I have reclaimed my body

It happened…

When my sister was pregnant with her first child I stayed with her for several weeks leading up to the delivery of my nephew. Her husband worked long hours and traveled and she was afraid she would go into labor without anyone there to help her. I was 11 years old.

Anything having to do with sexuality was a taboo subject in my house. “Save it for the wedding day” was the extent of any sex education that I received and we certainly didn’t talk about body safety. I am one of six children and my parents had their hands full with my older siblings who were fairly wild. There was chaos all around me. I survived by staying out of the way, becoming self-sufficient, and desperately trying to keep up the appearance of a “normal family” for those outside of my home. But as a little girl I never felt safe.

It was…

My first recollection of the abuse was one night when by brother-in-law came home while I was sleeping on the couch. He woke me up to ask if I wanted him to rub my feet. I said no, that I was sleeping, but he persisted. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I finally said yes. I could feel him grinding my foot into his body. The abuse continued over the next four years, whenever I stayed at their home. Sometimes there would be a request similar to the first time, pressure until I agreed, and then some sort of manipulative statement like “that was too close for comfort” and an apology. Sometimes I would wake up and he would be standing over me and come up with an excuse why. I once woke up to him putting my sock back on my foot. It was wet. He said he had spilled water on it and was drying it off for me. I’ve been asked why I kept going back and my answer has always been the truth, I believed I was misunderstanding what was happening. I never told anyone.

It made me feel…

I always had this uncomfortable feeling in my stomach and something was telling me it was not right but a louder voice told me that he was a well-liked, trusted member of my family so it can’t be wrong. I pretended to sleep and that it wasn’t happening.

I told…

When I was 17 I found out that he had abused another one of my sisters. I would have been 12 at the time of her abuse. She told my mother right away. My mother and oldest sister (his wife) decided that he would go into therapy, no one else would be told, and life would go on. Imagine if they had told me. Instead my abuse continued for two more years.

When I learned about my sister’s abuse my experiences came back with blinding clarity. I remembered and understood what had happened. I was his victim. He destroyed my innocence to make himself feel good. When I finally told my mother her response was one of panic. She never told my father about my sister’s abuse and now feared how he would react to having been kept in the dark all those years. “He can never find out” I was told. We also had to protect my oldest sister (his wife). She was devastated the first time and “God only knows what this might do to her”. So once again it was decided that the adults would be protected rather than the children, the perpetrator rather than the victim. My response was one of platitudes – don’t worry, it wasn’t a big deal, it’s fine, I’ve got this.

I survived…

Over the next 15 years I went to college, partied and was suspended, returned, got my degree, started my career, met and married a really great man, and had my daughter. I also began therapy. It was my therapist’s reaction to my story that made me see that none of this was okay. Painfully, exhaustively, I worked through rage, fear, sadness, numbness, to rewire my brain so that I could understand what was real, to see clearly what had been done to me and how it had affected every single part and day of my life. I learned to live with PTSD. At the same time I continued to be in his presence for family events where again we would all pretend that nothing had happened.

When the story broke in the news about Jerry Sandusky I knew I couldn’t stay silent any longer. I was in awe of the strength of those men who testified against him, and entirely disgusted by the weakness in those who stood by and allowed children to be hurt because they feared for themselves. I had two nephews and the safety of their future children to consider. I began by writing a letter to my brother-in-law telling him that I still remember what he did. I told him that if he didn’t tell his boys what he had done that I would. He never responded, but my sister did. Her first response was a letter full of sorrow, though not regret, for what had happened to me. This letter was immediately followed by one full of hate and threats to destroy my life if I ever told her boys what their father did. I took that letter to a judge, was given restraining orders against both my sister and brother-in-law, and sent letters to each of my nephews that same day.

I thought telling the boys would be enough. I had found my voice, spoken the truth, and was waiting for it to set me free. But inside I still felt like his victim. It was unbearable at times. I felt like a prisoner in my own body, unable to breathe, and wanting to tear my own skin off. When I wasn’t enraged I was left feeling like a zombie, hollow, and helpless. I tried to find a release in working out, but at least three days a week you could find me in a corner of the gym bawling, sometimes shoving a towel in my mouth to keep from sobbing out loud and praying no one would see or hear me.

That changed a year ago when I started training with a professional mixed martial arts (MMA) fighter and at last found a release for the rage and frustration through kickboxing/self defense. At first it was a struggle. Certain drills would cause me to freeze, unable to convince my body to move or keep breathing. I didn’t want to quit because honestly, throwing punches and kicks feels incredible. My therapist recommended telling my trainer about my PTSD and asking for his help in working through those times when my body still thought I was 11. This was the first time I had trusted someone outside of my family or close friends with my story. I am forever grateful to him for his compassionate response, going out of his way to put me at ease. Because I told him, and because he understood my trauma, he was able to help me to break through the fear. In fighting, you don’t want to not anticipate what’s coming at you. You need to trust your body to know what to do when you see it coming at you. It’s a mind-body connection that I have never experienced. What I am now capable of, both physically and mentally, has changed my life. Today I can protect myself in a way that I couldn’t then. I have reclaimed my body and am becoming fearless.

It took me more than 30 years to fully process what began when I was 11. Feeling strong and empowered, I recently reported my abuser to the police. They interviewed me, as well as three other women who confirmed that he had abused them in a similar way. These included two of his own sisters. What I was told is that based on the nature of the “indecent assault’ and statute of limitations in place at the time the abuse occurred, I would have had to report him when I was 17.

So it appears he gets away with the pain that he caused, absent of any criminal accountability. Except for once a year when I renew my restraining orders. Then I sit with a smile on my face and joy in my heart knowing that a uniformed officer will soon be knocking on his door and reminding him that it happened.

I dream…

We know there is a nasty stigma around sexual abuse. It makes people uncomfortable and many try to avoid talking about it. I see it every day and it sucks. If you know someone that has been a victim ask them how they are doing, really doing. Victims should feel supported, not avoided, not be made to feel ashamed of something that happened to them, that was beyond their control. It’s my dream that through greater education and empathy, we will see our society moving away from victim blaming and shaming, and toward supporting those that need it. And for God’s sake, that we stop protecting the perpetrators.

I want…

Even as I write this I waiver in whether or not my story is worth telling or being heard. Thoughts like, ‘it wasn’t such a big deal”, “don’t be a baby”, “there are others who have been hurt much worse than you”. There is truth in that last part. We all know the unspeakable abuse of children that occurs everyday. But there has to be room for a story like mine as well, where the manipulation and assault by a trusted adult twisted up an innocent mind so it could no longer understand what was up and what was down. There have to be others whose healing has been delayed and derailed by the fear and self-interest of the adults around them, where the failed response on the part of those adults has caused nearly as much damage as the abusers themselves.

It is to those that I want to scream, hell yes! Your story has value and is worthy of being told. No matter what it is, I promise something in your story will resonate with someone, hopefully giving them the strength they need to speak their truth in return.

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