Conversation With My Son

My boys have been asking questions since they learned to communicate. Most of the questions involved whether they could have a certain food but occasionally there would be a question about my childhood. Questions centered around my favorite TV show as a kid, music, or school.  As they have gotten older, some of the questions have changed, expect the ones about food.  

Over the summer my son and I were off by ourselves running errands. As we were getting back into the car after one stop, he asked me a question that threw me off balance.

“What is the worst thing that happened to you as a child?” 

Time stood still for a moment. I had a choice to make and needed to make it quickly. I could either give a rather benign answer (my parent’s divorce, moving away from my friends, etc), or I could give him the more honest answer. 

I had never told my boys I was abused. I have always considered them too young. As their mother, I wanted to keep the knowledge of real monsters away. My oldest just turned 13. 

There are several members of my family who are unaware of my abuse. In some cases, they just do not need to know.  Some I just simply do not trust. I either do not trust them to believe me or handle the information with grace. I imagine them chalking up character flaws to the abuse, using it to explain who I am.  Yes, I am basing my lack of trust on what I imagine they are thinking. It may seem ridiculous, but if we are honest with ourselves, we all do that. 

The biggest trust issue with sharing any part of my story is confidentiality. I want to control where the information is going. 

I always figured my sons would be at least 20 years old before I ever said anything. As they approached middle school, I considered sharing a little after “the talk” to drive in the concept of consent. The moment was now upon me. I chose to tell my 13-year-old the truth.

“I was abused as a child.” 

“No you weren’t,” was his reply.

“I actually was. Why do you think I wasn’t?”

“Because, you do not act like it.” 

After I assured him I was not abused by anyone he is related to or even knows, the conversation steered towards how an abused person behaves. He essentially was basing his information on what he had heard from a friend about a 6 year old. I did explain to him abused people are not crazy but need help. I advised not to jump to conclusions about anyone who has been abused. There were a few moments of silence and then the conversation turned benign. 

Later the day, when I was alone, I considered the conversation. 

If my son had asked the question of the person I was a few years ago, regardless of his age, how would have I answered? Would I have given the same simple answer? Or would I have given a lesser answer? 

Up until around 3 years ago, my level of recovery was superficial. I was wrapped up in the shame of the abuse. I considered myself less valuable because of it. I would not want my son to know I was less than human. I would have fought to make sure my kids did not think I was crazy. The hard work over the last 3 years has changed my answer to his question. 

Due to the grace of God, help from my counselor, support circle of friends and family, and pastors, I now know I am not crazy, flawed, or less than human. I am valuable and have the confidence to be honest with my son. 

My son thought abuse victims are crazy and we talked about how they are not. Now, with my simple confession, he knows it is possible to be abused and be fairly normal. Somewhere along the road it is possible my son will realize his mother was abused and yet made it through, fought the good fight, and turned out okay.