Amber
The summer before 7th grade, I spent every afternoon floating in Katie’s pool. Her dad was a contractor, so they would live in whatever McMansion he’d just completed until it was sold, and this one had a pretty spectacular pool. One day, as I dried off in the sun next to Katie, I told her a secret and asked her to promise not to tell anyone. Katie broke her promise, making her at once the best friend I ever had and someone I hated for years after. In fact, we never spoke, though we were in many of the same classes, until she moved to Oregon after 10th grade.
Earlier that year, my parents had turned an office into a bedroom for me, and I had my own room for the first time since my little sister was born. But having a room of my own turned out to be less a privilege for me than an opportunity for my stepfather. I told Katie that August afternoon what my stepfather did to me while my mom was asleep. Sometimes it was while I was asleep. I was always a sound sleeper, but I would wake up in the middle of the night, at least once a week, to the feeling of a man’s rough hand in my underwear.
I didn’t tell Katie everything, though. I never told Katie about the mornings I would wake up to find him standing over me, fondling himself, asking if I wanted him to make me breakfast with a tone so casual, one might think it perfectly normal to rub your cock as you stand over your 11-year old daughter and ask her how she wants her eggs. I didn’t tell Katie that I’d started taking my sleeping bag into my sister’s room and sleeping under her bed, but that even that was not always a deterrent. I didn’t tell her about the cocktails he would offer me when my mom was at night school. I didn’t tell her about the way he would try to make it seem like I wanted it, like the time I woke up with his dick in my hand, like I’d reached out to grab it. I didn’t tell her about things so traumatizing I still can’t make them real by typing the words.
But I told Katie enough. She made a promise she couldn’t keep, and two weeks into the start of second grade an office aide pulled me out of 5th period and took me to the guidance office. The person I met with, however, was not a guidance counselor. I know now that she was a social worker, but at the time I thought she was a cop. I thought I was in trouble. She asked me all sorts of questions and I felt my face burning as I realized Katie had told my secret. I knew she had, because I hadn’t told anyone else.
I don’t remember much about that questioning, because the rest of my memories from 7th grade to my senior year are blurry, painful apparitions in my mind. I do remember that I was taken from my school in a sheriff’s car to the station, which didn’t ameliorate my fear that I was in trouble, nor did the trip downtown to Hillcrest Receiving Home, a purgatory for foster kids that might as well have been a minimum security prison, save for the kind woman who rubbed my back as I sobbed into a rough institutional pillow at lights out. They brought my little sister in later that night.
I think we were in the receiving home for three or four days. We wore unfashionable donated clothes that fit poorly, and they tried to make things as nice as possible by taking us out for ice cream and bowling, but it still felt penal. I was taken during that time for additional interviewing in a room with toys and a two-way mirror. I was given my first gynecological exam, at 11, an experience that felt to me as much a violation as my stepfather’s actions.
On the last day of my stay in the home, we had “school,” which consisted of some worksheets in math and language arts that were far below my grade level. My mom picked us up that evening. Her eyes were red and puffy and they would not make contact with mine, except for one split second, and they were full of hate. Hate for me.
The car ride home was my extradition to a new prison. My mother told me on that car ride home that I was a liar. She told me I had behaved atrociously toward my stepfather for months. She referred to a special evening episode of Oprah that had aired in June or July, dealing with incest, and said I must have gotten my inspiration from that to falsely accuse my stepfather. That Oprah episode was certainly pivotal, but not the way my mother painted it. It had merely given me a name for what was happening to me and the courage to tell just one person.
We never pressed charges.
For the next year, I allowed my mother to convince me I’d made it all up for attention, or to get back at my stepdad for something. During the therapy sessions ordered by a family court and Child Protective Services, I spent an hour a week telling a counselor that I’d been confused, that what I’d confessed to authorities was just a vivid dream. A dream so vivid I remembered, in some of the scariest parts of the dream, the exact placement of the glow-in-the-dark hands of my alarm clock’s dial and the ragged sound of his breath near my ear.
And then, a year later, when the cost of my court-mandated treatment and living in two households became too much of a burden for my family to bear, my parents realized I wasn’t getting out of this until I gave the therapist what she wanted. After over a year of lying, I’d become pretty well convinced of the fiction my parents had spun for me, but now I was supposed to renege so that I could “get better” and we could work toward rehabilitating my stepfather and reintroducing him to our home.
I can’t remember when, but at some point, my stepfather admitted to the truth in a joint couple’s session with his own mandated therapist. I remember my mom coming to my room sobbing in my lap, begging for my forgiveness. I don’t remember events and time lines; I just remember the confusion. I remember girls on the bus to school who stared and, even worse, the girls and boys who wouldn’t look at me. I remember my next door neighbor bringing me a gift when I came back to school after a week’s absence. She gave me a tin box decorated with roses, full of makeup. It was my first and, thankfully, only “sorry your stepdad rapes and molests you” present.
I also know that, at some point, our therapists decided that under strict circumstances we could start slowly reintegrating my stepfather back into the house. A day here, a weekend there—provided my door was fitted with a lock from the inside and therapy sessions continue for at least another year. I remember being happy, or maybe just relieved, because this meant I hadn’t really ruined our family forever like my mother said. I remember happy vacations, but I also remember the chronic excema I developed on my hands from constant stress. I remember easing into what seemed like comfort, leading to nights I would forget to lock my door. And I vividly remember the day my stepfather took that as an invitation.
The difference is that this time I told my mother, and that this time she believed me. Even so, it was not the incident that led to her finally sending him packing. It took an affair with a woman two years older than my mom to inspire her to kick him out for good. Though I’ve forgiven my mother for much of what happened to me, that is something I’ll never quite get over: that what happened to me wasn’t enough for her to end it. That it took an affair with a grown-up and a stranger to make her leave and secure my safety once and for all.
The confusion I felt over that year I spent convincing myself I’d lied or misremembered things led to an extremely delayed reaction to my abuse. It wasn’t until I was 16 that I truly got angry about it, and by then I was no longer in therapy where I could have help expressing my anger productively. I drank heavily once my mother had passed out from drinking herself to sleep. I smoked, a habit I am still to this day struggling to kick. Despite his transgressions, my stepfather ended up winning in the divorce settlement the house we’d grown up in. My mother and sister moved 40 minutes away from my high school’s district, and I moved in with my best friend.
In an act of rebellion, I got my tongue pierced in a stranger’s bedroom. I skipped school more often than I attended and slept through the first four periods when I did go, nearly failing my senior year. I lashed out at my mother when she would call and called her every bad name I knew. At one point she told me she’d paid her penance, as though it was up to her to decide when I should stop being angry. She accused me of doing drugs, which I hadn’t been, at least not until after that accusation. I began smoking pot, figuring, “what the hell, if I’m going to be accused of it anyway.” I slept with the first boy who asked me out, on the first date. I just remember thinking I wanted to “get it over with.” I met a man six years older than me, lied about my age, and slept with him too. At school I was called an ugly slut, and I began to put on the weight I am still struggling to shed 12 years later.
For two years after high school graduation, I engaged in more and more risky behavior and alienated my friends, lying and thieving, until I felt I had little choice but to move across the country where no one would know about my past or what an asshole I’d been. I started over, and I’m certain that act of freeing myself from that small town where everyone knew this about me is what helped me survive.
I’ve done a lot of healing, but while I declared just a few months ago that I am not irrevocably broken, lately I am beginning to feel I’m not as mended as I thought I was. I am almost wholly unable to completely trust anyone. I am always bracing myself for the inevitable betrayal, and the sad thing is, I’m usually right to. The one exception was my husband, and I felt that my ability to trust him completely meant I was—hooray!—cured. But then this man with whom I’d finally felt I could invest my unmitigated trust betrayed it, and that revelation triggered the worst PTSD I’ve experienced in over a decade. Two weeks ago, had I not reached out to friends in a moment of clarity, I’m certain I’d be in a hospital today instead of writing this.
I realize now that I will spend my whole life breaking and mending from this. The difference between my 29-year-old self and my 11-year-old self, is that I know how to ask for help. I know that it’s not my fault, and I know that my anger is righteous. The difference between me then and me now is that I have a voice.
****
Amber now blogs at Pieces of Amber.
75 Responses to “Amber”
Leave a Reply
[...] Violence Unsilenced I have chosen to speak out at Violence Unsilenced today. You may read the post here. [...]
I’m glad to see you here, I know it has been a long time coming for you. Thank you for sharing your story with us, you incredibly brave girl.
You are SO much bigger than the pieces of yourself that you’ve chosen to put out here. I’m proud of you for speaking, for dodging the confusion, and for choosing to find supports when the one trust you’d developed was broken. Thank you for sharing.
You are so, so brave. I’m so sorry you had/have to live through this all.
Thank you, though, for having the courage to share your story. I have confidence that it will impact many woman, and possibly save a young woman from the hell that you know too well. It sucks so bad. I’m so, so sorry.
Bless you for your strength.
I have nothing to say, aside from thank you for sharing your story. Your bravery echoes.
Thank you for finding your voice. I hope that you have lots of support and love while you are righteously angry, and mending once again from being broken. Your words are powerful, and helpful for others, to let them know they are not alone, and to let others have a hint of the anguish and turmoil you (and others) experience as you survive. Thank you, again, for your voice.
i held my breath all through this.
i am nodding at you with the greatest respect: for sharing, for surviving, for working to heal.
You are an amazing person, being able to express yourself like this. You are stronger than you know and I pray that you will continue to heal and live your life freely.
You are a very strong women. Thank you for sharing your story. Hang in there.
I wish I had the right words but trust me, when I say I’m listening and supporting, I’m there (here? whatever, you know what I mean). Wish I could heal you just like that. There are people who are going to read this who have had similar experiences and they will find strength from your words. The familiar to me was the moving far away to start new but as you know, even then it doesn’t erase the wounds that are just covered up. I’m going to stop babbling now but trust me, I’m listening.
Yes, you have a voice and so many listening. Thank you for sharing your story. I’m so sorry that you went through all of that. xo
Wow. Good for you for speaking out, and for knowing how to ask for help.
WOW. Aside from the details of the abuse, I have a very similar story to yours. Abused as a child, betrayed over and over by people close to me.. and then finally massive PTSD triggered by an unfaithful husband who I had worked so hard to trust. I don’t even know what to say.. aside from I know how it feels. You are not alone.
*big hugs*
Thank you for sharing your story.
Well done on posting this Amber, you’re incredibly brave and you’ll always be bigger and better than the man that did this to you. Hold your head high, and be proud of yourself. Much love x
I am sorry for your pain, Amber, and I am angry at the people who caused and perpetuated your nightmare. Thank you for your courage in speaking out, for your honesty, for standing up. You are in my prayers.
What you experienced leaves the sorts of wounds and scars that may, indeed, never fully heal. The difference lies in how you allow them to affect you and your life. The fact that you chose to reach out to friends rather than end up in the hospital when that time of darkness came around–THAT’S the victory. Darkness comes. It’s up to us whether we let it consume us or light a candle.
So glad you found your voice and are using it to let others know they are not alone. Remeber you are not alone either! Thanks for sharing your story.
The pieces of Amber are courage, strength, determination and a resilience that defies articulation. Thank you. For sharing your story, your heart, your life with us. Today. You are More.
May confidence weave an unbreakable thread that connects you; may the wisdom of the ages hold your mind, when doubts threaten to surround you.
Namaste.
I, for one, am SO glad that you know to ask for help and that this was not your fault. Thank you for sharing your story.
Thinking of you, and sending you strength and hugs.
I love you so much, lady. And I will always stand up for you.
Amber, for many people healing comes in cycles. We successfully deal with an issue. It leaves us feeling both elated and exhausted. Sometime late, out of nowhere, we are faced with a related issue that requires our full attention. The cycle continues. I believe this happens because we can handle only so much at one time, and there is a lot to deal with. But, the cycle does not have to continue for the rest of our lives. So I encourage you to keep reaching out for help, keep tackling each issue as it arises. You have proven that you are a fighter. Keep going! Thank you for finding the strength to share your story here.
The difference between you then and you now is that you have a voice, are willing to use it, can reach out for help instead of push away in anger and fear as well recognize that you are worth the effort of this breaking and healing that must happen.
So glad to be in the company of another brave voice like your own.
Social comments and analytics for this post…
This post was mentioned on Twitter by 3bedroom: RT @MaggieDammit: Please support today’s #vu survivor, @piecesofamber : http://violenceunsilenced.com/amber/...
Even though at the time it felt like betrayal, what an amazing little girl your friend was to have been brave enough to break her promise because she knew your safety was on the line. Good luck to you on your healing. You are strong and brave and I thank you so much for sharing your story.
I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, and how hard it must have been to endure. It’s so important to say it and write it, to verbalize your experience and shed any shame. None of this was your doing. But look what you are doing now to heal yourself – and maybe it will help to heal others, too.
Thank you for sharing this beautifully written story.
Amber your voice will ring out loud and clear even if you do not speak. I too am a survivor who when molested was made to feel it was my fault even though I was only 8 years old. My story is here from August of 2009. It took me until I was 40 years old for my subconscious to remember so at 58 I am still mending but am able to face what was done TO me not BY me. Our strength comes from sharing and trusting even when that trust is broken. Don’t give up. There is support out there and inside of you.
http://violenceunsilenced.com/darlene/
Here is my story.
Amber, thank you for sharing your story. You’re a very brave woman.
Reading this it almost sounds like my life story. I’m sorry for what you had to go through. Hell I’m sorry for what I had to go through but I’ve never wanted anyone’s pity (you know, that look you get when you tell them what you went through as a child) becuase I’m a stronger person today for what I went through then. I’ve cleansed myself of all those dirty feelings. Never will HE have power over me again! Congrat’s to you for speaking out! It does help others! I’m proud of you.
It’s odd how just when you think you are ok again, it comes back to haunt you like crazy. I wrote a post today talking about that. Thanks for sharing your story.
Thank You for sharing your story with the world. Your story is very similar to mine. And only by the grace of God do I make it day to day. I commend you for your ability to speak out and I will keep you in my prayers as the lifelong healing continues.
Thank You.
Thank you for sharing this here, for being so brave. My stomach is in angry knots for what you had to go through. Many hugs from my heart to yours.
I have the wildest compulsion to hold your face gently in my hands, to look you in the eyes and remind you to breathe when you’ve forgotten.
Thank you for sharing, Amber. You can absolutely do what comes next and don’t you forget it.
Thank you so much Amber for sharing your story. Your courage. My heart hurts for the child you were but I admire the woman you are. This sounds like an exaggeration but I assure it is not: I will not forget this story. I think I will probably never forget it.
You’re so brave and incredible. I hope you know that or at least will one day.
Amber,
I’m so sorry. For some many things. Just sorry.
But you are so very brave.
Thank you for sharing your story. It breaks my heart. I can relate to the sense that you’ll be breaking and mending for the rest of your life – I’ve recently realized that what healing I thought I’d come to over my own experience with abuse was really just repression. It hurts so much to know that things like that can have an effect on our lives forever.
Can’t offer any comfort or soothing words, because I don’t believe that they exist, at least not ones that can make all of this better, but I can offer solidarity. You’re not alone. But maybe that is terrible in and of itself?
Wow.
I am so sorry for the horrid things that were done to you by a person who should have been a protector.
Even worse is the way your mother treated you.
I cannot imagine the feeling of THAT betrayal on top of the tragic abuse.
Thank you for giving a voice to other girls and boys who are living this nightmare right now.
You are so, so brave. A very incredible woman. I’m so proud to know you.
amber- i congratulate you sincerely on your initial embrace of your survivorship. PTSD is one horrific bitch, but also one that you, as a survivor, are capable of handling when it hits.
i am grateful for your words. and i wish you peace and strength in the journey ahead of you.
Thank you so much for sharing your story. You are an incredible, strong, brave woman, and I hope those who need to hear your story find their way to it. I so completely understand the inability to trust and the embracing for the worst. I’m still dealing with that myself. It can be so hard at times. I’m glad you found your voice and that you were able to reach out to friends. It is so much harder and so unnecessary to suffer in silence. Prayers for peace and joy from here on out…
Thank you for sharing your story, Amber.
the healing never ends. the work never ends, unfortunately. i know that at times it seems too much but the work is always worth it. you are worth the work.
especially when it doesn’t feel like it.
thank you so much for sharing.
You are strong, you have a voice.
Thank you for sharing Amber. I’m so sorry for all that pain and betrayal you experienced as a vulnerable, trusting, loving, loyal daughter. It just breaks my heart. I have an 11 year old girl. I can’t imagine anyone acting as your mother did. But of course, though we all feel entitled to perfect parents, none of us get them (darnit anyway). You’re doing all the right things and I hope any support you can find in therapy or support groups or friends or family will help you come to a place of feeling this is behind you – a part of your past.
Thanks for using that voice to speak out. I’m so incredibly sorry for everything you’ve gone through. I understand how horrible it must be to hear that kind of news from your own child, but I can’t understand parents who don’t believe their children about this kind of thing. I know you’ve been going through hard times lately, and I’m thankful that you have support, and that we can support you online. (Hugs)
you are so so brave, and i love you.
I am so glad you shared this and are not in a hospital. Thank you for telling your story and I wish you inner peace and send many healing thoughts.
So sorry for what you had to go through, Amber, and for what you’re still dealing with. I’m in awe of your bravery.
I wish this crime was punishable by the amount of trauma it causes its victims. Thank you for sharing this, Amber. You’re an amazingly strong woman.
Your story is unique in that it happened to you. But the thesis is tragically common. And even in the best of circumstances, the victim feels blamed to some degree. In too many cases, like yours, the blame is overt, it’s leveled directly and by people you would hope would support rather than attack. I hope that at least you find in this community that you don’t have to face the pain and do the healing alone. There are dozens of people who have already posted here with stories very much like your own. There will be, sadly, dozens more before VU marks its second anniversary.
Lean on those who share your pain. Lean on the the rest of us who come here to lift them — and you — up. If you take nothing else away from this, know that you don’t have to face this alone.
Much love.
This makes me so frustrated for you that your stepfather was let back into your home. What was everyone thinking. I’m happy that you realize that you can ask for help and be supported. Just keep asking.
I think you’ve been very courageous to speak out. I started crying reading your story. HOW could they let your step dad in?
I admire you for facing that you’ve not completely mended. I think most of us won’t be able to face such a truth with as much clarity as you have shown.
Hang in there. We are here to support you.
Learning to ask for help is an amazingly difficult and surprisingly empowering thing. Congratulations on reaching a point in your life where you have the strength to do so, although I’m never happy to see people in a situation where it is necessary.
I really needed to read this today Amber. I pray that you will heal and fine peace. Thanks for sharing your story.
Oh Amber! I’m so sorry. Thank you for speaking out. Unfortunately, it seems the healing process does take steps back into pain just when you think you’re moving past it. But don’t ever forget that you are moving forward. You are special and loved.
Look at you, reclaiming. You strong, beautiful, fierce thing.
I just wanted to add my voice to the others. You are an amazing, strong woman. God bless you.
Keep moving forward. You’re a strong, strong woman, and I admire you.
Thank you for sharing your story.
Some of the details of your abuse are very similar to mine, especially the casualness. I also told a dear friend when I was sixteen, and wouldn’t let him tell his parents for almost three weeks. I’m so glad he convinced me to tell.
Who would have thought that “telling” could just as painful as the abuse? Sometimes I think my life since has been more difficult, but at least I now have the freedom to choose who I will keep in my life and what I will allow them to do to me.
Hang in there, and keep reaching out when you need it. Keep telling your story. We are here for you.
Oh Amber, I’m holding you close in my heart darlin. The betrayal of not being believed, the betrayal of having the blame of “destroying the family” placed upon your sweet, tiny shoulders is something that never seems to stop hurting, does it? I know I struggle with that one quite a bit as well. Thank you for sharing your story. And thank you for believing in yourself enough to give yourself the fresh start, the hope for a great life despite what happened. You are an adult, you have a voice, and you have a choice for happiness now. Blessings.
I teach middle school, and I wonder how many of my students carry around a secret like yours. Your strength in sharing it, in putting yourself out there about not only the pain caused by your stepfather but by your mother’s denial, shows that you’re not broken. You might not be whole, but you’re far from broken.
You are a brave woman to share this. I only wish that your stepfather suffers for what he did to you in this lifetime and suffers plenty.
I’m glad you have found your voice. Never let it go as you are a strong and brave women.
Amber-you are so strong and brave. Thank you for sharing your story here and for using your voice. ((Hugs)))
And what a voice you have.
You do have a right to your anger. There is nothing right about what has happened to you. Thank you for having the courage and strength to find your voice and share your story.
peace and healing.
I am so sorry that this happened to you! I can’t describe how angry I feel reading how you were accused of lying, and about how little was done to protect you. Thank you for speaking out. I hope your words give courage to others suffering this kind of abuse and neglect.
YOu are not broken. You will always be changed by your experiences, but not broken.
I feel for you so deeply. Keep on going. Those people don’t deserve the satisfaction of saying you just couldn’t handle your life. I hope and pray that you find exactly the help you need. Take care.
This is why I never told and to this day, I’m glad I waited to tell – on my own terms. The rest of your story is so familiar to me. Uncanny. And by the way, your blog is brilliant.
People don’t realize how far reaching the affects can be when your trust is so blatantly betrayed at a young age. Many people never get over it. Just take it one day at a time, find friends you can trust who will help you heal. That’s really all you can do. Good luck to you….and yes, you MORE than have the right to be angry. Feel it, express it, and someday when you’re ready, leave it behind you.
I am so sorry to read what you alone had to deal with for so many years. The betrayal by adults we love and trust takes years to heal from. I do hope that you can remember the innocent, loving child you were and still are.
Thank you for sharing what most of us are afraid to look at.