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

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?