Listening

Our stories have value. They are essential parts of us and no one can take them. We own them outright.

I feel I can never stress enough the importance of telling our stories, especially on a deep level. Telling our story is difficult to say the least and painful to share. We are reaching into the innermost parts of our hearts and taking a risk. We are entrusting the listener with our core secrets.

Next to telling our story, listening to someone tell theirs is difficult.

Two are better than one because they will have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift  up his companions. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up. Ecclesiastes 3:16.

One of the greatest things about the group I am part of is the connection formed the first night. We do not become best friends immediately but we have the blessing of realizing we are not alone. A new person the group will be welcomed and reassured she is not alone; her feelings are validated in a way a person who has not been abused cannot. It is priceless. We need each other. We understand each other. We are fighting the same war. This applies to everyone, not just survivors in a group. Any support system needs to be nurtured, whether it is just two people or twelve.

When my group is asked who is ready to read their story the room will go silent and we will all shift our eyes to each other, silently willing another to make the first move. There is almost a visible sigh of relief when another member volunteers. Relief is short lived.

When stories are read to the group the connection is reinforced by listening. If you are really listening, a deeper understanding of the reader takes place. A mixture of anger, empathy, and love run through the heart. Anger that it happened, empathy as you feel the story with them, and love for a person you now understand on a deeper level. There is also a sense of gratitude. I am grateful to all who have trusted me with their story. It is an honor.

Really listening to someone tell their story is difficult. It often triggers a certain memory for me. It can be a similar picture, assault, or a feeling. It takes a lot of effort to stay with them and not get lost in my own memories while they are reading. I need and want to stay focused on what they are saying. The storyteller is entrusting me with their secrets, secrets they have kept from others in their life. They are risking their hearts and counting on acceptance with each word read aloud. We have to be careful.  We need to let the reader know we are sorry it happened to them. We need to let them know their story is valuable. We need to make eye contact afterwards to show our appreciation for what they endured. Our responsibility is great. We are giving the survivor the undivided attention they never received when the abuse was happening. Their voice is being heard.

When we listen to a survivor’s story it is important to just listen. We cannot fix anything about their story. It can definitely increase our understanding of the person’s journey, but it is not our job to take the symptoms we see in their life, attach it to the story, and then point it out to them. There maybe a time for that later. I cannot stress how much we need to keep our mouths shut and listen. In my group, when a woman is reading her story you can hear a pin drop in the room. We allow her to take as much time as she needs to get it out. Words of encouragement are the only words spoken if she hesitates in the middle. It is unwritten rule created out of respect.

My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, James 1:19.

Not all will have a group to share their story. There might be a time a friend is telling their story to me one on one. My brain may try to shutdown to protect itself from any memories or triggers that may surface, but I need to fight it, concentrate on the heart next to me. Undivided, positive attention is what we all need when we share. When the abuse was happening we were all wishing someone would listen. I am not sure about you, but even if I did not come right out and say it, I communicated the abuse when acting out, physical symptoms, or even just trying to communicate telepathically. A friend, counselor, or spouse really listening gives us what we needed during the abuse, a voice and a positive sense of value.

Dear friend, you are faithful in what you are doing for the brothers and sisters, even though they are strangers to you. 3 John 1:5

Telling Your Story Pt. 2

Our stories are dynamic. The details may never change, but the impact and perspective is always changing. After I wrote my story for group this session I did a fair bit of thinking about the first time I wrote it and read it aloud.

My first impression of group was not great. It was not the group itself that set me off so much as my attitude. I was frustrated that my therapist had recommended it and angry that it was not what I expected. The first night was pretty basic and more about the purpose and hopes for group. When the facilitator mentioned we needed to start writing our stories to read to the group later, my thoughts essentially centered around, “You are crazy and I am absolutely not doing this.” Based on this “homework” assignment, I almost chose to drop out.

I was encouraged to keep going and I did start to write my story about 3 weeks in. At first I was worried about what I was going to write. I debated between a summary and describing the first time it happened. I ultimately chose to write about the first time. I had briefly described it before in a journal entry but it was fairly vague and I did not make the effort to really get into writing it. Who wants to describe details of a horrible event? Nobody. Who needs to do this? Everyone.

When I started to write about the first time I was abused I started to become physically ill. As the words made it from my head to paper the details started to flow and I recalled more than I knew before. It was like I could physically feel it happening, hear his breathing, and and see the room perfectly. Essentially I was experiencing it again.

The next couple of weeks were a blur, as I wrote about so many other times it happened. I was exhausted by the end of it and had actually skipped a couple of sessions of group at the request of my therapist. I had uncovered so much in a short period of time and needed to take several steps back and process. To be honest, I was incredibly overwhelmed and could barely imagine ever surviving.

I do not tell you this to scare you out of telling your own story. Without a doubt it will be one of the hardest things you will ever do. It already lives in your head, swirling

around to the point you may think you are going crazy. The benefit of getting it out on paper (computer file) is that it lessens the pressure of hiding it in the brain. A little of the poison drains out and you gain more control of it.

Reading your story to a therapist, group, friend, pastor, family member, or whomever you chose is a lot scarier than writing it down. Once the story is told it is out in the open, no longer a secret. I was never able to look anyone in the eye while telling it and it was difficult to do afterwards. The sense of shame is powerful. When the story is read aloud we are admitting to others we feel broken, damaged, and helpless. The truth is everyone is broken (see earlier post Repairable).

Patience usually works against me, no matter my intentions. With abuse recovery I really struggle with it. I have learned so much and pushed myself harder than I should a lot of the times, but the feeling of freedom and relief from the prison of a hidden story is motivating. It encourages when there are doubts and is a positive stepping stone. I want this for everyone. I want so much for all of us to reach a point where hope is more dominant than depression, love is accepted and cherished, and forgiveness overcomes bitterness. The desire for others to feel this sense of freedom is strong in my heart. It is the equivalent of wanting others absorb what I have done and more forward. I will push others too far and forget nothing can be skipped. We all have to take the steps and do it in our own time.

I encourage you to tell your story. It needs to be told. The longer it hides inside and drags on your heart, the longer you will feel stuck. No doubt it will be one of the hardest things you will ever do. You have already proved resilient by surviving the actual abuse. Take your time and take care of yourself. Tell it in a safe place. You are not alone. I will pray for you.

The next step will be listening to others tell theirs.

Words of the Past

My own words have returned to haunt me. Not like a parent’s words to their children, but words I wrote in a journal so many years ago.

I received my first journal for my 8th birthday. I clearly remember asking for the Hello Kitty diary and was so excited when I unwrapped it. It also came with a little marker set. My step-sister was jealous and I remember telling her I was going to hide it so she would never know what I wrote.

Fast forward to 2 weeks ago. I was cleaning out a section of my garage and came across a box of my old journals. This was somewhat of a relief because I had lost track of where they were and had become concerned. Anyway, I took all journals upstairs to hide them in my closet, away from any potential prying eyes. Later that night I decided to start reading the Hello Kitty diary. I thought it would be fun to see what an 8-year-old girl thought about life. Turns out the journal had age gaps. It covered from age 8 until almost the end of age 14.

I read passages to my husband, just the cute parts. I wrote about kids in school I did not care for and the unfairness of being the oldest child. I wrote about not liking my stepfather and moving away to another city, leaving my best friend behind. I now had the date of when I started to cut myself and told my husband about it. I was 13 years old and barely remembered the abuse at that time. About 6 months later I had taken a lot of aspirin and was really sick. I then remembered how I felt after taking the aspirin. I blacked out a few times and the world continued to spin. I went to sleep wondering if I was going to wake up, not really caring one way or the other. My husband was supportive and expressed sadness at my having felt that hopeless as a teenager.

What disturbed me the most were the parts I did not read aloud. I am not sure about you, but a lot of my childhood is really fuzzy. I remember bits and pieces but huge chunks of time are missing. The Hello Kitty diary revealed more details than I wanted.

They way I remembered things was very different from what was written. I lived with the assumption I was a prudish, quiet, and somewhat rebellious child/teenager. If what is written in the diary is true, it was not always that way. I described the things I did with my boyfriends, apparently there were several, and how I was more mature than my friends as far as sexual knowledge. A couple of boyfriends were introduced to oral sex either right before or during middle school. It was a different time then and none of my other friends had done anything like that. I had way more sexual knowledge than a 13 year old should have.

My stomach turned constantly while I read the diary. My Hello Kitty diary was full of events and acts never belonging in any journal much less a child’s. It was sickening. My heart became heavy and the feelings of worthlessness overcame me. I sank deeper into a depression that had fairly recently flared up.

Unfortunately, I did not take care of myself that night and pushed it all to the side. Before the journal reading I had promised my husband we would have sex that night. Since I was not totally honest about how I was feeling and felt so much shame, I fulfilled the promise when I really, really did not want to. It was completely unfair to my husband and to myself. I barely remember it. Afterwards I felt used and ashamed, not by my husband but by me. I had used my body because I was ashamed to tell my husband why things had changed. My husband deserves better. I deserve better.

I am still struggling with reconciling my illusion of the past with what was written in the journal. Again, as it was at age 3, my sense of reality was altered. I feel uneven and just lost.

Telling Your Story

I sat down to write my story yet again. A new session of group and another assignment to write my story. I have done this several times already and in a couple of different ways. 

I have described the first time it happened, the “worst” memory, and have written a short story with the little girl as the main character rather than the abuser. Outside of group I have written every memory I have and the details I remember. I gave them to my private counselor. With the exception of the short story, all were painful to write and difficult to read aloud. When I typed my written words and gave them to my counselor it was difficult to face him. It was difficult to look at him and other group members when the story was told. I was afraid to look into the eyes of those who now knew part of my story. I was afraid of judgement. I was afraid to appear flawed, broken, and weak. I was never made to feel any of those things. 

What I found in group and therapy was acceptance, a sense of comfort, relief, understanding, and freedom. I was no longer hidden. I was encircled in a family of my choosing. A family that supported me, loved me, and gave me the push and room I needed to start to really heal and grow.

This time I am not feeling absolute dread about writing my story. So much of the negative power is gone. I am in a different place. Do not misunderstand, I still hesitate to tell it. There is still a feeling of dread and nervousness, but it is not nearly as strong. 

There are still times I am triggered and thrown into the past, deep into a story I want to heal from. I have remembered details and can recite most of them without thinking about the words, but I struggle with the emotions behind the words. 

So what do I write about. I could do any of the following:

1. I could write about the first time I was abused at the age of 3. 
2. I could write about the abuse on the couch while my baby brother watched cartoons in front of us. 
3. I could write about how every incidence of abuse ended with this man bathing me. 
4. I could write about how the abuse began to carry over into the bath/shower or how it began to start there. 
5. I could write about the gang rape (2 men abuse while 1 watched) at the age of 4, and how the smell of marijuana still makes me sick because of it. 
6. I could write about the most violent and painful attack at the age of 5 involving sodomy and a hairbrush. 
7. I could write about the 16-year-old boy next door that abused me when I was 8 along with my stepsister. He grew up to me a major league baseball player.
8. I could write about the last incident of childhood abuse. I was 10 and assaulted by either the father or uncle of my new stepmother. I had just met them and was welcomed into the family in the middle of the night. 

All of those things happened to me. There are still times the details and emotions attached take my breath away. There are days I can physically feel the abuse. I still have panic attacks, nightmares, and flashbacks. I live with the effects every day. There are times I feel like vomiting and have to stop myself. There are moments my anger is so incredibly strong that I am terrified of it. 

How do I tell this story now? I tell it a little everyday. Whether vocalized or written, I live it daily. It is reflected in my relationship with my husband, my children, other family, my friends, coworkers, and more importantly my relationship with Jesus.

I hate “Sunday School” responses to abuse and recovery. It is not that simple. I have hated God, cursed at Him, shunned Him, ignored Him, and cried in his arms. I can run the whole cycle in a matter of minutes some days. It is not a finish line that can be crossed on earth. The abuse will always be a part of who I am. I am learning it is okay to be me. The sexual abuse does not define me. It took a lot of time and effort from me and those supporting me to get here. I have been self-destructive. I have been generally self-destructive, cut myself, overmedicated, mixed medication with a lot of alcohol, and have been suicidal. I have been hospitalized twice. I still fight all of this. Some days I win and some days I do not. 

I still have hard work to do. I still hide. I still feel shame and guilt, however misplaced, and I still struggle with acceptance. 

Have you shared your story? How did you feel afterwards?