something that we suffered

I am reading a book, one that a friend thought might help me on the journey I have embarked on. I’m not sure it’s the book for me just yet, but I am pulling from it what I can… partly because I paid $15.99 for it and I would like to get something out of it worth roughly $16 or more, and partly because I would like a book that is for me, so I figure I should give all applicants a fighting chance. 

As I was reading today, I came to the part where the author talks about admitting that you were abused. I don’t think I had given it much thought before then, whether I could say it out loud or the feelings attached to it when I did. I am pretty outspoken and forthcoming with what I am feeling, generally. I suppose you could say it is a handicap. I am sure I accidentally alienate people sometimes or give TMI, but it is me. Maybe it is over-compensation for growing up in an emotional vacuum, but that’s another day’s work. At any rate, there are plenty of people I might accuse of knowing me well, and they would attest to the fact that I am rarely embarrassed or scared to tell you that I am hurting, mad, confused, or excited. I learned while young the power of words, so I try to express myself with others’ feelings in consideration, but I definitely express myself.

So, when I stopped to think about how I feel admitting I was sexually abused, I was kind of shocked to realize that I feel embarrassed. In fact, the thought of just saying it as a declarative statement makes me feel naked and exposed and like I am part of some group that everyone stares at, pities, and whispers about. Of course, I have discussed it before, though never in full detail and almost always as an answer rather than a statement. There is some embarrassment when the answer to a question asked is an affirmation of my past, but the thought of just saying “I was sexually abused” makes my stomach turn. It is too real, too defining… too permanent. It lets the abuse become something big enough that it has to be acknowledged and given a sentence. It has to be given a moment, part of my life that was supposed to be free from it.

To declare it is to say that my mother was wrong to ignore it and to deny it. It means I can’t wish it actually didn’t happen anymore. It means that the things I told myself were not abuse were and that the magnitude is, in fact, worse than I was trying to tell myself it was. I am no different than so many other people. We justify it so we can keep it small. We call it something else, play it down, or deny it altogether. We say we do it because it isn’t important, but really, we just want to keep it little… not so bad… keep it okay. It is easier to let it be something that just happened than it is to let it be something that we suffered.

So, my step today is to make it real, to take the power from my mother who wanted it to be my fault, and to take the confusion from Bill, who wanted me to think it was okay. I need to take it and make it what it is and nothing less. No more limbo or misguided hope. Just truth.

I was sexually abused by my adoptive father.