Excerpt from a book I just finished entitled "The Light Within":
"The restraints or limitations that trials place on our lives and the pain, mental anguish, or heartaches that accompany them can sometimes last throughout our entire lives. We know that God has power eventually to deliver us out of bondage and totally free us from our trials, but we know he also has great compassion and mercy for us in the midst of our suffering:'I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders that even you cannot feel them upon your backs, even while you are in bondage; and this will I do that ye may stand as witnesses for me hereafter, and that ye may know of a surety that I, the Lord God, do visit my people in their afflictions.' (Mosiah 24:14)"
When I was a young pre-teen, enduring regular sexual abuse, I knew that God was often with me. I had many deep and precious spiritual experiences, even when I was in the midst of my bondage. I never blamed God for what was happening. I knew, had a testimony, that God was never the author of sin. He was never responsible for a child being sexually abused. He was never responsible for murder and untimely death. He wasn't responsible for war or any other hideous action taken by man. He gave all of us the gift of free agency, free will. If a person chooses to use this free agency to destroy, to sin, God cannot stop him. That would be in direct contradiction to his gift of letting us make our own choices. If he did force us to act righteously and destroy us if we performed evil, that would be Satan's plan. The fact that innocence is often abused, molested, or decimated is one of the prices we pay in order for everyone to have the freedom to choose. This was an innate knowledge within me, even as a child, and I never found myself shaking my fist at God screaming, "why?" I knew the Lord wanted my abuse to end. I knew he wept with me and gave me moments of overwhelming comfort and compassion. Even in the moments of waking to find my brother-in-law's hands pulling down my covers and slither across my tender flesh like hungry serpents, I knew God wanted me to use this experience in the future. He would help me turn this evil into something precious.
There were even times when I felt the Spirit prompt me to tell someone what was happening. I clearly remember sitting in my family's living room, alone, rehearsing telling my parents. I whispered to the chair across from me that Mike was molesting me, imagining my mom sitting there. I whispered this shameful news many different ways, trying to find the least embarrassing way. I wanted to force myself to just do it. But each time I found myself wanting to blurt out this information, my heart raced, my hands shook, and a feeling of nausea overwhelmed me. I felt intense shame. I felt dirty and soiled. I would remember my abuser's words, that if I ever told anyone, I would ruin the family. I would ruin everyone's lives, including the lives of his little children, whom I loved dearly. The years of mind games and the memory of the shameful acts he performed on me silenced my tongue. My psyche was damaged and no matter how much prompting I felt from the Spirit or the outrage of my own soul, I was too brainwashed and fragile to overcome my forced vow of silence. Even so, I knew God was with me. Looking back, I can see that during that most harrowing time of my life, I felt the Spirit's presence more than ever before or ever since. He loved me and would not abandon me, even if he couldn't stop the abuse.
Reading that passage from The Light Within has helped me be more kind to myself. I often get frustrated with myself for still having moments of intense heartache and mental anguish. I need not be frustrated with myself or feel myself weak for feeling those things. As it says in that quote, there are some limitations with trials that may last a lifetime. Of course! Of course, I will have those moments for the rest of my life, and that's ok. It doesn't mean that I'm not righteous or forgiving. It means I'm human and am living with the effects of childhood abuse. I was abused during a very formative time in my life and I have been betrayed and mishandled by most of my family. I will always mourn that, just as I would always mourn if someone I loved dearly died. The important thing is that they are just small moments. They do not constitute the whole of my life now. Most of my life is spent in the joy I have found in marrying a loving and loyal husband, of being blessed with 4 children, and in pursuing my passions and talents. My life is not spent in obsessing about the pain and abuse. Of course I hate that I continue to live with post-traumatic stress disorder, but just as person who has lost a limb learns to work around that challenge, so must I and I have and will continue to do so.
I have also learned that in those moments of weakness, those moments of pain, when my legs buckle under the heartache and tears spill like waterfalls from my eyes and I feel that I cannot endure and I cry out to my Heavenly Father, those are the very moments when the Spirit whispers to my soul that I am loved and am of great worth. Those are the very moments when the Lord takes the burdens which are upon my shoulders so that I can no longer feel them on my back. It's the very moment my anguish is transformed into overwhelming peace.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tiny Soldier
It was Christmas eve. I was a young 22 year old mom with an 18 month old toddler, my first baby. It was the first Christmas in which she was susceptible to the excitement of the season. Her father and I passed on the mythology and magic of Santa. It was my favorite holiday. The magic of it all always turned me into a little girl, memories of staying up all night with anticipation and joy filling my stomach with butterflies.
You see, as a young girl most weeks did not pass without my brother-in-law taking advantage of my innocence. I lived this secret, sick life of being forced to watch pornography, being forced to touch a grown man's body, and being touched by unwanted hands. This secret life was my shame and tied my normal life up in knots. I lived in a constant state of fear, a heightened state of fight or flight that often left me immobilized. Like a soldier on the battlefield, I walked carefully and in full alertness, knowing that at any moment I could be attacked.
But then there was Christmas. It was the last completely innocent part of my life. Christmas eve was the one night left in the year when I didn't fear that my brother-in-law's searching, hungry hands would startle me awake. The one night left that I didn't go to sleep with knots of fear enveloping my insides. Christmas was my bliss, and for me, it truly was magic. It was the only day I could just be a kid again. Even as an adult, I became that deliriously happy child again at Christmas. So when I had a child of my own, the magic of Christmas multiplied in my mind. Another innocent child to share in my arrested development that occurred every December 24th through the 25th.
We lived only 40 minutes away from my parents and the plan was that we'd bring our first-born child, our excited toddler, and spend the night at my parents' house. I wanted to share this with my parents. I knew they'd love to see a small child awake on Christmas morning and run toward their pile of gifts. It had been a long time since they'd seen their own tiny children do the same.
"Dad," I said into the phone, with my heart beating rapidly, "you're going to make sure Mike isn't going to be there, aren't you?" My sister, despite knowing of the sexual abuse her husband perpetrated on me, decided to save her marriage. She was desperate that everyone should forget about what happened and welcome her husband back as if nothing had happened, but my sister's desire to live in denial did not interest me. I needed to know that my Christmas would retain its innocence and not be marred by being forced to interact with that man.
"Yes, don't worry, Alyson. I'll make sure Mike won't be here," my dad answered.
"Ok," I said with trepidation. I decided to let go of my fear and to just enjoy my Christmas with my family. I didn't want to think about my brother-in-law and didn't want the flashbacks to start again.
On Christmas eve, Russ and I loaded our sweet, little daughter into her car seat. We turned up the Christmas music on the car stereo and I regaled my little girl with stories of Christmas magic and excitement. I wanted her to feel the same high I did as a child as I anticipated Santa's visit and presents being magically lit by sparkling Christmas tree lights.
We pulled into my parents' driveway. I saw my sister's van, but wasn't concerned. I knew that she planned to come with her children, but my dad had guaranteed that Mike wouldn't be there, so I wasn't concerned. The three of us stepped into my parents' home. As I looked around, my heart jumped into my throat and I couldn't swallow it back down. I felt as if I might choke on what my eyes saw, but mind said was impossible. There was Mike. Sitting on the living room sofa. Laughing and talking with others. There was the man that made my childhood a living hell. The man who turned me into a tiny soldier, fighting a secret, disgusting battle, that left me with a lifetime of flashbacks. I broke out of my frozen position and ran down the hall to my parents' bedroom. There was my father, sleeping, and I yelled, "you said he wouldn't be here!"
I ran back down the hall, took hold of my husband, who was holding our little girl, and we quickly escaped, buckling our girl back into her car seat. Her look of confusion and sadness sank my heart. I now regretted those moments of building her Christmas excitement. This would not be the Christmas I had dreamed of with my first toddler. My dad was running toward our car.
"Ok, why don't you guys drive around for awhile, and I'll get rid of him. Call me and I can tell you when you can come back."
"We don't have a cell phone!"
"Just call at a payphone. Give me about 20 minutes."
We left without another word. Tears began to streak through my carefully done makeup and all the fear, anger, and confusion I had ever felt swept over me in an intense tsunami of emotion. But we did as we were told. We drove around town for 20 minutes. Our daughter was now crying and desperately wanted to be let out, to see her cousins, and celebrate Christmas, as was every little girl's right.
I picked up the dirty phone at the dark AM/PM gas station that was near my parents' home, and called home. My dad picked up. "He's not gone yet."
"What? You told me you'd get rid of him! Why won't he leave?"
"Well, your sister won't let him leave."
"Excuse me? My sister won't let him leave! Does she not know what he did to me?"
"Now Alyson, you've got to understand. There are kids involved here. Mike's kids did nothing wrong. She doesn't want to have to explain to them why their dad has to leave. It's not fair to them. She wants to have her complete family here."
My chest began to heave with pain at the injustice and rejection. "Are you kidding me? It's not fair to them? What about me? What about my screaming baby in the car? We are being forced to drive aimlessly around on Christmas eve!"
"Give me another 30 minutes. She just wants Mike here to open gifts with his kids."
"Seriously? So we are stuck out on a cold, dark night with no place to go while he gets to open gifts with my family! We have to miss everything!"
"Just give me some time, Alyson. You've got to understand."
"Yeah, I understand that you made me promise and now we're stuck out here!" I slammed the phone down as I began to tremble. My whole family, all my siblings and their kids were there, knowing what was going on, knowing that we were rejected. No one wanted to stand up to my sister. No one wanted to do the right thing and stand up for me, the victim of extensive childhood abuse.
That dark Christmas eve, spent driving to nowhere continued. I wept. My baby wept. And my husband was angry. Several times we stopped at a sad and lonely gas station to call home, only to be rejected again. Only to be told how it wasn't fair to my sister and the kids to ask Mike to leave. My sense of worth plummeted. I didn't matter; not compared to them. Those kids were more important than me. My sister was more important than me. My role in the family was now to suck it up, get over it, and bring the family back together.
Finally, after two hours of driving around on a night that had started out so promising, so full of hope, we were told that it was now ok to come back. It was after 10 o'clock at night. I walked into my parents' home, my face swollen with spent tears. No one acknowledged my obvious pain. My sisters-in-law and brothers, my mother acted as if nothing had happened. We heard Merry Christmas from some, but mostly they had a hard time even making eye contact with me. I saw the wrapping paper strewn about the floor and the Christmas goodies gobbled up, evidence of the celebration I had missed. As I tried to lift my own spirits and save what was left of my Christmas eve, I saw that my brothers and their wives and kids were packing up. They were leaving. No one cared to stay to help me recover, to help my daughter recover. They just wanted to go, to flee. They just wanted to leave to their in-laws, to continue their own celebrations. I was abandoned. I felt small and insignificant.
Christmas would never be the same for me again. That tiny soldier inside me was now back on duty 365 days a year.
You see, as a young girl most weeks did not pass without my brother-in-law taking advantage of my innocence. I lived this secret, sick life of being forced to watch pornography, being forced to touch a grown man's body, and being touched by unwanted hands. This secret life was my shame and tied my normal life up in knots. I lived in a constant state of fear, a heightened state of fight or flight that often left me immobilized. Like a soldier on the battlefield, I walked carefully and in full alertness, knowing that at any moment I could be attacked.
But then there was Christmas. It was the last completely innocent part of my life. Christmas eve was the one night left in the year when I didn't fear that my brother-in-law's searching, hungry hands would startle me awake. The one night left that I didn't go to sleep with knots of fear enveloping my insides. Christmas was my bliss, and for me, it truly was magic. It was the only day I could just be a kid again. Even as an adult, I became that deliriously happy child again at Christmas. So when I had a child of my own, the magic of Christmas multiplied in my mind. Another innocent child to share in my arrested development that occurred every December 24th through the 25th.
We lived only 40 minutes away from my parents and the plan was that we'd bring our first-born child, our excited toddler, and spend the night at my parents' house. I wanted to share this with my parents. I knew they'd love to see a small child awake on Christmas morning and run toward their pile of gifts. It had been a long time since they'd seen their own tiny children do the same.
"Dad," I said into the phone, with my heart beating rapidly, "you're going to make sure Mike isn't going to be there, aren't you?" My sister, despite knowing of the sexual abuse her husband perpetrated on me, decided to save her marriage. She was desperate that everyone should forget about what happened and welcome her husband back as if nothing had happened, but my sister's desire to live in denial did not interest me. I needed to know that my Christmas would retain its innocence and not be marred by being forced to interact with that man.
"Yes, don't worry, Alyson. I'll make sure Mike won't be here," my dad answered.
"Ok," I said with trepidation. I decided to let go of my fear and to just enjoy my Christmas with my family. I didn't want to think about my brother-in-law and didn't want the flashbacks to start again.
On Christmas eve, Russ and I loaded our sweet, little daughter into her car seat. We turned up the Christmas music on the car stereo and I regaled my little girl with stories of Christmas magic and excitement. I wanted her to feel the same high I did as a child as I anticipated Santa's visit and presents being magically lit by sparkling Christmas tree lights.
We pulled into my parents' driveway. I saw my sister's van, but wasn't concerned. I knew that she planned to come with her children, but my dad had guaranteed that Mike wouldn't be there, so I wasn't concerned. The three of us stepped into my parents' home. As I looked around, my heart jumped into my throat and I couldn't swallow it back down. I felt as if I might choke on what my eyes saw, but mind said was impossible. There was Mike. Sitting on the living room sofa. Laughing and talking with others. There was the man that made my childhood a living hell. The man who turned me into a tiny soldier, fighting a secret, disgusting battle, that left me with a lifetime of flashbacks. I broke out of my frozen position and ran down the hall to my parents' bedroom. There was my father, sleeping, and I yelled, "you said he wouldn't be here!"
I ran back down the hall, took hold of my husband, who was holding our little girl, and we quickly escaped, buckling our girl back into her car seat. Her look of confusion and sadness sank my heart. I now regretted those moments of building her Christmas excitement. This would not be the Christmas I had dreamed of with my first toddler. My dad was running toward our car.
"Ok, why don't you guys drive around for awhile, and I'll get rid of him. Call me and I can tell you when you can come back."
"We don't have a cell phone!"
"Just call at a payphone. Give me about 20 minutes."
We left without another word. Tears began to streak through my carefully done makeup and all the fear, anger, and confusion I had ever felt swept over me in an intense tsunami of emotion. But we did as we were told. We drove around town for 20 minutes. Our daughter was now crying and desperately wanted to be let out, to see her cousins, and celebrate Christmas, as was every little girl's right.
I picked up the dirty phone at the dark AM/PM gas station that was near my parents' home, and called home. My dad picked up. "He's not gone yet."
"What? You told me you'd get rid of him! Why won't he leave?"
"Well, your sister won't let him leave."
"Excuse me? My sister won't let him leave! Does she not know what he did to me?"
"Now Alyson, you've got to understand. There are kids involved here. Mike's kids did nothing wrong. She doesn't want to have to explain to them why their dad has to leave. It's not fair to them. She wants to have her complete family here."
My chest began to heave with pain at the injustice and rejection. "Are you kidding me? It's not fair to them? What about me? What about my screaming baby in the car? We are being forced to drive aimlessly around on Christmas eve!"
"Give me another 30 minutes. She just wants Mike here to open gifts with his kids."
"Seriously? So we are stuck out on a cold, dark night with no place to go while he gets to open gifts with my family! We have to miss everything!"
"Just give me some time, Alyson. You've got to understand."
"Yeah, I understand that you made me promise and now we're stuck out here!" I slammed the phone down as I began to tremble. My whole family, all my siblings and their kids were there, knowing what was going on, knowing that we were rejected. No one wanted to stand up to my sister. No one wanted to do the right thing and stand up for me, the victim of extensive childhood abuse.
That dark Christmas eve, spent driving to nowhere continued. I wept. My baby wept. And my husband was angry. Several times we stopped at a sad and lonely gas station to call home, only to be rejected again. Only to be told how it wasn't fair to my sister and the kids to ask Mike to leave. My sense of worth plummeted. I didn't matter; not compared to them. Those kids were more important than me. My sister was more important than me. My role in the family was now to suck it up, get over it, and bring the family back together.
Finally, after two hours of driving around on a night that had started out so promising, so full of hope, we were told that it was now ok to come back. It was after 10 o'clock at night. I walked into my parents' home, my face swollen with spent tears. No one acknowledged my obvious pain. My sisters-in-law and brothers, my mother acted as if nothing had happened. We heard Merry Christmas from some, but mostly they had a hard time even making eye contact with me. I saw the wrapping paper strewn about the floor and the Christmas goodies gobbled up, evidence of the celebration I had missed. As I tried to lift my own spirits and save what was left of my Christmas eve, I saw that my brothers and their wives and kids were packing up. They were leaving. No one cared to stay to help me recover, to help my daughter recover. They just wanted to go, to flee. They just wanted to leave to their in-laws, to continue their own celebrations. I was abandoned. I felt small and insignificant.
Christmas would never be the same for me again. That tiny soldier inside me was now back on duty 365 days a year.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Twisted Laws
I'll make this post short. I just felt I needed to post some of my feelings because of the routes I've been pursuing recently in seeking justice. Today I am feeling extreme frustration and disgust at the idea that there is even such a thing as a statute of limitations for sex crimes. Why? This is putting rape and the sexual abuse of a child in the same category as stealing a car or smoking pot! Who decided that that such disgusting acts of humiliation, domination, and control should be in that category? There is no other crime that creates more damage to an individual than to force them into an intimate sexual act, especially if the individual is a child! The only thing I can compare sex crimes to is murder and there is no statute of limitations for murder!
It is simply incomprehensible to me why it was decided that if enough time passes than a rapist or pedophile can get off scot free. Don't they understand the nature of sexual abuse? Don't they understand that a child has been forced through humilation and fear to keep the abuse silent? Then once we come out from behind that fear and finally feel the courage to speak our horrorific truth, it is too late for the abuser to be punished? Someone explain this to me!
Not only is the statute bad for the victims, it is bad for society! A perverse, sick individual who gets their sexual gratification from touching a child or raping a random woman on the street NEEDS to be locked away! These people are not just magically "cured". In fact, the opposite is usually true. They progressively need to do more and more depraved acts in order to be gratified. They live in a disgusting fantasy world, a perversion, that is almost impossible to overcome. No time limit should keep that kind of person from being imprisoned! We not only need justice for the victim, but we also need to protect the rest of the world from this person.
It seems as though the criminal law in California probably won't prosecute the man who took me for 7 years of my childhood and forced me to do unspeakable things. The man who humilated me, used me, and created debiltating anxiety disorders in me (not to mention the horrorifying memories) may not face any criminial charges.
All I have to say is if my last option is a civil lawsuit, I have no reservations about hauling that pervert into court! I have no reservations about alerting the media of this issue if needs be. I have no more guilt about protecting his children from his acts (that is his problem)! I have no more guilt that he is a prominent business owner and this could be damaging to him (that is his problem)! You reap what you sow, and his sins and crimes of the past cannot just be buried. They are not forgotten. And I do not give up easily.
It is simply incomprehensible to me why it was decided that if enough time passes than a rapist or pedophile can get off scot free. Don't they understand the nature of sexual abuse? Don't they understand that a child has been forced through humilation and fear to keep the abuse silent? Then once we come out from behind that fear and finally feel the courage to speak our horrorific truth, it is too late for the abuser to be punished? Someone explain this to me!
Not only is the statute bad for the victims, it is bad for society! A perverse, sick individual who gets their sexual gratification from touching a child or raping a random woman on the street NEEDS to be locked away! These people are not just magically "cured". In fact, the opposite is usually true. They progressively need to do more and more depraved acts in order to be gratified. They live in a disgusting fantasy world, a perversion, that is almost impossible to overcome. No time limit should keep that kind of person from being imprisoned! We not only need justice for the victim, but we also need to protect the rest of the world from this person.
It seems as though the criminal law in California probably won't prosecute the man who took me for 7 years of my childhood and forced me to do unspeakable things. The man who humilated me, used me, and created debiltating anxiety disorders in me (not to mention the horrorifying memories) may not face any criminial charges.
All I have to say is if my last option is a civil lawsuit, I have no reservations about hauling that pervert into court! I have no reservations about alerting the media of this issue if needs be. I have no more guilt about protecting his children from his acts (that is his problem)! I have no more guilt that he is a prominent business owner and this could be damaging to him (that is his problem)! You reap what you sow, and his sins and crimes of the past cannot just be buried. They are not forgotten. And I do not give up easily.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Strongest Souls
"Pain breaks the shell that encloses our understanding." - Kahlil Gibran
We have been through a record-breaking winter in Connecticut. Snow falls and falls and has rarely stopped. Locals tell us they've never seen a winter like it before, and I believe them as I see news reports of roof rakes selling out before a shipment even arrives and images of collapsed roofs play on the television screen nightly. Connecticut building codes were not made for this amount of snow.
It has been a harsh and difficult winter. And yet...it has been the most beautiful winter I have ever seen here as well. Our snow usually melts for long periods between storms. So most of the winter is brown and dead until another storm comes in and coats the earth in a sheet of sparkling snow. It is magical, but then it melts and we're back to the bare ugliness of winter. This winter there has been no brown, dead earth exposed. There is always a glittering sheet of white. It has been scary at times, but always stunning. I have found myself driving through my wooded streets, with my mouth wide open at the beauty of this unrelenting winter.
In all of life, I think symbolically and philosophically, and this winter has reminded me of my own life. I ran across the Gibron quote above and it fit with my thoughts of this winter and of my own struggles. We must go through harshness, pain, and difficulty to get to the stunning beauty of understanding.
I have seen this over and over in my life. Pain and sometimes unbearable heartache has given me an understanding that I wouldn't trade for anything. Yet with all that I've been through and all of the wisdom that has come from everything, I still struggle to get through each new hurdle. I easily become overwhelmed and my first response to any major difficulty is initially a feeling of I give up! I'm am too weak to endure anymore and I can't overcome another obstacle. Sometimes I am so emotionally overwhelmed that I shut down and have to push my obstacle to the side for a time. Sometimes I engage in numbing activities, just so I don't have to think about it. I wish I could say that I'm always courageous and strong when faced with such things, but I am weak still. Even when I know what direction I need to go and what must be done, I still sometimes must push the problem from my mind for awhile as I psychologically try to survive so that I can be a present mom to my four kids and get the necessities of life accomplished. It is a hard thing to admit, especially since I know from hard-earned experience that I have gained amazing depths of understanding and growth from enduring and dealing with incredibly painful experiences.
And so this is where I am. I am at a crossroads. I have known that I must make my abuser legally responsible for the deep-seeded damage he has done to my mind and to my spirit. Criminally or civilly, he needs to be held accountable, and since he's never come forward to take responsibility on his own, the issue must be forced by me. I have avoided thinking about it too much over the holidays. I've understandably pushed the issue aside to enjoy the holidays with my family, but I know I have also just been avoiding the problem. Now is the time and I must make myself strong to endure and come out the other side with a richness to my life that was never before known.
"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars." - Khalil Gibran
We have been through a record-breaking winter in Connecticut. Snow falls and falls and has rarely stopped. Locals tell us they've never seen a winter like it before, and I believe them as I see news reports of roof rakes selling out before a shipment even arrives and images of collapsed roofs play on the television screen nightly. Connecticut building codes were not made for this amount of snow.
It has been a harsh and difficult winter. And yet...it has been the most beautiful winter I have ever seen here as well. Our snow usually melts for long periods between storms. So most of the winter is brown and dead until another storm comes in and coats the earth in a sheet of sparkling snow. It is magical, but then it melts and we're back to the bare ugliness of winter. This winter there has been no brown, dead earth exposed. There is always a glittering sheet of white. It has been scary at times, but always stunning. I have found myself driving through my wooded streets, with my mouth wide open at the beauty of this unrelenting winter.
In all of life, I think symbolically and philosophically, and this winter has reminded me of my own life. I ran across the Gibron quote above and it fit with my thoughts of this winter and of my own struggles. We must go through harshness, pain, and difficulty to get to the stunning beauty of understanding.
I have seen this over and over in my life. Pain and sometimes unbearable heartache has given me an understanding that I wouldn't trade for anything. Yet with all that I've been through and all of the wisdom that has come from everything, I still struggle to get through each new hurdle. I easily become overwhelmed and my first response to any major difficulty is initially a feeling of I give up! I'm am too weak to endure anymore and I can't overcome another obstacle. Sometimes I am so emotionally overwhelmed that I shut down and have to push my obstacle to the side for a time. Sometimes I engage in numbing activities, just so I don't have to think about it. I wish I could say that I'm always courageous and strong when faced with such things, but I am weak still. Even when I know what direction I need to go and what must be done, I still sometimes must push the problem from my mind for awhile as I psychologically try to survive so that I can be a present mom to my four kids and get the necessities of life accomplished. It is a hard thing to admit, especially since I know from hard-earned experience that I have gained amazing depths of understanding and growth from enduring and dealing with incredibly painful experiences.
And so this is where I am. I am at a crossroads. I have known that I must make my abuser legally responsible for the deep-seeded damage he has done to my mind and to my spirit. Criminally or civilly, he needs to be held accountable, and since he's never come forward to take responsibility on his own, the issue must be forced by me. I have avoided thinking about it too much over the holidays. I've understandably pushed the issue aside to enjoy the holidays with my family, but I know I have also just been avoiding the problem. Now is the time and I must make myself strong to endure and come out the other side with a richness to my life that was never before known.
"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars." - Khalil Gibran
Thursday, December 16, 2010
My Absence
I hope that my absence from this blog has not made any of my supporters think I have given up my pursuit and I hope it has not made any of my detractors believe that it's over and they can rest easy. That is not the case. I am as determined as ever to pursue legal measures and to spread the truth of what happens in our ecclesiastical, legal, and family systems when sexual abuse is exposed.
My absence from this blog has merely been because of my indulgence of the holiday season, and for us the holiday season begins in September. We do a lot of fall/Halloween related trips around New England and New York. It is a busy time of year for us! Then, of course, we have Thanksgiving, and very quickly Christmas and the endless activity surrounding that have overtaken our lives. I have felt I should give myself a break from thinking and writing about this topic during this time of year, but I look forward to coming back with vigor come January.
In the meantime, here is the latest quote that has encouraged and motivated me, "Always do what you are afraid to do." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
The things I face, in my circumstances, are constantly creating fear in me. I fear my family, my abuser, the overwhelming bigness of the legal system, and I fear what others in my church may think of me. There is always a sense of fear when I face these things. Recently, I went into the police department to report my abuse. All the way there, I was shaking. Felt as if I might vomit, but I knew I could not let fear stop me. It would have been easy to turn the car around and go back home. Somehow, I made it through the drive. I told the little girl inside of me that no one else took care of her, no one else protected her, and stood up for her, so I would. I was standing up for the little 9 year old girl I once was, who was taken by a grown man and made to do things and witness things that crushed her spirit and traumatized her mind and body. Someone had to, and so it must be me. Fear be damned.
I believe the depth of my fear made accomplishing that step all the more sweet. When it was over, the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders and I had never felt more proud of myself. I have much more to do, but overcoming fear, in that moment, made me realize how strong I can be.
I know that I am not done with this journey, and though my abuser has made others believe he is repentent, he has never made an apology to me, nor has he tried to make restitution, which is part of the steps of repentence as outlined by the LDS church. The damage he may still be inflicting on others concerns me and so my pursuit continues.
I wish you all the very best this holiday season! I appreciate all the support and love I have received through this and I am grateful for all of you. May you all overcome those things you fear in life and know that you are stronger than you think.
My absence from this blog has merely been because of my indulgence of the holiday season, and for us the holiday season begins in September. We do a lot of fall/Halloween related trips around New England and New York. It is a busy time of year for us! Then, of course, we have Thanksgiving, and very quickly Christmas and the endless activity surrounding that have overtaken our lives. I have felt I should give myself a break from thinking and writing about this topic during this time of year, but I look forward to coming back with vigor come January.
In the meantime, here is the latest quote that has encouraged and motivated me, "Always do what you are afraid to do." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
The things I face, in my circumstances, are constantly creating fear in me. I fear my family, my abuser, the overwhelming bigness of the legal system, and I fear what others in my church may think of me. There is always a sense of fear when I face these things. Recently, I went into the police department to report my abuse. All the way there, I was shaking. Felt as if I might vomit, but I knew I could not let fear stop me. It would have been easy to turn the car around and go back home. Somehow, I made it through the drive. I told the little girl inside of me that no one else took care of her, no one else protected her, and stood up for her, so I would. I was standing up for the little 9 year old girl I once was, who was taken by a grown man and made to do things and witness things that crushed her spirit and traumatized her mind and body. Someone had to, and so it must be me. Fear be damned.
I believe the depth of my fear made accomplishing that step all the more sweet. When it was over, the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders and I had never felt more proud of myself. I have much more to do, but overcoming fear, in that moment, made me realize how strong I can be.
I know that I am not done with this journey, and though my abuser has made others believe he is repentent, he has never made an apology to me, nor has he tried to make restitution, which is part of the steps of repentence as outlined by the LDS church. The damage he may still be inflicting on others concerns me and so my pursuit continues.
I wish you all the very best this holiday season! I appreciate all the support and love I have received through this and I am grateful for all of you. May you all overcome those things you fear in life and know that you are stronger than you think.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
My Heart Is Full
“Whatever course you decide upon, there is always someone to tell you that you are wrong. There are always difficulties arising which tempt you to believe that your critics are right. To map out a course of action and follow it to an end requires courage.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson
As I've said before, Emerson's words have always inspired me, as is evidenced by the name of this blog. The above quote, in particular, has given me strength during my uncertain journey. It has boosted me up during my moments of doubt and discouragement.
But there has been something else, that I didn't expect, that has warmed my heart and given me a shot of courage when I needed it...and that something is all of you. Your comments, emails, facebook links, and blog posts about me have humbled me. I knew I'd have my critics and would have to deal with some anger and resentment in my family. I knew this blog would change my relationship with a lot of people in my life and would alter the status quo. I knew all of that going into this, but I really hadn't expected all the encouragement and support that I've been given by all of you.
My dear childhood friend, Heather, posted about this blog and her sense of compassion warmed my heart and I felt loved. Her little sister, Susie, has been posting facebook links to this blog and has corresponded with me, giving me some really valuable information to help me with this process and I felt loved again. Then one of my long-time blogging friends, Crash, has linked me and written about me in blog posts and has reached out. Man, do I ever feel loved!
And I am overwhelmed at all of the comments you all leave for me on my posts. They bring me strength and hope. I can feel the love and compassion and outrage in each comment. You all will never know how much that does for me. You urge me on in my battle.
During the coming days, weeks, months, and maybe even years I will be facing police officers, lawyers, church officials, and family and a lot of it will be unpleasant. The task before me is almost overwhelming in its size and scope and the outcomes are so uncertain. In the last couple of days, I took some first legal steps (I don't want to get into specifics just yet). To take my first little step into this deep, dark woods, full of unknown beasts and dangers has been an almost insurmountable hurdle. I suffer from an anxiety disorder, due to my childhood trauma, and it often stops me dead in my tracks when doing things normal people would consider rather mundane. So, to do something that required me to demand to be heard, to demand justice and to be courageous was so far out of my comfort zone that I felt paralyzed by the mere thought. But then, a couple of days ago, I felt something tell me to do it now! Take that step now! I stopped what I was doing. I prayed for strength and I prayed for a sense of peace to descend upon me and I did it. Normally, my anxiety would start my heart pounding, my tongue to bind, my palms to sweat, my body to shake, but none of that happened. I felt completely at ease. And when I was done taking my first legal step, my chest filled with total peace and I knew I had done the right thing. I suddenly felt the strength to take on the entire world, if need be.
A couple of months ago, I felt inspired to start this blog. I felt such a spiritual certainty that I was to start this blog to empower myself, to spread awareness of this issue, and to help other victims know that they aren't alone. I didn't know then that I would be boosted up by so many strangers and friends alike. I didn't know that so many people would take the time to show me that they care with their comments and more. I believe that Heavenly Father knew that I needed all of you to help me in these tender early days of my journey. Thank you for all of your comments, your encouragement, and your love!
Love to you all!
As I've said before, Emerson's words have always inspired me, as is evidenced by the name of this blog. The above quote, in particular, has given me strength during my uncertain journey. It has boosted me up during my moments of doubt and discouragement.
But there has been something else, that I didn't expect, that has warmed my heart and given me a shot of courage when I needed it...and that something is all of you. Your comments, emails, facebook links, and blog posts about me have humbled me. I knew I'd have my critics and would have to deal with some anger and resentment in my family. I knew this blog would change my relationship with a lot of people in my life and would alter the status quo. I knew all of that going into this, but I really hadn't expected all the encouragement and support that I've been given by all of you.
My dear childhood friend, Heather, posted about this blog and her sense of compassion warmed my heart and I felt loved. Her little sister, Susie, has been posting facebook links to this blog and has corresponded with me, giving me some really valuable information to help me with this process and I felt loved again. Then one of my long-time blogging friends, Crash, has linked me and written about me in blog posts and has reached out. Man, do I ever feel loved!
And I am overwhelmed at all of the comments you all leave for me on my posts. They bring me strength and hope. I can feel the love and compassion and outrage in each comment. You all will never know how much that does for me. You urge me on in my battle.
During the coming days, weeks, months, and maybe even years I will be facing police officers, lawyers, church officials, and family and a lot of it will be unpleasant. The task before me is almost overwhelming in its size and scope and the outcomes are so uncertain. In the last couple of days, I took some first legal steps (I don't want to get into specifics just yet). To take my first little step into this deep, dark woods, full of unknown beasts and dangers has been an almost insurmountable hurdle. I suffer from an anxiety disorder, due to my childhood trauma, and it often stops me dead in my tracks when doing things normal people would consider rather mundane. So, to do something that required me to demand to be heard, to demand justice and to be courageous was so far out of my comfort zone that I felt paralyzed by the mere thought. But then, a couple of days ago, I felt something tell me to do it now! Take that step now! I stopped what I was doing. I prayed for strength and I prayed for a sense of peace to descend upon me and I did it. Normally, my anxiety would start my heart pounding, my tongue to bind, my palms to sweat, my body to shake, but none of that happened. I felt completely at ease. And when I was done taking my first legal step, my chest filled with total peace and I knew I had done the right thing. I suddenly felt the strength to take on the entire world, if need be.
A couple of months ago, I felt inspired to start this blog. I felt such a spiritual certainty that I was to start this blog to empower myself, to spread awareness of this issue, and to help other victims know that they aren't alone. I didn't know then that I would be boosted up by so many strangers and friends alike. I didn't know that so many people would take the time to show me that they care with their comments and more. I believe that Heavenly Father knew that I needed all of you to help me in these tender early days of my journey. Thank you for all of your comments, your encouragement, and your love!
Love to you all!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Oppression of Shame
I will never be protected. I will never be loved. I am worthless. I’m so worthless that even my parents rage and push against righting unspeakable wrongs done to me. These thoughts rushed through my brain at a frenzied pace, as anger and deep betrayal and hurt filled my limbs and chest with a burning heat. Only 19 and not worth the fight.
“Who does she think she is,” my father yelled at me, his anger marking his face a deep crimson. “How dare she!”
Confusion scattered my brain and I wanted to scream out for someone to love me. I am flesh of their flesh. They made me and knew me since I made my mother’s womb my home. They knew my yelping newborn cries, held my tiny toddler hand when I stood in need of comfort, and watched my body grow from a fragile 6 pounds to my womanly shape. If these people wouldn’t love me, wouldn’t fight for me, who would?
I had been to see a therapist that night. I moved back to California since I found myself filled with deep anxiety at college. My body manifested my internal wounds in odd ways. My latest illness had filled my eyes with painful ulcers that didn’t heal for a month. The pain of abuse that I stuffed away as a child suddenly turned to poison in my body. My dad arranged for me to see a therapist upon my return to my home state. Hoping for a quick and tidy healing to occur, he raged when he heard the turn of events my first visit to this therapist had taken. My therapist was going to report my abuse to the state.
“Dad, she’s supposed to report the abuse! It’s the law! Don’t you get it,” I pleaded as my warbled brain tried to grasp a hold of his sudden fury.
“I’m going to call her! How dare she,” he repeated.
I grabbed onto his tense forearm as he paced the room, his eyes searching for something. “No! Dad, you can’t!” My mother wandered in and out of the room, not wanting to get involved. Pretending all was normal, she did her nightly chores, like a nervous humming bird hovering around the house. "Dad! What are you looking for, " I screamed as he paced.
“Her phone number. She will not get away with this! Who does she think she is?”
All hope of healing and self-discovery washed away and my body suddenly became weak and my heart heavy. I would not be going back to a therapist. My father would humor my need for psychological help no longer. “Dad! She has to call the police! If she doesn’t she is breaking the law!”
“There is a higher law! God’s law is more important than the state of California!” He was now pacing the house like a caged and enraged animal, searching for something. His brain worked overtime to find a way to regain his control over the situation. This was his family and he would be the one in control. He would be the master to all of us puppets.
“What about what Joseph Smith said? What about the Articles of Faith? He said we obey the laws of the land! He said we abide the laws of our country!”
He shook his head, his anger now kindled against me. “Your brother-in-law has gone to his bishop! He has had a church court! He has repented. That’s all that matters. Now we need to stop all this revenge. It is time to get over it and get back to normal!”
A primal need for love and protection grew to a deep and sharp pain in my belly and I felt a voice I did not recognize as my own, rise from my throat as I screamed loudly like a wounded and dying thing. My body shivered steadily as the realization came quickly to my mind that I am all alone. My church doesn’t care that he abused me. My family doesn’t care. They all want to forget about it.
My father’s head shot up as my scream deafened the room and looked at me as if I were mental patient, much in need of a padded room and straitjacket. My mother hurried into the room. She is a woman who doesn't care for strong emotion, especially if it is the sort of emotion that kills all sense of peace, and my savage and primitive display of hurt was rejected in her ears. Her look of shock wounded me even more. I was a crazy person to them. I knew it then and I know it still.
My father uttered not a word. He ushered me from the room and locked the door. That’s when I heard him on the phone. That’s when I heard him yell at the woman who wanted to report my seven savage years of horrifying sexual abuse. Feeling all sensation leave my body, I leaned against the hallway wall for support and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. With my knees pointed up, I wrapped my arms around them, bowed my head in the circle of my arms and legs and cried great sobs as the tears fell on my own flesh. No one to comfort me. No one to care. I cried out to God for someone to love me.
Like animals in the wild, I felt as if I was the young who’d been rejected because some unfixable defect was sensed or I’d been handled by human hands too much. While in the depths of my abuse, I was not protected because no one knew. But my greatest fear had been realized…now they knew, but still refused to protect me.
Though that night of anger and confrontation with my father was so long ago, it left a deep and abiding wound. For all of my young life, I was a child who always felt unlovable, but secretly hoped I was wrong. But that night was when I knew, my family would never love me enough. On my soul there will forever be a scar.
My whole life was a series of betrayals. First my brother-in-law betrayed my child-like trust and destroyed my innocence. Then my church betrayed me by giving my abuser a mere token punishment, a mere slap on the wrist. They embraced him with full fellowship, while my plight was ignored. Then the final blow came when my family betrayed the trust given to them by God to protect me and nurture me.
Where does this all come from? Why would seemingly normal people reject a victim in favor of bypassing punishment for the perpetrator? Why would normally good people deny the course of justice? Why would they deny the perpetrator the consequences he is supposed to deal with? If a man kills another and then repents, he must still deal with and pay for the crime he committed. He cannot repent and bypass prison. His victim remains dead, though he has repented. Repentence is not a get out of jail free card. Then why in sexual abuse do we want to sweep everything under the rug and allow an abuser a life without consequences? I believe the answer is because sexual abuse is so uncomfortable for a religious people to think about that they'd rather pretend the person has fully repented, repressed all sexual desire for children, and is now better than to actually have to think about the disturbing details of the abuse. And if you are a victim wanting to speak out, then watch out! No one wants to hear it. It is disgusting.
If a person went in to see their bishop to confess that they are suffering from alcoholism, would we expect that all they needed to do was confess their sin and repent and everything would be better? I can't imagine one Mormon, or other religious person, would honestly think that is the best course of action with an alcoholic. We all know that person would need professional help, not just ecclesiastical help. We all know that confession, no matter how sincere, is not enough to wipe out the desire for alcohol. And yet we expect it to work differently for a pedophile? I am certain pedophilia is a deeper and far more insidious addiction than alcoholism.
And let's say that same alcoholic that came in to confess to their bishop was also guilty of drunk driving and killing or gravely injuring another. Who would say that a drunk driver, who killed or maimed another while driving under the influence, shouldn't be accountable to the law? No one! And yet....the supposedly repentant pedophile who murdered a child's spirit and caused bodily harm to an innocent does not need to answer to the law?
Even people called to serve in leadership roles in my church are guilty of this. I have seen it first-hand in my own case. Our church leaders are not trained professionals in dealing with abuse. They are regular, everyday people with the same unease and embarrassment about sexual molestation as everyone else. It is time to change this! It is time that sexual abuse is no longer taboo. It is time for the shame to be brushed away from the victims and it is time for us to make the perpetrators face up to the crimes that they've committed. It is time that our leaders and families become more enlightened.
You need only look at what happened with the Catholic church to know that we cannot allow our discomfort with sexual matters rule how abuse is treated. The priests in the Catholic church would also confess their sins. They would express their guilt and repentance. Did this stop the abuse from spreading? I think we all know the answer to this. They were transferred to new areas, with promises that they'd change, only to have other unsuspecting boys and girls put into their care with disastrous results. Mormons aren't different or special when it comes to this, though I think a lot of us think we are. A repentant pedophile of any religion is likely to strike again without the proper help and punishment. Confessing your sin to God and to your ecclesiastical leader is good, but it is nowhere near enough.
By making this subject less taboo, we are protecting our kids. Shame, embarrassment, and sweeping things under the rug is exactly the dark cover and protection that abuse needs to grow, spread, and destroy. I know there are thousands of adults like me, who grew up in religious families, who were sexually abused and then were made to feel they were wrong or evil for wanting the crime reported or desiring justice. There are thousands of you out there who have suffered, feeling all alone and unloved because your families and your churches wouldn't stand up for you. And my heart aches for all of you because I know the agony and confusion and guilt that fills your spirit.
I believe that victims of sexual abuse need to share their stories, without bashfulness or humiliation. When we let our shame silence us, our perpetrators win. I also believe that everyone else needs to get over our puritanical shame over sexual matters, so we can stand up for the victims and show them they are not forgotten, not alone, and not unloved. Every one of us is worth the fight!
“Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” Matthew 18:6.
“Who does she think she is,” my father yelled at me, his anger marking his face a deep crimson. “How dare she!”
Confusion scattered my brain and I wanted to scream out for someone to love me. I am flesh of their flesh. They made me and knew me since I made my mother’s womb my home. They knew my yelping newborn cries, held my tiny toddler hand when I stood in need of comfort, and watched my body grow from a fragile 6 pounds to my womanly shape. If these people wouldn’t love me, wouldn’t fight for me, who would?
I had been to see a therapist that night. I moved back to California since I found myself filled with deep anxiety at college. My body manifested my internal wounds in odd ways. My latest illness had filled my eyes with painful ulcers that didn’t heal for a month. The pain of abuse that I stuffed away as a child suddenly turned to poison in my body. My dad arranged for me to see a therapist upon my return to my home state. Hoping for a quick and tidy healing to occur, he raged when he heard the turn of events my first visit to this therapist had taken. My therapist was going to report my abuse to the state.
“Dad, she’s supposed to report the abuse! It’s the law! Don’t you get it,” I pleaded as my warbled brain tried to grasp a hold of his sudden fury.
“I’m going to call her! How dare she,” he repeated.
I grabbed onto his tense forearm as he paced the room, his eyes searching for something. “No! Dad, you can’t!” My mother wandered in and out of the room, not wanting to get involved. Pretending all was normal, she did her nightly chores, like a nervous humming bird hovering around the house. "Dad! What are you looking for, " I screamed as he paced.
“Her phone number. She will not get away with this! Who does she think she is?”
All hope of healing and self-discovery washed away and my body suddenly became weak and my heart heavy. I would not be going back to a therapist. My father would humor my need for psychological help no longer. “Dad! She has to call the police! If she doesn’t she is breaking the law!”
“There is a higher law! God’s law is more important than the state of California!” He was now pacing the house like a caged and enraged animal, searching for something. His brain worked overtime to find a way to regain his control over the situation. This was his family and he would be the one in control. He would be the master to all of us puppets.
“What about what Joseph Smith said? What about the Articles of Faith? He said we obey the laws of the land! He said we abide the laws of our country!”
He shook his head, his anger now kindled against me. “Your brother-in-law has gone to his bishop! He has had a church court! He has repented. That’s all that matters. Now we need to stop all this revenge. It is time to get over it and get back to normal!”
A primal need for love and protection grew to a deep and sharp pain in my belly and I felt a voice I did not recognize as my own, rise from my throat as I screamed loudly like a wounded and dying thing. My body shivered steadily as the realization came quickly to my mind that I am all alone. My church doesn’t care that he abused me. My family doesn’t care. They all want to forget about it.
My father’s head shot up as my scream deafened the room and looked at me as if I were mental patient, much in need of a padded room and straitjacket. My mother hurried into the room. She is a woman who doesn't care for strong emotion, especially if it is the sort of emotion that kills all sense of peace, and my savage and primitive display of hurt was rejected in her ears. Her look of shock wounded me even more. I was a crazy person to them. I knew it then and I know it still.
My father uttered not a word. He ushered me from the room and locked the door. That’s when I heard him on the phone. That’s when I heard him yell at the woman who wanted to report my seven savage years of horrifying sexual abuse. Feeling all sensation leave my body, I leaned against the hallway wall for support and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. With my knees pointed up, I wrapped my arms around them, bowed my head in the circle of my arms and legs and cried great sobs as the tears fell on my own flesh. No one to comfort me. No one to care. I cried out to God for someone to love me.
Like animals in the wild, I felt as if I was the young who’d been rejected because some unfixable defect was sensed or I’d been handled by human hands too much. While in the depths of my abuse, I was not protected because no one knew. But my greatest fear had been realized…now they knew, but still refused to protect me.
Though that night of anger and confrontation with my father was so long ago, it left a deep and abiding wound. For all of my young life, I was a child who always felt unlovable, but secretly hoped I was wrong. But that night was when I knew, my family would never love me enough. On my soul there will forever be a scar.
My whole life was a series of betrayals. First my brother-in-law betrayed my child-like trust and destroyed my innocence. Then my church betrayed me by giving my abuser a mere token punishment, a mere slap on the wrist. They embraced him with full fellowship, while my plight was ignored. Then the final blow came when my family betrayed the trust given to them by God to protect me and nurture me.
Where does this all come from? Why would seemingly normal people reject a victim in favor of bypassing punishment for the perpetrator? Why would normally good people deny the course of justice? Why would they deny the perpetrator the consequences he is supposed to deal with? If a man kills another and then repents, he must still deal with and pay for the crime he committed. He cannot repent and bypass prison. His victim remains dead, though he has repented. Repentence is not a get out of jail free card. Then why in sexual abuse do we want to sweep everything under the rug and allow an abuser a life without consequences? I believe the answer is because sexual abuse is so uncomfortable for a religious people to think about that they'd rather pretend the person has fully repented, repressed all sexual desire for children, and is now better than to actually have to think about the disturbing details of the abuse. And if you are a victim wanting to speak out, then watch out! No one wants to hear it. It is disgusting.
If a person went in to see their bishop to confess that they are suffering from alcoholism, would we expect that all they needed to do was confess their sin and repent and everything would be better? I can't imagine one Mormon, or other religious person, would honestly think that is the best course of action with an alcoholic. We all know that person would need professional help, not just ecclesiastical help. We all know that confession, no matter how sincere, is not enough to wipe out the desire for alcohol. And yet we expect it to work differently for a pedophile? I am certain pedophilia is a deeper and far more insidious addiction than alcoholism.
And let's say that same alcoholic that came in to confess to their bishop was also guilty of drunk driving and killing or gravely injuring another. Who would say that a drunk driver, who killed or maimed another while driving under the influence, shouldn't be accountable to the law? No one! And yet....the supposedly repentant pedophile who murdered a child's spirit and caused bodily harm to an innocent does not need to answer to the law?
Even people called to serve in leadership roles in my church are guilty of this. I have seen it first-hand in my own case. Our church leaders are not trained professionals in dealing with abuse. They are regular, everyday people with the same unease and embarrassment about sexual molestation as everyone else. It is time to change this! It is time that sexual abuse is no longer taboo. It is time for the shame to be brushed away from the victims and it is time for us to make the perpetrators face up to the crimes that they've committed. It is time that our leaders and families become more enlightened.
You need only look at what happened with the Catholic church to know that we cannot allow our discomfort with sexual matters rule how abuse is treated. The priests in the Catholic church would also confess their sins. They would express their guilt and repentance. Did this stop the abuse from spreading? I think we all know the answer to this. They were transferred to new areas, with promises that they'd change, only to have other unsuspecting boys and girls put into their care with disastrous results. Mormons aren't different or special when it comes to this, though I think a lot of us think we are. A repentant pedophile of any religion is likely to strike again without the proper help and punishment. Confessing your sin to God and to your ecclesiastical leader is good, but it is nowhere near enough.
By making this subject less taboo, we are protecting our kids. Shame, embarrassment, and sweeping things under the rug is exactly the dark cover and protection that abuse needs to grow, spread, and destroy. I know there are thousands of adults like me, who grew up in religious families, who were sexually abused and then were made to feel they were wrong or evil for wanting the crime reported or desiring justice. There are thousands of you out there who have suffered, feeling all alone and unloved because your families and your churches wouldn't stand up for you. And my heart aches for all of you because I know the agony and confusion and guilt that fills your spirit.
I believe that victims of sexual abuse need to share their stories, without bashfulness or humiliation. When we let our shame silence us, our perpetrators win. I also believe that everyone else needs to get over our puritanical shame over sexual matters, so we can stand up for the victims and show them they are not forgotten, not alone, and not unloved. Every one of us is worth the fight!
“Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” Matthew 18:6.
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