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?