KM
I was sexually abused over a period of three years starting when I was 11.The scum who hurt me was my father’s best friend, and a totally trusted frequent visitor in our home.
He hurt me physically. He hurt me emotionally. He threatened me. He made me believe that I didn’t matter–and because I didn’t matter and he did, nobody would listen to me if I told anyone what was happening. I felt like I was nothing. I was taking up space that might be better used by someone else. I wanted to die.
I didn’t tell anyone what happened to me until my mom died unexpectedly. I was 44-years-old.
My reaction to her death was a surprise; I had a nervous breakdown. I ended up in counseling, and over the following year I discovered the true impact being sexually and mentally abused over 30 years earlier had on me. Most importantly, I discovered why I never told my parents or anyone close to me what happened. In a nutshell, I was afraid that they would not react or say the things I really needed and wanted them to do and say to me. I had two big fears; one was that they would blame me, the other that they knew what was happening and didn’t do anything about it. Those possibilities were paralyzing for me.
Between the time the abuse ended and when my mom died I went on with my life. I didn’t follow the typical behavior patterns of abused girls (risky behavior, early and many relationships with men, substance abuse – well, I do abuse chocolate). I was a good kid, well liked by adults and peers, a bit rebellious in an okay way; always the class clown and very much alone with my horrible secret. I also worked hard to separate myself from my family. After all, if they loved me they would have protected me. I felt like I didn’t belong in my family, I was different.
I surrounded myself with activities where I felt safe (mainly Camp Fire, a youth development agency similar to Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts) and I preferred the company of families that made me feel safe and accepted me being me. Thinking back, I can’t guarantee I was really being me then or if I was just looking for adults who were my idea of the kind of adult I wanted to become. Maybe they were adults who wanted me to be who I wanted to be. I always looked for ways I was different from my family, and I wanted to be better than my family.
The strange thing is that I really didn’t have a bad family. I guess I needed to think about my family in the negative so I had an excuse for what happened to me. When I think about it now I think I was inventing myself as I went along and somehow I managed to become a person I am happy with. The more time that passed, the less I identified with the abused girl–but the scars were still there.
I was always amazed that my parents never asked me why I set myself apart from the family and I have no idea if I ever would have told them had they asked. However, through counseling, I learned that my choice not to tell my family about what happened to me and my desire to stay away from my family was really me satisfying my need for some control in my life. My actions kept me at the center of their attention (so I assumed) because they were constantly trying to figure out why I made the choice to separate myself from them. Whenever I was around them everyone walked on eggshells, afraid to do or say anything that might put me off and hence, keep me away more. Deep down I think I wanted them to hurt because I hurt.
When I finally spoke out after my mother’s death, the first person I told was my therapist. I have only talked about it with two of my four sisters–no other family members. My sisters’ reactions were very disappointing. One told me that I needed to “get over it” and the other said I would hurt my dad if I told him. I did finally tell my best friend (55 years and counting) who was shocked. I use my story when I think it may help others.
I do know that, because of my choices, my parents did not see me graduate from either high school or college; my daughter did not get to know her grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins; I found out my mom was terminally ill only nine days before she died; and I let a lot of years go by that I can never get back.
Wednesday Q&A: Should I tell my new partner about my past?
QUESTION:
I am struggling with how, when, and/or whether to tell my partner about my past. I have been seeing a wonderful man for a few months. Because of the abuse in my last relationship, it’s taken me a while to trust him. Early in our relationship, when talking about our lives and where we were from, he mentioned his past relationships. I told him where I grew up, where I went to school, etc. When he asked about my past relationships, I kept my answer vague and told him it had been a while since I’d seen anyone. He’s asked again, a couple of times — not in an insistent way, but more out of care and curiosity. I don’t know what to say, and I think it’s growing obvious to him that something deeper lies beyond my brief and evasive replies. Some important back story: This is my first relationship in almost five years, and the first one since I left my ex-boyfriend, who was emotionally and psychologically abusive. We were together for several years, starting early in college. Leaving was hard, but I finally escaped and moved to a new city where I had friends and better job prospects. I’ve focused the last five years on building a life, finding a career I love, getting therapy. I feel I’m in a much better place now. This new relationship, which we’ve taken slow, feels healthy and good, and nothing like my last one. But I’m not sure I’m ready to be completely vulnerable and expose my past to him. Does he deserve an honest answer? What should I say the next time he asks?
ANSWER:
Your past is your own. You get to choose who you share it with, when you share it, and how.
If you’re not ready to share the story of your last relationship with your new partner, there are simple ways to answer his question without sounding evasive. For example: “I dated my college boyfriend for several years. We were young, and it didn’t work out. We broke up right before I decided to move here.”
In no way are you obligated in a new relationship–or any, for that matter–to reveal a full account of the abuse you experienced. With enough trust and time, there may come a point in the future when you feel ready to begin sharing your history with your partner. If you decide to make a more long-term commitment, or decide to live together, disclosing your history may become important, as you may have certain needs, triggers and/or boundaries that you want your partner to understand and respect. And, because the effects of abuse can play out in sometimes surprising ways, there may be a time when you want to turn to your partner for support.
If and when you decide to begin the process of sharing, remember this: You don’t need to tell him everything at once. Start with the basics — something like the following: “You may remember that I didn’t want to go into detail about my past relationship. That’s because some painful things happened. My ex was emotionally abusive, and while I’ve learned how to heal from it, I’m still not completely comfortable talking about what happened. I care about you, though, and while it’s very scary to do this, I wanted you to know those basics.”
Over time, you can reveal other details if and when you feel ready. You can invite him to ask you questions, but make sure to explain to him up front that there may be questions you don’t want to address.
One final point. I want to encourage you to think about the root of your caution. If something in your gut is telling you not to trust your partner with the story of your past, that is a very important voice to listen to.
Good luck to you. And congratulations on building a healthy, happy life.
P.S. I would love to hear other readers’ thoughts on this subject. It’s a question I hear often, and I’ve seen different people approach this situation in different (and healthy) ways. So — chime in!
Please exercise the same safe, supportive, non-judgmental restraint in the comment section of the Q&A as you do for survivors, as many of them are reading.
Our volunteer expert, Carrie K., is a trained advocate who has worked with survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault, as well as their families and friends. Her background includes hotline advocacy, community education, and awareness and prevention programming around issues of domestic violence and sexual assault. Most recently, she has worked for a domestic violence intervention and prevention program in Wisconsin. She blogs at rageisgood.blogspot.com
If you have something you have always wanted to know about domestic violence and/or sexual assault, please email your question to carrie [at] violenceunsilenced [dot] com.
Anonymous
When I was about eight-years-old, I learned of something I should never have known about until much later in life. One night, while not being able to sleep, I noticed that my “dad” had put a big piece of cardboard on the side of the t.v. blocking my view from watching it from my bed. I, being curious, stood up on my bed and was able to see over the cardboard just enough to make me plop back down and get under the covers once more. My “dad” was watching porn. I didn’t know it was that of course. All I know that it didn’t feel right to me. I immediately layed silently and tried to block what I had seen. I eventually slipped off into sleepy world.
It was shortly after that, give or take a month or two, that it started. I believe that since my “dad” was not sexually active with my mom, and turning to porn made him even more sexually frustrated, he turned to me for relief. My mother worked nights, so that’s when he made his first move. He came and got me out of bed, and sat with me in his old recliner. He then turned the t.v. to the channel where I had seen all those awful things. He began to explain what they were doing. I was scared, wasn’t sure why he was showing me those things, and I didn’t feel good about it. I wanted off his lap. I was tired, I exclaimed, I wanted to go back to bed. He didn’t let me. Instead, he tried to “interest” me in something else. He started to masturbate, and teach me how to do it to him as well. He purred his “trust me,” his “if you love daddy,” his ” it’s our secret” words, and he grabbed my hand and started to masturbate himself with it. I dared not to look, because it felt awful. Only a few moments later did he tell me to go back to bed, almost disgusted with me that I had shown no interest and was trying to wriggle away from him.
It kept going like that, so many nights doing the same things over and over again, until he wasn’t satisfied with just that. He forced me to put my mouth on him and go until he needed to “spit” as he called it. Eventually that wasn’t enough. He started in on me, fondling me, and doing things only a lover should do with their lover. He never did penetrate me with ‘himself’, but he wanted to, and for some reason that was the one thing I was “allowed” to say no to. This went on for a good couple years with him. Night after night. I never did sleep well. Whenever I awoke to the darkness, and I smelt his cologne nearby and heard his footsteps, I always wanted to scream out, or pretend that I was dead, so that he would just leave me alone.
Thankfully enough my mother quit her night job and the night episodes stopped from that point on. I was never so thankful to have my mom home every night. Little did I know, though, she alone couldn’t stop him. She saw peculiar things between him and I, several different times, but never put two and two together. Nothing seemed to stop him, except my age. I got older, matured a bit, started my period at 11. That was about the time that he stopped. It was also the time another started in on me.
My grandad was always a weird one. He was old, scraggly, and pure evil pierced through his eyes at every moment. I was always noticing him touching himself. He would always do it out of sight of anyone but me. He did this for as long as I could remember, so I thought no differently and ignored him. Only when my “dad” was doing what he was doing to me did I realize just what my grandad was doing. That’s when I got scared. I wasn’t safe at my grandfolks home either. At this point I felt safe nowhere.
My grandad was not as subtle as my “dad” was. He moved in awful quick. The second us kids started getting older and were allowed to be dropped off at his house to do the chores outside, was when he started exposing himself more and more. He then got the idea of fishing trips. Fishing trips in his truck with my brother and I. We would get to our destination and he would send Jbro out to check the water, and then wham his hands were down my pants. He was a lot more aggresive then my “dad” was, so he pretty much turned me into a frozen person whenever that happened. There were a lot of fishing trips for a good two years straight. At one point it was both my “dad” and my grandad doing different sexual things to me, or forcing me to do sexual things on them, at the same time. Neither of them aware of it, either.
My granmom caught us a couple times, and she would always just tell him to “put it away” and get me out of the room, where she would then scold at him for it. Yet she never stopped anything really. It was only when one of her daughters, at that time middle aged, confessed that my grandad had done terrible sexual things to her. It caused a chain reaction, and another six females in the family confessed. Even I confessed. He was off to jail the same day. My granmom had finally come to her senses and did something right for a change. My grandad didn’t get what he deserved, he was already old and sicker then a dog. He lasted only 7 months before he died of a heart attack inside the jail.
My mom pulled me aside that day in the kitchen and asked if my “dad” had done something to me, or anyone else for that matter. I replied no, simply because I was scared. She was devastated at the fact that her own father had done things to me, and to her sisters. I just wanted her not to cry anymore. I remember getting home that day, after my “dad” heard the news, he then pulled me aside as well. “Remember our little secret?” he said. “You didn’t tell mom, did you?” I replied, “No I didn’t. ” You could palpate the relief he felt at that moment. At the same time, for some reason I felt the rebellion, and the power of the confession I had made earlier along with my other family members. I felt like I could tell my mom, I wasn’t afraid anymore. It was amazing. I was 13 at the time, yet felt like finally I was an adult, and I could handle this.
Two months later I confessed to my mother. I saved her from beating his head in with a frying pan, and got her on the phone with the cops. He was shuffled off, and I never saw him again. He was released from jail this past year, and lives only an hour from me now. While that scares me, I won’t let it bother me. I won’t let him take another minute of joy and happiness I posses.
I won’t ever be rid of the awful memories I have of the dark times in my life. I have flashbacks every now and again, and sometimes I am unable to shake those away before it completely slaps me in the face, but I am stronger. I have a family of my own, a loving wonderful husband, and a long life ahead of me. I intend to live fully, and happily.
Anonymous
I am writing anonymously because I still have shame around all this. But even that is a stage of my recovery and this website is SO AWESOME that I want to contribute in the way that I can. Thank you for reading, thank you for listening, thank you for caring.
I remember clearly being 8-years-old and my father offering to play soccer with us. I shunned him, pushed him away with nasty cutting words, then felt guilty about being ‘a heartless monster’ for the next 25 years. Even at the time I was puzzled by my reaction. He looked sad as he walked away. I felt awful. You’ve guessed it, I was feeling responsible for him already. And I had a very good reason to refuse to interact with him even if I was not consciously aware of it at the time: he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from his own ultra-violent childhood and from the war he was in. So he was prone to sudden, inexplicable and unavoidable bursts of anger and verbal and physical violence.
Three years later he violently beat my 8-year-old brother on Sunday for refusing to attend church. My mother looked petrified and sent me in to stop my dad from killing my brother. I couldn’t understand why she asked ME to go in but I didn’t want to contradict her as she slapped and spanked us all daily. I did stop my dad. My brother never recovered. He became depressed, stop growing physically. As an adult he was smaller than he should have been. In his forties he became suicidal: the shame was catching up with him.
But no one was ever able to really scare me after that. I realize now that I made a decision that day, at age 11: I would live regardless, whatever the price. I understood it was my choice to stop the abuse. But the shame didn’t stop. I still live with the shame now. It’s hard to meet new people. I overreact to a face without expression, a cold tone of voice or prolonged silence, because my body remembers when those were warning signs of imminent violence. I prefer silence in the house because deep down my body knows it means no one is around to abuse me. And at the same time I crave contact and warm, safe companionship. I am nearly 50 and I still don’t know how to create that in my life. That is the truly tragic legacy of my violent childhood: shame that creates excrutiating loneliness.
My mother admitted about 5 years ago, more than 5 years after leaving my father, that he was violent with her also. We suspected all along. Her own father had suffered from PTSD from another war. If only she had been open with us about it sooner, in our twenties, maybe we could have healed better? But she was still scared then.
This may not seem very polished to you as a story. I could tell you how my brother attacked me and tried to kill me when I was in my 30s, how he tried to stab my sister when they were teenagers, how my uncle assaulted my father in front of all the kids. And there is more, so much more. But what is the point of recounting all the details? I am tired of them. Right now I just want to heal the shame and to learn how to be with people so I can stop being lonely.
My success is that even though both my marriages failed, both my exes are very gentle men and my children know they are loved and safe. They are confident and relaxed. I may not have much of a life for myself yet but I achieved what I set out to do at 11: I STOPPED THE ABUSE IN MY FAMILY!
