back…and run as fast as I could past his door.

I would catch him watching me play out in our back yard through my old bedroom window. Through the computer room window. As soon as he knew I saw him, he would move away.

I remember the anxiety I had when my mother would ask me to go get something from the basement. That meant I had to pass his door. That meant I would be in the basement. Alone. One time I was coming back up from the basement, and we met on the stairs as he was coming down. He looked at me. Angry. I walked right by, but turned as I rounded the corner I looked back. He was still staring. Angry stares. Frightening stares.

          
I couldn’t sit on the front porch, because our front doors shared it. When I did, he would open his front door and position himself in his living room so he could see me. I have often wondered what else would have happened if I were younger, and he had more time.  And I thank God that it wasn’t worse than it was.

          
I have hidden this secret so far back in my memory that details of time and age escape me. The brain is so mysterious. I can’t remember duration or age, but I can remember smell. I can remember looks. These remembrances make me shiver in disgust when I truly allow myself to go back to that place.

          
I haven’t shared this secret. My mom knows something happened…but not in detail. I think it would break her heart. She would feel somehow responsible. Which of course, she’s not. And I’m okay with not sharing the details with her. We have the same heart, my mom and I. This would break her spirit, as it would break mine if this happened to my children.

         
 I haven’t told my husband. Not really. But he feels the effects of it. I don’t like to be touched certain ways. I don’t like to be held down or restricted. When I kiss him and he has face scruff, I back away. It’s been over 25 years.

Over 25 years and I still remember…

 But today, I’m remembering it differently. I’m remembering a little girl who was so confused, so scared, so timid and shy…and today that little girl has found the courage.  The courage to speak the truth. The courage to say enough. The courage to let go of the embarrassment. The courage to stand up and say, Steven, you can’t hurt me anymore. I’m rising above. I’m rising about the hate, the hurt, and the darkness…and coming into the light. 

The Whole Truth: Part IV

This story is about sexual abuse by a partner. Even when you're in a relationship, no still means no. Being in a relationship or being married or whatever does NOT negate your feelings and your voice.
                                                                                                                                                                  


My whole life, I had been independent. That’s how I was raised. I had said that I would NEVER let someone abuse me. I had said that I would NEVER be someone’s punching bag… Never say never.

When we first met, things were good. We were happy. Shortly thereafter, things started to change.

I can see now, having been removed from the situation what he was doing. It started out with playing with my emotions. Saying or doing things to get a reaction out of me because he thought it was funny.  For his amusement, even though I was hurt. He relished in seeing me cry.

Then, one night he wanted to have sex. I didn’t want to; I wasn’t feeling well. That didn’t stop him. He slapped me. He bent me over and took what he wanted. I hurt, I bled, I cried. I was afraid. The first thing he said to me after he was done, “You know this wasn’t rape, right?” A little bit of me died that night. That was the first time he had hit me and the first time he had raped me. It happened more frequently after that. Not all the time,  not every day, but once it started, it didn’t stop. He had been raised by an abusive alcoholic father, seeing him beat his mother, I used this as an excuse for his behavior for a long time. He didn’t know better, I said. He had no other examples. I could fix him, I knew it.

Then he started drinking. The drinking progressed and he was drinking every night. We may not have a knock down drag out every night, but we would argue at the very least. He would come home later and later. He was cheating. I made excuses for everything. He had hit me here and there. The rape had become more frequent. I got to the point I was numb. I protested at first, and then I would just lay there and let him do what he wanted. I was powerless. I needed him. I couldn’t support myself, I couldn’t be alone.

One night, I actually went out with him.

 BIG mistake.

We left the bar, and headed home. We were fighting. We had both been drinking. He pushed me out of the car when we got home and threw me against the brick wall outside. My back was bleeding, I hit my head. He said he was going to take my car and leave. He was drunk. I couldn’t let him do that. He would kill someone!

I went in the house and he came in behind me. He pushed me into the bedroom, threw me on the bed and jumped on top of me. He had his arm on my throat, choking me. I struggled to pull out my phone and dial 911. Once the phone was ringing, I threw it across the room. He broke his grasp to get it, and I yelled out our address. He came back to me, thinking they couldn’t hear me, or wouldn’t respond without more information and pushed me, hit me and bruised me.

Finally, there was a knock at the door. His eyes were wild, he was scared. I went to the door, and the deputy saw me. He barged through the door, went in the other room, dragged him out of the house and threw him on the ground. I asked the officer if he could just take him somewhere away from me, until the morning. He said he would have to take him to jail. I didn’t want that. I told the officer to let me go to my bedroom, lock the door and go to sleep, then he could leave. As soon as the officer was gone, the bedroom door was knocked from its hinges. He started to beat me again. Soon, there was another knock at the door. The officer hadn’t left, he was just down the street. He heard my screams and came back. This time, he didn’t give me an option. He could see the marks. My entire neck and chest were bruised. HE, the officer, was filing charges against him and taking him to jail. My brother’s wedding was 3 days away. I was a part of it. I covered the bruises as best I could and lied to my family. They believed my story, because they had no reason not to.

His family kept calling, asking why I did that to him. Why I put him in jail. Why I wouldn’t let him out. I tried to explain that it wasn’t me. That I couldn’t do anything about it.

After all this, I was convinced that I still needed him. I’m not sure what I needed. I think it was more that I didn’t want to “fail”. I didn’t want my relationship to fail. He was the only guy I had ever been with, I thought I loved him, because of that.

We went to court, and I told the judge that everything was fine. I told him that it wouldn’t happen again. The judge told me that he hoped I would get the opportunity to change my mind, but that usually these things didn’t end well and it could be my last chance to do something about it. He told him that if he EVER saw him in his courtroom again for domestic violence, that he would not take the ladies word and he would not let him go.

Things were fine for a little while. Then it all started again. He had been out all night and I was walking towards him. He kicked me in the face. Oh my, the pain. My jaw ached. He started to cry, apologizing, saying he didn’t mean to hurt me. I found out a few years later that he had fractured my jaw that night.

Things continued in much the same way for years, 6.5 years, to be exact. I started school, and met some of the most amazing, young girls. Many of them don’t know it, but they saved me. They were kind, they were sweet, and they knew they deserved better. They made me feel like I deserved better. They brought back my confidence in myself. They lifted my self-esteem from the ground below. They built me into the person I had once been. They helped me realize that I deserved to be treated better. That EVERY woman deserves better.

 We had moved into separate apartments, but were still together. I was living with some of the girls from school, which was just what I needed. I drew strength from them.

One day, while I was taking him back to his apartment, he started to fight. He said, “If you don’t do this, then we are done!” I looked him straight in the eyes and with no emotion, no reservation, I said, “OK”. Just like that, it was done.

When we got to his place, he said that if I didn’t come in, we were through. I let him out of the car and drove away. I got back to my apartment, and my roommates were there with open arms to welcome me. They didn’t know what I had gone to do, or what would happen, but they knew when I came back that night, that something was different. That I had taken a stand and made a decision for MY future.

That was the end of it. Just like that. I began to reprogram myself, then, rebuild my life. It’s so hard to leave that situation.

There’s fear.
 Lots of fear.

 I watched around every corner, afraid he would be there, for the longest time. The abuser uses the mind games to break you down. To make you think less of yourself. That’s the first step in their control. Once they have that, they can pretty much do anything and you’ll stay right where you are. The hell you are in becomes your safe place. Your mind is warped. Your perception is blurred. People talk about how it won’t happen to them, or they would just leave. Without being there, you just don’t know. You don’t know how hard it is. Things aren’t so cut and dry.

Since all of this, I have found my happiness! I am married to a wonderful man, who loves me for me. I have an amazing little boy that makes every day seem more important than the day before, and I am pregnant with a little girl to complete our family. I have more now than I ever though I deserved then.

Everyone just needs to know: YOU are enough. YOU are special. YOU are loved. YOU don’t deserve to be treated as someone’s punching bag. YOU don’t deserve to be raped. YOU DESERVE TO BE HAPPY!  

The Whole Truth: Part III

This story comes to you from a friend whose daughter experienced the sexual abuse. She tells it from the point of view that I think lots of us who were victims of the actual act have a hard time seeing from. There are lots of triggers in this one with vivid images and less than "polite" conversation topics but these are important conversations to have. Especially this particular one.
                                                                                                                                                                   


NOP.

These three little letters drastically changed my life, who I am, who I will be, what I do... Everything....

NOP-Non Offending Parent.

I remember that day like it was yesterday, details so clear in my mind I fear even death won't free me.  It was the end of July, a couple weeks before my daughters 4th birthday. She and I were in the car on the way to her friends birthday party.  We were chatting about everyday things like we always do when she said something that made my heart completely stop.  I pulled off the side of the road and turned around to her and said "What did you say?"  She replied "I don't want to put the penis in my mouth."  (Let me pause here to say she has a little brother and had seen his penis during diaper changes and knew what a penis was.) I said "No!  You don't ever put a penis in your mouth!" That seemed to please her and she stopped talking about it, so we went on to the party.  The entire time we were at the party my mind circled around those words.  Had she seen something?  Had s heard something?  Where did my innocent baby get THAT idea?!  When I got home that evening I asked my husband if he had any idea where that came from "Naybe you were watching a movie and didn't know she was up?" I said.  He swore there was no way possible. "We don't even own those movies!"  I agreed saying "I didn't know if you have some I didn't know about!"

I decided this had to be something she picked up from one of the older kids at daycare and let it go.

A few days passed. She said nothing...then a week..two..three... And finally, she said it again.  I was in the kitchen, putting groceries away, when she came to me.  Standing in the middle of the pantry, she said it again.  "I don't want to put the penis in my mouth...."  But this time she added more detail. More details that I couldn't deny and brush off. This time she ended that sentence with"The milk taste nasty."  I immediately told her to show me what she was talking about. 

 She took my hand and led me to her room.  She said "Daddy's penis in my mouth."  I asked her to act it out with me. I said "I'm daddy, what did I do?" She told me to lay down on the floor, so I did.  Sometime during the walk from the kitchen to her room I picked up a pen.  As I was laying on the floor I held the pen up and said "This is my penis. What, now?"  She took the pen and put it in her mouth.

Heartbroken and dumbfounded, I waited for my husband.  How could this be?  Not my husband!  There is no way possible he did this to my baby, to OUR baby!  We met at church!  We dated all through high school!  He joined the Navy and served his country to protect people!  Some other man was molesting my child and forcing her to call him daddy!  But who?  My mind raced.  Who had she been around?  Someone at daycare?  It had to be!  That's the only other place she had been besides home.

When my husband got home I told him what happened.  He was outraged!  I told him I was going to report it because we needed to find out who did it.  He was 100% on board.

I didn't sleep a wink that night.  I couldn't stop my mind from wandering. Was it him?  Was it my husband?  The man I've been married to for five years?  The man that fathered my children?  No.There's no way. Right?

I reported it the next morning.  Social workers came to talk to me that day.  They talked to her as well.  They said we had to go to the Advocacy House and we had to go now.  When we arrived I was greeted by social workers, investigators, police officers, & NCIS agents.  So many hands to shake, names to remember, business cards to hold. 

 My daughter was instantly taken away from me and placed in another room.  I was not allowed to see her or listen to what she said.  I sat alone in a waiting room, and lost it.  I cried so hard. What was happening?  This can't happen to me!  I've got a good life!  I did things right! I met a man, fell in love, got married, then had kids!  We both worked hard, and loved our kids!  How did this happen?

After what seemed like hours, the crowd of people came back to me and wanted to "ask me some questions." I was interrogated.  I was asked personal questions about my sex life with my husband. Questions about how I discipline my children. Questions about my family.  That's when I was labeled the NOP.  I was told a protection order was being placed on me and the kids by the Navy and my husband wouldn't be coming home until this was all straightened out.

What...the...hell...is....going....on?!?

I stayed in contact with my husband by phone, and he'd sneak over at night when it was dark, and he wouldn't be caught.  He maintained his innocence, and said this would all be over soon.  I believed him.

He was arrested in early September.  I still held onto hope that this was all a mistake.  He was innocent.  They needed to find the REAL pedophile and let my husband come home.  My husband was a good man!  Why were they doing this to us?  They forced me to take my daughter to counseling, and they encouraged me to go to a group for NOPs.  I refused.  I wasn't one of them.

My family all wanted to talk about it.  I didn't.  I got mad.  How could they ask me this?  No, he didn't do it!  He wouldn't!  He loves me!

My friends all disappeared saying: How could I support him?  Why did I let him do it?

Everyone looked at me like they felt so sorry for me.  I hated that.  People would pat me on the shoulder and say "How are you doing?"  Such an innocent question but at the time it felt like ammo fresh out of the gun.  No one understood.

He was finally offered a lie detector test and he agreed to take it.  This was the moment we had waited for.  Finally it was all going to be out in the open and he would be free and he could come home!  FINALLY!

He called me from jail after the test, I asked how it went.  He replied, "I don't know."  At that very second - I knew.  I knew I was wrong.  I knew he did it.  My whole world shattered.  I walked around like a zombie.  I cried over everything.  I went to work and just sat there and cried.  I struggled with day to day life. 

 Bad only got worse. 

 Since my husband was in the military, we lived in base housing.  When he got arrested, he wasn't working.  In November, he was discharged (OTH - other than honorable) from the Navy, and with that I was forced to move out of my house.  In four short months, I lost my husband, my friends, the family I had pushed away, my sanity, and now my house.  I had nothing.  Broken and defeated, I called my Dad and moved back home with him two states away.  I got a job fairly quickly and started getting back on track.  I wasn't able to get my kids Christmas gifts that year. I had lost so much and just didn't have the time, money, or energy to shop.  I remember feeling like I was nothing.  Then my sister called me with the first bit of good news I'd had in months-the local radio station was sponsoring a family. All you had to do was tell the story of a deserving family.  She told them our story, and they picked us!  My kids got so many gifts from so many strangers.  It was amazing.  It restored a little bit of faith in mankind for me.  I finally was able to hold my head up.  It was getting better.

That all came crashing down in early February. I was standing at work when my phone rang.  I ran outside to answer.  It was my husbands former CO.  He was at the hearing and wanted me to know that my husband pled guilty, and was sentenced to 15 years in prison.  The pain rushed back.  Any tiny ounce of hope I held on to was gone; I could no longer deny anything.  It was real. It happened to my child.  Instantly I began to hate myself.  I must have been a bad wife.  I must not have been attractive enough.  I allowed this.  I was there and had no clue it was going on.. Even worse I stood by his side and supported him through it.  I was wrong.

The next few months are a blur.  I was embarrassed by my story.  I was a failure as a mother.  I would wait for the kids to go to sleep and get in the shower to cry, I thought I was keeping it from them.  Then one day, the kids and I were going to go somewhere and I said "I need to take a shower real quick." And my son, who was 2 at the time, said "So you can cry?"  They knew all along.

The healing process started, and a few short months later I met a man that would help me heal.  He made me happy, which was something almost foreign to me.  Things were going good, and it felt good to move on.  I came home from work one night and I heard the kids in the bedroom.  I didn't see my new "boyfriend" anywhere.  Fear swept over my body like nothing I had ever felt before.  NOT AGAIN, my brain shouted and I all but ran across the house to the bedroom.  I busted the door open, ready to fight, and found him putting a movie in for the kids to watch.  Completely innocent.  That's when I realized I needed help.  I was never going to be able to get past this fear without a professional helping me along the way.

It's been almost 6 years now... And I write this with tears in my eyes and an ache in my heart.  The pain will never go away.  The questions will never be answered.  I will never know for certain the extent of what my husband did.  I will never know if it was only my daughter, or if he molested my son, too.  I was never allowed to know what she said that day at the Advocacy House.  I was never allowed to know what questions he was asked on the lie detector.

My kids are now 8 (son) and 9 (daughter).  We have not discussed the situation since we left him behind in FL.  I watch the time on his sentence tick away.  Each day that passes, they take a day off for good behavior.  If my math is correct, and nothing changes, he will be getting out of prison in about 2 years.  That's a completely new and different fear all together.  He still has parental rights to my kids.  Will he try to see them?  Will they WANT to see him?  More questions with answers I don't have.

Life is good for us these days.  The man that came along when my whole world was in shambles, is now my husband.  We've been married for three and a half years, and though I hate to admit it sometimes I find myself wondering if he's going to be like my first husband.  I don't think my daughter remembers the event in detail.  I think she knows something bad happened, but doesn't know what.  One day, if she asks, I will tell her... I just don't think it's time..she's still so young, and won't understand.  Hell, I don't know if I even understand.

My kids call their step dad "Daddy" and never ask about their real dad.  I know they will one day, and I will answer their questions as honestly as I can.

I hope my story made sense.  I closed my mind, and opened my heart and let it spill out for you.  I have never written this down, and in fact I have never given this much detail of my story before so it was a rush of jumbled thoughts, one after the other.  I know I left a lot out.  It's so hard to get the thoughts to come out straight.

I hope someone, somewhere, can take something from my story.  If you are the NOP, please know you are not alone.  The pain is just as real as (or possibly even worse than) the victim.
Knowing someone has hurt your child, and you couldn't/didn't stop it will crush you in unimaginable ways.

Something that cause so much hurt and anger before is now empowering.  I can talk about it!  I am not a victim, I am a survivor!  I made it through hell and have two healthy, happy, beautiful children!  No one can take that from me!

The Whole Truth: Part II

This post is from a friend who also chose to stay anonymous but I feel like we know exactly who she was as that thirteen year old girl. We get to see the real her, not the girl who was painted by other people. When this came into my inbox I was stunned. Because I didn't expect it and because I felt like I was there with her. And because every time I read it, I wonder if those boys  are haunted by what they did in the same way that she is haunted. I wonder who they are today. I wonder if this one thing became who they are. Did they go on to do it to other girls? Were they ever taught that this is wrong or did the need to fit in outweigh the sense of right and wrong?

There aren't a lot of sexual triggers here but there are a lot of moments that are triggers. This story is a good conversation starter. How do we teach our boys not to be like these boys? How do we teach our girls that they are more than what boys think of them?

                                                                                                                                  

I was kind of an asshole from about 13-15. You know the movie Thirteen with Evan Rachel Wood? The first time I watched that movie as an adult, my stomach sank with the realization that I was that girl. I hitch hiked, I smoked (both, if you know what I mean), I drank, I cursed, I did a little shoplifting, and I began the first of my heavy flirtations with the opposite sex. This story is not about the whole two years that my mother still mourns, but about one incident and some of what followed.

I lived in an idyllic neighborhood in the south that can best be characterized by the nod-and-wave between neighbors, the immaculate landscaping, and the kids roaming the neighborhood. I was often out and about with the only conditions being that I check in every few hours and that I absolutely not go into anybody’s house without a phone call asking permission (providing my mother the opportunity to verify that parents were home).

On one afternoon of lazy bike riding, I stopped in front of a house where boys from school were playing basketball. There were three of them there. There was the class clown character (it was his house), the popular boy (popular because he was so beautiful and from the right people), and then the boy who seemed to always just be around but never really in the forefront. I know you know these characters, as they exist in every middle school in America. I stood straddling my bike to balance it and I played my part as well. I was the eager and awkward girl who had finally started blooming. I’d finally outgrown my elbows and knees stage, was beginning to round out despite my gymnastics involvement, I was wearing contacts. The popular boy liked to tease and I liked to giggle. It was thrilling beyond words.

As I said I had to go home to check in, the popular boy asked and then begged me to stay. “Come play video games with us,” he said. When I explained that I had to check in, he persisted. I remember everything about this boy- his blond hair, his blue eyes, his stocky build, his lean. The teasing tone became more persistent and he reached out and held on to my hand. Maybe I can go in, just for a minute?

Here’s the thing about what followed- it’s not the most important part. The short and light is that the other boys conspired to trap me in that house. I fought once I realized that the innocent kiss with a forceful hand on my breast was scaring me. I was physically carried upstairs. I was ignored when I yelled for help. But that isn’t the part that is important in my memory of that afternoon because, though I was only a girl, I know as a woman that we are stronger than those moments.

But there were moments that stuck with me in a much different way.

When I got home that afternoon, far too late to avoid a confrontation, my guilt was so overwhelming that I lied. I lied to my mother about my whereabouts and held in the panic that was building inside of me. I buried the fear that confronted me every day that I climbed onto the school bus and had to face those three boys. I ignored the sexual innuendo that began to overrun all conversations with me and about me at school.

Then I began to change from a girl who was eager to be liked by boys to a teen who was desperate for male attention. It breaks my heart to look back at the shift in my confidence and the hurt that I held.

The following year, I transferred schools. The popular boy transferred as well but was held back a year (a college prep strategy, not a punishment). Thankfully, I had some space and some buffer that kept my panic attacks isolated to the occasional hallway passes.

That year was going as well as any freshman year can when, slowly, my reputation from the previous year began to surface. Girls began taunting and boys began advancing. I don’t know if you’ve ever been the girl who was a little needier, a little faster. If you have, you know that it can feel impossible to reform. You’re scorned by those you want to befriend and you know the affection from the opposite sex with come at a steep price.

I did confide in a girl on my cheerleading squad. She nodded and sighed and patted my back while I spilled my guts. And then, only days later, she cornered me in a bathroom with an audience and called me a whore. I sobbed, full of shame and an understanding of my value to these people, but this time nobody patted my back.

I had a few more years of behaving Thirteen. At 15 I was suspended for, you guessed it, something sexual and it started to slow pull back to the person I had buried beneath my ache. A few friends emerged from that time who did not judge me. Whose parents had heard the stories about me yet still invested in me. And my poor mother, who still doesn’t know it all, managed to push hard enough to break through my barriers.

It’s been nineteen years since that afternoon in the class clown’s house. I am, amazingly, friends today in a removed sort of way with the girl from the bathroom. I have no idea where the popular boy is or what became of his life (and I will never allow myself to find out). Some of the patterns of that time in my life had crept back and brought havoc in my young adult life, but those things don’t define me.

Today, when I think back, it is as a mother. I probably wish to say the same things my mother would have if I’d only given her the opportunity.

It is NOT your fault.

You will NOT get in trouble for telling.

You are NOT a whore.

This does NOT define you.

She is NOT your friend.

You ARE worth more than you know.