Where the Story Starts

Because the road to recovery is paved with hard truths and not denial and lies.

(The red text is my response to the questions I’ve fielded a million times. Hurtful questions that only caused me to further deny my pain.)

I spent a long time wanting my story to be heard. I had a lot of pain in my heart. My heart wasn’t hardened yet, just broken. I had the heartbreaking pain of being molested by my brother, repeatedly, from a young age until I was a teenager. I had the feelings of worthlessness and shame that came with having parents know and not stop it. (Yes, they knew. Blatantly, completely knew. No, they did nothing to stop it. This isn’t me exaggerating; this is truth.) I made guesses at my self-worth when molestation escalated to rape, and through no fault of my own, I became damaged goods. I didn’t feel like I mattered to anyone. I felt unloved. I didn’t think my hurt was justified. I decided that since my feelings of being violated, taken advantage of, hurt, and shamed were not matched by the people around me, they weren’t accurate. I was made to feel like I had no reason to be dying inside. (Yes, “made to feel”. I know that there is a therapeutic statement out there that “nobody has the power to make you feel”, but I was a child, my feelings were a reflection of how I saw myself in the mirror of my parents.) Through my recent therapy, I have learned that I did not have a compassionate witness to the pain and anguish I had. I made several attempts to talk with people around me at the time. Youth pastors, adult youth leaders, babysitters, friends, friends’ parents, teachers, anybody who would listen to me for five seconds. The only problem was, I wasn’t saying the right things. I never mentioned what happened with my brother. I knew that if that were the reason for my pain, then my parents would have done something. I knew that since they didn’t do anything about it, then it was clearly not a big deal. It shouldn’t have any residual effect on me. I assumed that it was normal, that everyone’s big brother did that to them. While I harbored this assumption, I also knew deep deep down that it was incredibly wrong, and I was afraid that if I did tell someone who took my pain seriously, it would tear my family apart. I thought that my brother would be sent to jail and my parents would be furious with me. (I played the whole scenario out in my mind and it ended with me being the source of pain for my parents, and needing to either run away or commit suicide.) And since the divorce hadn’t actually started yet, I couldn’t blame my pain on that; although before the word “divorce” was ever uttered, I was deeply affected by it and desperately wanted someone to know. So I had this pain, this longing to feel accepted, this need to tell people that I was suffering, this deep need to feel like I was still okay despite all I’d endured. And I didn’t have the words to communicate it. I still felt like people viewed me as the troubled, attention seeking middle child from a perfectly happy family.

Then the divorce started. I used that angle to try to get my hurts heard. The problem was, it was the 90s and more than half the kids in my class were living through divorcing parents also. And they were no worse for the wear. Their parents divorced in a manner that was advantageous to the children. Mom signed them up for soccer and dad signed them up for baseball and mom signed them up for horseback riding lessons and dad bought them a pony and mom married the owner of the candy store and they could get all the candy they wanted for free. (Okay, this part is an exaggeration.) Through my lens of unwarranted pain and being told (Yes, expressly told, in no uncertain terms) that there wasn’t anything wrong with me, with my life, or with our family, I continued this mental battle of wanting to tell someone, and to be hugged and told that they were all wrong and I was loveable and worthy of being rescued, but yet feeling like I must be lying about the whole thing. I felt like I was a pathological liar because I kept telling the stories in my head and hearing my parents’ voices say they weren’t true.

So I made the outside match the inside. I became a cutter. I put real blood and scars to my pain. I became reckless with my life, in a slow, methodical way. I would push the limits a little bit, and wait and see if that worked at getting their attention. My parents were aware of the big picture, so I wasn’t doing big things like drugs or sleeping around. That would have disappointed them and I wasn’t trying to disappoint them. I just wanted their attention and love. I desperately wanted to be rescued and loved.

And my parents noticed and they became concerned. They drew me close and said they loved me too much to watch me hurt myself. They took me to counseling to try to figure out why I was acting like that. They prayed with me and for me, they doted on me and told me how beautiful I was, how I had so much worth and potential. They acknowledged that they should have rescued me sooner, and they were sorry they didn’t. They were there now and would do anything to help me understand that I was incredibly special to them, I was their beloved middle child, first born daughter; loved and cherished. Only, that’s not how the story goes. Unfortunately for me, my parents’ divorce turned them into narcissist adults who had lost time to make up for, at the expense of raising their kids. My hurts took on a new level of pain as I became abandoned and felt even more invisible and worthless.

My parents’ divorce caused them to both become spiteful against each other. Each was eager to “out live” the other, placing their own needs, wants and beliefs ahead of their children’s. At this time my very religious mother began to date freely, and I watched her become the helpless female being rescued by every date that promised he’d love her forever. Keep in mind, this was around the time that I was starting to think about boyfriends and dating.  I took my cues from her ridiculous behavior.   My story goes on to include a lot of dumb things I did while seeking attention.  I told a lot of lies, telling people I was involved in a lot of bad situations that I actually wasn't.  I knew better than to actually do certain things, but I wanted people to think I was, and feel sorry for me, and rescue me.  Until very recently, I thought that the pain and shame and unworthiness I felt was related to the bad choices I made as my story played out.  After writing my story, I became acutely aware of where my story started.  When I acknowledge the beginning of the story, I can allow grace and forgiveness to cover my sins throughout the rest of the story.  I was doing the best I could to have my needs met.  The problem was them, not me.    It took digging on my own. It took me owning up to my mistakes, and discovering that the deep pain was still there.  I identified my responsibility, and it didn't touch the source of the pain.  It took me taking myself back to the very beginning of my story and acknowledging that it wasn’t my fault. I was abused and mistreated, through no fault of my own. I did not deserve to be violated. I was made to be loved and my parents are the ones who royally screwed up. Yeah, I have had a long fall out of sins of my own, and they all stem from the same place. They were the ones in the wrong. I had every right to be sad and hurt. They should have taken me to therapy when they realized I had been abused. They should have had my abuser in therapy. They should have protected me from it ever happening again, rather than turn a blind eye and allow it to continue. I have continued to suffer in every area of my life because of their grand failure.

I’m working on the healing. I am still numb and a long ways from it, I’m afraid. I can hear someone else sharing this story and I can feel the anger rising in myself at the lies that person believed because of the gross mistreatment they endured. But when it's my own voice, it’s not anger towards my parents or my brother yet. And that’s how I know I’m not healed. I’m still believing the lies. I’m still numb and unable to access my anger and pain. Well no, I feel the pain, but it’s accompanied with shame. My pain and shame comes from the fall out of the things I’ve done, and including the ways that I’ve failed at loving the people who love me most. When really the source of the pain comes right from where my story began.