Stephanie
I started reading Violence UnSilenced when I followed a link from a fellow blogger. At the time I was searching for clarity, clues, something that would help me in my marriage. My husband was a childhood victim of every form of abuse, and he had just recently begun to tell me about some of his experiences that filled me with rage and horror.
I became disturbed immediately by the similarities I saw between myself and women who were victims of childhood sexual abuse. I have blamed my mom for my sociopath-ic tendencies, because of the reclusive way I was raised, her overreaction when she caught me masturbating at the age of four, her refusal to talk about anything body-related, and the fact that I had no female friends during my teens. I assumed that going through puberty without proper instruction and female companionship was responsible for my intense dislike of the male gender.
Like many others have mentioned, I hated being touched. By anyone. My parents called me the “touch-me-not” when I was a teenager, because they said if you just bumped me I would explode. They thought it was funny. I didn’t. I hated men. When I found out what sex was by reading a seedy novel at 17, I was horrified. It took me months to come to terms with it. My mom was annoyed to learn that I hadn’t figured it out on my own. I hated being looked at. Always a shy child, in my teens I began to suffer severe social anxiety. My mom had no patience with what she saw as my stubborn, rebellious ways. She forced us to sing at public functions all over the place, which only worsened my anti-social tendencies. I hated, on a very personal level, each and every male who dared to look directly at me. I hated compliments, because they meant that I stood out. I hated everyone. Everything.
I met my husband when I was 12, and there was never anyone else for me. He’s still the only man I feel at ease with, outside of my Dad and brothers. I am the oldest of ten homeschooled kids, and I have sisters but they are much younger. Growing up, it was me and my brothers.
I knew that nothing had ever happened with anyone in the family. There is no one I’m afraid of. I told myself I was being paranoid, selfish, that my problems were because of my upbringing and my overly sensitive empathic nature. “Your mind is just too delicate,” I told myself. “All your pain is borrowed pain. You’re too controlling. You’re too empathic. You have to let it go. No more borrowed pain.” I felt like I was stealing emotions that didn’t belong to me, passively demeaning the real victims by being subject to all of their struggles.
But it wouldn’t leave.
Missing my brother’s wedding due to finances became the catalyst. Coinciding with my husband’s issues and other stressful things, I guess it was that feeling of losing control, losing my mind, being completely helpless and desperate, that brought back repressed memories. I always figured I couldn’t have repressed memories, because I didn’t have missing blocks of time. And because I knew my mom would always go after anyone who hurt me. I would have had no reason to repress anything, right?
Unwillingly, I began to look back on my childhood. The parade of older men who came and went through our home due to my parents’ political activism. No one stood out. I wondered if I had completely blocked the person from my mind. It didn’t feel right. After all, I was probably just imagining things. I spent an afternoon lying on the bed or wandering aimlessly through the house, having a sort of nervous breakdown, with all my family away at the wedding, my husband out of cellphone reach, and no one to turn to. I felt depressed, dizzy, guilty. I kept bursting into tears for no reason. I had to figure this out.
So, back further still, and further, searching for that thing that I didn’t want to think about. Our first neighborhood, the house we lived in when I was four. Twenty-five years ago. The place where things got screwed up. There was R.J., my first crush. Evan and Aaron, the boys with the abusive grandfather. But I know it wasn’t him, or them; they were my age. And there was Brian.
I didn’t like Brian. Brian was a bully. Brian lost my favorite red-and-white polka dot rubber ball down the street drain when he got mad at me. Brian kicked apart my little brothers’ carefully made roads in the pine needles and made them cry. Brian was a jerk. Brian was twelve years old, too old to be playing with toddlers anyway. Brian…..
Brian held my ball high up in the air, far out of my reach, with a little pocket knife right next to it.
“I’m gonna pop it!” he said evilly. “I’m gonna pop it right now! Here I go…..”
I wailed.
“You have to swear,” he said. “Swear you’ll never tell your mom.”
“I can’t swear,” I sobbed. “Swearing is wicked!” I was desperate, terrified. That ball was my most prized possession. My special, special toy. It was irreplaceable to my childish heart.
“Then promise,” he compromised. “Promise you’ll never tell.”
“I PROMISE!!”
Eventually he gave it back. I clutched it tight and hated him. I hated him for making me cry and beg, for taking away my control. I was the big sister. I was in charge. It was MY ball.
When I remembered this, I started shaking and crying. The doubts ebbed away, replaced by a rush of horror. What did Brian do that I couldn’t tell my mom? It couldn’t have happened in the house. I don’t think he was ever in our house. There were no tree-houses, no little rooms under the outside stairs, no secret places, no trees with branches low to the ground. Wait, there was that bush……
“Go away,” I told my little brothers. “Go play with your cars. Brian and I are playing house together.”
They were upset. They wanted to play too. I always played with them. But not today. Today was different. Brian was going to show me something really, really nice. He told me so. It was very special. I was special. It would be our little secret.
“It’s just like tickling,” he told me, in a don’t-be-silly-everyone-does-it tone.
I giggled, because it felt good. It felt really, really good. “Do it again,” I said.
Great. I could have done without THAT memory. I guess you don’t get to pick and choose.
I don’t know exactly what happened. I do know that there was no penetration, and for that I am eternally grateful. All I remember clearly is the threat, and the feeling that our nice little secret had somehow gone horribly wrong. I didn’t like Brian anymore.
It wasn’t long after that my mom caught me masturbating, and she freaked. There were long lectures in her bedroom about the evil of the “lusts of the flesh,” and vague statements about some things being only for married couples to do, and whippings whenever she caught me after that. I became overwhelmed with guilt. I had done something terrible, something I would surely spend eternity in hell for. I couldn’t tell my mom. I was more afraid of her now than I was of Brian. Of course I would have told her if he hurt me. But in my youthful mind, he hadn’t hurt me. I didn’t know that “hurt” need not involve physical pain.
I guess blocking it out was my only option.
It did scare me enough that I did not let him continue to molest me. I know now that the mean things I remember him doing were his way of punishing me for not going back to that secret place with him. After he lost my ball in the storm drain and tried to go in after it, my mom banned him from our property.
I know that he made a big deal about how special I was, and that he was angry with me for not reciprocating. I remember him telling me that my mom was crazy, and being very upset by that. I assume that must have been after she lectured me, and I must have told him that she said those things were bad. And I very clearly remember standing in the front yard by the pine tree, facing him, a mass of confusion and guilt and rage.
“Fine!” I screamed. “I don’t want to be special! I hate you!”
I don’t remember his exact words, but I know that he told me he was going to find some other little girl to be his friend. One who wasn’t crazy and weird like me. That I wouldn’t be special any more.
The memories did not come at once. It was like a hole in the dikes; first a trickle, then a stream, then a flood. I told my parents. They cried. I told our family therapist. She pointed out that my hatred of being looked at, noticed, complimented, probably stems from the manipulation about being special and not from the physical abuse. I think she’s right. I came to associate being special with something very private and personal, something that carried a sense of violation. It’s frightening how much damage one 12-year-old boy was able to do, in such a short time.
I apologized to my husband. He told me not to, and held me close. But I won’t take it back. It was so easy to assume that all of our marital issues came from him. I was wrong.
They say that a girl’s first experience defines her future sexually. I didn’t believe that, because I felt it was completely untrue for me. This explains an awful lot. Having sex the first time was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than childbirth. I didn’t want to lose the only man I could ever love, and I thought he would move on to someone else. He told me it was okay, but I didn’t believe him. I was sure he was just telling me that so I would feel better. I wanted his babies. I wanted to marry him. So I gritted my teeth, and told myself that this is what NORMAL people did, and I was going to be normal if it killed me.
I can’t believe it was that easy. A rubber ball. A freaking rubber ball for my innocence. Who would have ever thought?
21 Responses to “Stephanie”
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Talking is the first step… continue taking them, and you’ll find more and more peace.
Thank you for sharing this… I know how difficult that first step can be.
I know I have so many things I don’t remember. I also have things I do remember. And sometimes, I’m afraid that I might be using the things I do remember as an explanation for the effects of the things I don’t remember. It’s scary when things start coming back, and so hard to accept them as real.
You are very brave. Thank you for speaking out, Stephanie.
There are still things I’m remembering, still things I’m searching for. It seems so unfair at times, but I believe that the mind truly does that for a reason, reasons to protect us! You are so brave for speaking out, so brave in telling your story. Big hugs to you.
xo
i will never be entirely sure of what happened to me… and it’s haunting. i also know the power that comes with speaking out once you have found your voice… and it’s immense.
i applaud you for sharing this, and wish you well with your continued survivorship.
Thank you so much for sharing this. I’m glad I’m not alone. I’m beginning to realize I may have been repressing things that have been affecting me for years. I hope I can soon figure out what happened, no matter how painful it is, because I just want to heal.
In some ways it’s harder to accept the damage that was done when what was done seemed okay, even pleasant, at the time. It’s damn sneaky like that. Bravo for having the courage to look deeper, and bravo for speaking out.
Beginning to remember is painful. It is so very worth it though. Just remember that it isn’t your shame to carry around. It’s his. Speaking out is giving it back to him after you’ve carried it for so long.
You are brave and your words will help you understand….. thank you for taking the time to speak out
Going back and sifting through the ashes is wrenching, it’s incredibly painful. You are taking steps that will lead you out into a beautiful world. One step at a time, finding your voice, finding that you are not crazy- and you are not alone.
It takes so much courage, so much strength to look inside the boxes closed up so very long ago.
Stephanie,
I applaud you for finding your voice and using it. It is just horrible to grow up in an environment so conflicted and nonsupporting of who you are and your needs. Those early experiences shape our later years with such magnitude. They truly need to be handled with care.
I’m so sorry yours were handled with anything but.
Thank you for sharing your story, Stephanie. It took a lot of courage to go back and revisit those memories.
Glad you finally remembered and told the world, sis. I pray it lets the healing begin. I thought what your therapist said made a lot of sense. Reading what you wrote, it’s really like we reacted in two different ways to mommy. Even the singing in public: I hated every minute of it and it was the best social training I ever got. Like what you went through and how you are made you see everything the opposite of how it was meant. I’m so, so terrified I’m going to do that to one of my own. It is my greatest fear and unfortunately one Chris doesn’t understand. I love you sis, and I’m so glad you’re finally dealling with this stuff.
Amazing! We’re so fragile, we humans. I’m so glad you found this memory. It’s nearly all you have to do.
Thank you for sharing your story – you are very brave and I wish you continued healing.
Sometimes the blatant examples of abuse appear so much simpler to deal with in light of stories such as the one you’ve told so well here. This is very well written. I am very happy to read how well you are doing on your road through recovery. You have done a tremendous job despite the obstacles placed in front of you. Keep up the good work.
May He continue to bless you throughout your recovery.
I’m so sorry that happened… I wish I could go back in time and help you. I will make sure my own children one day know they can talk to me about anything. Thank you for helping me realise how very important that is.
May you find peace.
You are an amazingly strong woman. I applaud your candor, honesty and truth-finding. Thank you for sharing your story.
Bless you for speaking out and seeking the path to peace. God is with you.
Thank you so much for sharing.
Thankyou all for your comments. They mean a lot. And to my sister, don’t be too scared. You’re a much better listener and you don’t have a disturbed control freak telling you how to raise your kids. She has more to do with this than I ever realized, but it wasn’t worth going into here. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.
Thank you for posting your story. I have always felt the same way about men and being touched. I have also wondered a lot about what happened in my childhood. Reading your story gives me hope I can find the truth and have peace.