I hate to say that being sexually abused has shaped my life. But the reality is that the impact has been serious enough to make a huge dent and I have to admit that that dent has caused me to move in ways that I am certain I wouldn't have, had the abuse not happen.
For example, my whole concept of love has suffered thru some major reconstruction because of the abuse and I have to admit that even after all these years of trying to work thru it all, I still find myself trying to deal with the odd cataclysmic meltdowns and that's if I am lucky. I remember one occasion when my conscious mind allowed me to see that this person whom I loved was in fact the same person who cut me to the core of my being. It took some major work to sift thro the rubble of that morning.
I never found much fun in that childish flower game “he loves me, he loves me not” It is hard and exhausting to live on a continuum that contains such extremes. I suspect that people tend to withdraw from me as they speak of me as a person of intensity. Now and then when they are trying to be kind I hear them say “she's passionate”! I put on a smile but really I am crying and think “if only they knew”.
Which brings up another area that limps with the impact. I hate how I second guess myself and question most everything ...most of the time. I fear that being abused has crippled my ability to make a confident decision. Here is why ... How could I have been so wrong about this person, holding onto some insane idea that he loved me even while he was holding me down, that when he was giving me alcohol, it really was cause I had a cold, that when he stroked my hair it was really because he thought I was precious. How could I have been so confused about me. Half the time believing that at the core of me there is something so very wrong. Other times spending a lot of energy hugging myself, stroking my arms, telling myself that I will be OK, I am OK, I do have something good in me that warrants value and respect.
Lately (even after all these years) I am hearing a cry in me that I have recognized as trying to get the world to see me, see how bad I have been hurt, how hard the struggle has been, how far I have come. I am realizing that this voice is the one of the victim.
I'm not sure how comfortable I am with this.
I was writing in my sporatically used journal and started to hear this victim trying to get me to acknowledge that I had in fact been robbed. Robbed of a family, robbed of a childhood, robbed of normal fun adolescent years, robbed of relationship with my siblings. robbed of grandparents for my own children, robbed of my very sanity at times. And I am realizing that in this state of victimization life itself has been robbed from me. I don't want to live that way. I want to live so that life comes out of me. I ache for healthy relationships. Ones that give and receive life between us. Real life where joy and laughter and tears and compassion exists. One where some how the victim is able to rise up out of her death bed and start to really walk among the living. But I am afraid that I will not be able to recognize that road even if it is there right in front of me. Did I mention that I hate how I second guess myself all the time....
Another ongoing struggle is with my dad. Its not so much that his brother replaced him in my life but more so that he let him and then when he did hear what happened...he did nothing. I used to fantasize that if he ever found out what his brother did to me he would immediately go out and kill him. The bursting of that bubble was so loud, it took a long time for my heart to recover from its blow. Did I say recover? Well, maybe that's not the right word. I don't know. I think that maybe this is what someone feels like who has suffered a heart attack. Your not dead, your now out of the hospital, your life has returned to as normal as it's going to get and here you are, standing on the tread mill. The doctor is telling you that you have to get stronger, but all that you can think of is how frigging tired you are. Will you ever be able to run and jump again? That is where I am right now as I think of my dad. I am tired. I have no idea where the energy will come from for life to start pumping into the damaged heart between us. And the very sad thing about it is I know that he also has had a heart attack, one he has never recovered from and I can not help him. At times I have thought I may not make it myself.
But of course, I will. Because if nothing else, one thing this desecration has done in me, is made me a survivor. I have survived death threatening despair, hopelessness I thought was going to consume me, homelessness that reached to my very soul. I have escaped from the brink of prostitution, successfully plugging my ears when for too many Christmases I would hear that screaming in my head to run away for 3 weeks. I have fought valiantly for the underdogs that came across my path. And managed to survive long enough to see my husband stand with me as we watch our own two daughters live life from life's perspective rather than a survivors perspective. Now that they are on a healthier road, maybe I can follow them.
But what I really want is to be able to find my own road. A road that will take me past the place of survivor. Past the place of victim, past the place of yesterdays ghosts and into the place of a garden that somehow I have come to miraculously dream about. Where the fruits of my labour are a little more easily seen. Where the complexities of life have a simplicity that can be enjoyed. A place where friends may come and together share in its beauty. A garden where even when it is storming, I will be able to smell the sweet fragrances of life. My life.