Rape & Sexual Abuse
Twenty
years in the labyrinth
I,
like too many other people, was molested as a child. It didn't just
happen once. There were several events, some more well-remembered
than others, but most just disjointed fragments of silent terror.
Once I was "broken," it seemed to be easier for them to
identify me - I didn't fight, didn't scream, didn't tell. I have no
idea if I sent out signals saying "molest me," or if I was
just so deadened to warning signs (giving no reaction) that it made
me an easy target - I wouldn't be surprised if that was so. I spent
a lot of time NOT thinking about it, and pretending that the things
I remembered were unimportant, little bits of nothing, useless moments
in time. Real, but meaningless.
Outwardly,
I pretended nothing was wrong. But inside, I knew something was very,
very wrong with me. I reacted with intense rage and panic to anything
that reflected those silent memories. I withdrew, I behaved oddly,
I wrote "help me" all over my desk at school... Almost nobody
noticed, and those who did notice didn't do anything about it. (I
took pains to make sure my mom never noticed - she'd make it too real,
make me have to tell my truth, FACE the truth, and heal - as she was
healing, herself.) It took me until I was 14 to begin to consciously
grasp what was wrong - that I'd been molested, really, and that those
memories I kept ignoring were real. And more, they were affecting
my life, daily. Seven years after I'd last been molested, I finally
grasped what had happened. Or began to, anyway.
So
I stepped into the healing labyrinth. Many survivors know that place,
the endless search for 'the answer', the lonely pursuit of healing
and wholeness and safety and peace, never quite knowing what way you
are going, or if what you are doing is actually helping. Have you
ever seen a labyrinth, for real? It isn't a true maze, with one correct
way through and a bunch of dead ends. Both better and worse by far,
it is a path with only one choice to make - go on, or stop. The pattern
seems endless, turning you first one way, and then another, winding
around and back, passing the same ground over and over... You think
you are done, and there you are right back at a place you've been
before, or so it seems. And even when you keep going, and going, and
going, and finally reach the middle, all you get is a moment of rest
before realizing that you have to traverse that entire pattern again
in order to get OUT. And then, heading out, you go over the same ground
again, moving forward and back, unsure if you are lost, if you' ve
gotten turned around, if you will ever be "free." Feeling
trapped, do you stop moving and stay where at least you recognize
the space? Do you turn around and go back to the center where there
is a bit more room to breathe, even if it isn't "out?" Or
do you go on, in blind faith that somehow, some way, if you just keep
moving forward, even if you have to crawl, you will make it out.
No
matter how many people are walking with you, it seems like the path
is yours alone. Sometimes someone seems to be right there with you,
but as soon as you get used to relying on their company and support,
their path turns, and your path turns, and you are moving apart. Perhaps
they are ahead of you, perhaps they are behind you, but you cannot
tell. Again, the path is yours alone.
I
was stubborn, and kept moving, even if sometimes it seemed to be at
a snail's pace. I worked. I read books, and did journaling. I catalogued
the things that made me sure of who abused me, and when, and how.
A jigsaw puzzle of fragments of emotion, memories, reactions. Enough
to overcome my disbelief that people I loved would do such things,
violate a child for their own selfish reasons, lie to that child,
change that child from someone free to someone chained by whispered
warnings in darkened rooms - don't tell, or nobody will ever want
to marry you; don't tell, they won't believe you anyway. Don't tell.
That warning held for years - I worked on my own, hiding my workbooks
and my recovery books, not telling anyone. Walking that labyrinth,
alone.
Fortunately,
one day the barrier of lies broke. I don't even remember who it was
I told first, some friend who was sharing secrets as terrible as mine,
I think. It opened a tiny hole in the lies, and I started telling.
And people believed me. Creak, the gap widened, and the lies began
to fall away. I told the man I planned to marry. He believed me. And
he married me, too. Crash! The barrier fell. The lies were proven
not to be true - someone knew, and he still wanted to marry me. I
could stop believing my abusers then, myself. Soon after, I hired
a professional to tell about it - therapy time, time to at least turn
a light on in the labyrinth, even if, after all, the path is still
walked alone, under my own direction and at my own pace, with just
the nudge of a professional listener, and the reassurance of being
believed by someone who had heard it all before, keeping me from stopping
in despair when I'd turn and find myself seemingly right back where
I'd already been. That helped. Immensely.
Becoming
a mother also helped. I learned that the parts of me that had been
hurt, body, mind, and soul, were not all I was. I had parts of me,
ancient but simultaneously new and incredibly precious parts, that
reflected my self and soul completely, purely - unbroken and undamaged
at all. The light in the labyrinth brightened yet again with the birth
of my son, and I could begin to see the pattern, and really trust
that even when I seemed to be going backwards, the path ahead would
turn, and I'd be going forwards again, getting better, getting more
whole, getting more healed.
And
then I reached the threshold. Without warning, without even seeing
it coming, I was done. My therapist agreed, I was as healthy and whole
as any person, and wiser (from all that work) than many - yeah, I'd
need help now and then, but so does everyone. It had been 20 years
of effort, walking in near darkness and alone, stumbling, stopping,
wishing to be done, and knowing I'd never, ever, ever be done. And
yet, here I was. Done. Two therapists, a marriage, and a child later,
and I was free. Two decades of my life dedicated to giving me my own
life back. Not just "strong enough to survive," but actually
fully myself, ME. I choose where I turn, I choose my path. Nobody
else, not even the labyrinth, guides my feet. No old patterns, no
memories bind me to a direction, to trip me up or make me fear. Exactly
20 years after stepping onto the path of healing, I stepped out of
the labyrinth into the full daylight of my life. The glory of it was
blinding.
Keep
walking, sisters. Keep moving. Do not let the darkness or the fear
hold you in one spot. Work, struggle, fight, crawl, whatever it takes
to move forward. Accept the comfort of those traveling near you, for
the moments while they are there. Accept the help of a professional
to light the path before you. Rest when you need to, but do not become
stuck in the resting. There is a threshold. There is an "out"
and a "done" and a "healed." When I found it,
I wept for days. The world is so much bigger out here, and my heart
just sings for the joy of each free, whole, healed breath.
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