So, when I was asked to guest blog, I was completely humbled by the request. I’ve read blogs and am impressed by what I read each week. So, I start this post a bit curious if it’s going to stand up to the expectation and standard already given by other guest bloggers and the blogger himself.
Let me tell you my story. I was raised in a conservative, Christian home but one that was riddled with some dysfunction. I never received a hug from my father and was actually told that the first child he had wanted was a boy.
I am the oldest.
So, I tried to impress him however I could. My mother, as I’ve come to realize, is a covert narcissist. A covert narcissist is the most dangerous of the narcissistic individuals because they are disguised to the average person. They wear the mask of an introvert or as an individual with low self-esteem. But we need to be careful interacting with a covert narcissist. They will draw us into their trap of “pity me”, “feel sorry for me” scheme.
Now that you have a back story . . . let’s get on with why I write.
I write to tell a story. Here’s my story of abuse and recovery and the repercussions of sharing my story with the world.
I can’t think of the exact age I was when it happened. I think between the ages of 8 and 10. He was a few years older than I and knew better than to do what he did to me and with me. My mother was best friend’s with his mother and we were thrown together for play dates quite often, if not every week, close to every week.
We would play ball, superheroes, house, etc. But his type of play involved more than what evil I bargained for and more than my young body could tolerate.
My grandfathers had built an A-frame structure for me to play in. I have two brothers and this was my personal space to play with my dolls, to find refuge from the house, my bedroom, my brothers, my family. It was built just for me to enjoy. And I spent many summer days playing in the tin and wood oven called “The Playhouse.” But it was MY space.
My middle brother is 4 years younger than I am and although he wasn’t my favorite playmate, he would occasionally join me to play house. Of course, he wanted to be the maintenance man who would fix everything broken in my “house.” So I allowed him this pleasure while he was still young and not really “house” material.
But around the age of 8 or 9, something began happening that would forever shape my life, my way of living, my way of thinking. The boy who was my mother’s best friend’s son began to play more at my house, like I said, weekly. The playhouse designed for my personal entertainment became a den of manipulation and mind games, twisting the truth for his grooming purposes to lure me into his evil schemes and torture. And while our play was fun for a while, it quickly turned into a living hell. My nightmare that would haunt me to this day.
For a long time, I couldn’t even talk about it. I would not call it what it was, and for this writing, I will simply call it sexual abuse. I went for a walk one day last summer over to my parents’ house where the playhouse still stands to this day. I walked around it, looking inside, but not going in. The A-frame was made of a tin metal and the front and back walls of wood. It used to have a door that locked from the inside and the outside, but years of wear had damaged it so the hinges had been torn off and the door eventually removed. The lower part was obviously more spacious than the upper level.
Yes, there was a second level of sorts where I played once the abuse happened. I wouldn’t and couldn’t play in the lower level. He had ruined that space. He would lock the door, leaving me inside down below, walk around to the back side of the house, climb the stairs on the outside of the house to the upper level and then lower himself to me as he jumped down with a tween thud. There, in the darkness, in the heat, he would do unspeakable things to me and with me, all the while telling me that I couldn’t tell anyone what we were doing because we would get in trouble.
Well, that I would get in trouble.
I don’t know why he singled me out . . . actually, I guess I do know why. It was part of his grooming.
But I didn’t stay silent.
Oh, it was years, two decades, before I would really share my story with anyone. I shared with my college friends and felt safe telling them. But they didn’t know how to help me or what to say to get my recovery to wholeness started. I went to my first therapist in my 30s and it took two years before I actually shared the fact that I was abused as a child, or at least had memories of the abuse. My first therapist’s reaction and response?
It was a classic case of “kids just being kids.” Yep, she minimized what I knew deep inside was more than the classic case; it was abuse. I knew it and thought and hoped she would know it.
So, it was more years before I would talk about the abuse with anyone else. I would feel close to friends, but found quickly after I shared with them that they were not the safest people with whom to share. They treated me differently or didn’t talk to me at all about what I shared. They would act like they cared at first but then I found out they really didn’t care about me getting better. Other than my husband, I decided to keep my secret a secret for the rest of my life.
Until one of my college friends shared with me that she had also been abused but had no lasting memories of the abuse. She suggested I start following some other survivors on twitter and to follow a podcast on Youtube that would help me see I was not alone. So, I did just that and through that experience, I was able to find a way to plug into safe community of other survivors of childhood sexual abuse. I also found a therapist in whom I trust whole-heartedly and who believes in me and my story. She recognizes the abuse for what it is.
A word on my parents and family. I had never shared with them what I had gone through. When I told my brothers, they were very empathetic toward me and asked if I was all right now that I have faced some of the demons. Remember, my dad was a man who didn’t show his emotions very easily. And my mother is a covert narcissist who would find any way to have this fall back on herself. Or she would gaslight me, making me feel like what I knew to be true to feel like I made it up. This was what I was I was afraid of.
But I knew I had to tell my parents, regardless of their reactions or feelings toward me or the boy. It was January when I decided to tell them what had happened to me. My mother simply said she didn’t think any differently of me, but asked if it was more than one time (I believe to this day, she thinks it’s only been one time, when in fact it was multiple times). My dad said, “Ok, so it’s out there. We don’t need to discuss it ever again.” Well, I didn’t think I could agree to that and told him, “There may be a time when I need to bring it up again, for my own healing.”
The truth is, I’ve only brought it up one other time (and at the time of this writing, it’s almost been a year since I first talked about my abuse with them because I find them unsafe people to share my story with) and my mother’s response was, “Are you referring to ‘the incident’?” Um, mom, it was more than “an incident, but I digress.
So, the purpose of this blog? For you, the survivor, the consider a few things before you share your story.
- You will need to determine if you are ready to handle the repercussions of the person handling the information the way you think they should or not. If you can’t honestly say you’re ready to deal with other people’s acceptance or denial, it may not be the right time yet.
- Be prepared to be hurt. But know that you are not alone. This reaction of others is NOT for you to take on upon yourself. It is ON that person. They need to and should OWN their reactions.
- Know who is a safe person and who is not. This may take a while to establish. Not everyone in your circle of friends or family are safe people. Think carefully and choose wisely. Tighten your circle so you don’t get hurt as easily.
- Establish and maintain healthy boundaries with the people in your life. Not everyone needs to know your story. I told my story to more people than I thought I would because of the work I want to do with survivors. If I don’t or can’t share my story and deal with the repercussions, that work will be hindered.
- Know yourself. It may not be time to share your story. I know it’s time for my story to come out and be shared in more than one medium; it’s just a matter of time. And I will follow my own advice and know myself first and know how much I wish to share with whom and how much I share.
*Author’s note: My name is Phoenix. I’m just a simple gal living a simple life for God. I’m a wife, mom, teacher, and writer/blogger. I want to let you know how humbled I am that you found my blog and chose to read the words God has given me this day. If you find this, or any other of these writings helpful or encouraging to you or someone you know, please feel free to share with your community/social media/e-mail, etc. I am willing to be used by God and welcome your extension of grace and encouragement.
Blessings to you all. I will rise . . .
*Author’s note: My name is Phoenix. I’m just a simple gal living a simple life for God. I’m a wife, mom, teacher, and writer/blogger. I want to let you know how humbled I am that you found my blog and chose to read the words God has given me this day. If you find this, or any other of these writings helpful or encouraging to you or someone you know, please feel free to share with your community/social media/e-mail, etc. I am willing to be used by God and welcome your extension of grace and encouragement.
My family had decided to travel up the mountain into an area called Cade’s Cove. From what I can gather, this area was a plantation or settlement of pioneer people who found peace at their homestead in this amazing valley in the Smoky Mountains. Many buildings from that time still stand and tourists drive into the cove just to enjoy this trip back in time and the hopes of seeing wildlife on their journey.
Those tickets–that’s what’s been on my mind this week. I don’t recall what the tickets actually say, but I’m pretty sure they say something like, “This ticket can be redeemed for–”
I recall the tale as such: The robin, known for its distinctive red belly, legend has it, was originally completely brown when it was created by God. Jesus, beaten, bruised, bloodied–thorns forced into His sacred head, nails pierced into His compassionate hands, a stake driven forcefully into His mission-driven feet, a spear thrust into His warm and loving side–Jesus, dying on that brutal and cruel cross for our sins, still found peace and kindness for not only us, but also for the thieves on either side of Him. Legend has it that the robin came near Jesus where the blood drops ran down His face and cheek and began singing a lullaby of peace to comfort the dying Savior. As the robin flew closer to our Lord, the blood shed for our sins rubbed against the belly of the beautiful creature, allowing the feathers to absorb the moisture from Jesus deep within its soul.
Jesus hung on the cross next to two thieves, men who had truly been convicted of crimes against the law. One man mocked Jesus, while the other expressed his remorse for the crimes he had committed and asked Jesus, “Jesus, remember me when you enter your kingdom” (Luke 23:42 MSG) and Jesus replied, with His forgiveness demonstrated, “Don’t worry, I will. Today you will join me in paradise” (vs. 43).
II Corinthians 5:17-18 proclaims this truth: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation” (NIV). The Message relates this truth as well, saying, “We certainly don’t look at him [Jesus] that way anymore. We look inside, and what we see is that anyone unified with the Messiah gets a fresh start, is created new. The old life is gone; a new life burgeons! . . . . All this comes from the God who settled the relationship between us and him . . .” (MSG).
e time began.
phoenix_rising 