Rebecca’s Story

Do you remember the day Elvis died? I’ll never forget it. I was nine years old. My rapist was 22. I knew him from the neighborhood. That afternoon I ran into him, and he told me that his cat had given birth to kittens. Did I want to see them?

Nine-year-olds can be too trusting. Elvis was dead, and so was my innocence.

He said that I had teased him. I didn’t understand. I thought teasing was what I did to my little sister. He threatened that same little sister if I told anyone.

“Steve” had a cold-water flat apartment. After he raped me, I remember walking downstairs to the community bathroom. I found a white washcloth and tried to clean myself. I scrubbed my skin raw. There was so much blood. I left the washcloth in the sink. It would never be white again.

“Steve” moved out the next day. Now, no one would ever believe me, even if I did tell.

I kept my mouth shut for years. I was 12 before I knew that there were names for what had happened to me. Rape. Child molestation.

By then, I had learned a lot. Suspicion, mistrust. I was a master at shutting down, and being “dead” inside. My secret had eaten away at me.

As a teenager, I learned that by using my body, I held power and control over men.

Eighteen years later, my husband and I were expecting our first child. I was thrilled, but also secretly terrified. I was losing control over the body that I had spent so many years learning to control. I was terrified of ripping during childbirth. The thought of an episiotomy gave me panic attacks. Please, God, don’t let anyone cut me there. The dark places in my head had convinced me that my child would be born “damaged.” All my “badness” would finally be shown to the world.

My son, and then 15 months later, my daughter, was born perfectly healthy. They were big, beautiful, perfect babies. God didn’t hate me. He had blessed me. All my shame, inhibitions, mistrusts, my fears... they were gone.

I held my newborn son, and put him to my breast. My body, the one that I had always thought so horrible, had given birth. Now it would sustain the life of my child. There are no words to explain the depth of that feeling.

Almost five years have passed. I have high self-esteem. I am a confident woman. I love myself. I give all the credit of my emotional healing and well being to the birth and breastfeeding of my babies.

Ten years ago, I would never have believed that I could do these wonderful things. I was so wrong.

Peace.

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse

Mary J.'s poems

SHAME ON ME

Daddy loves me.
He wouldn’t hurt me.
I made him do it – I’m bad.
Shame on me.

Mommy looks away.
It must be OK.
I wish she would open her eyes – I’m bad.
Shame on me.

Daddy touches me and teaches me.
He says it’s OK.
I don’t like it – I’m bad.
Shame on me.

Mommy doesn’t want to know.
She pretends.
I must be wrong – I’m bad.
Shame on me.

Daddies don’t lie.
Daddies don’t hurt their little girls.
Mine did – I’m bad.
Shame on me.

Mommies love their children.
Mommies protect their children.
Mince didn’t – I’m bad.
Shame on me.




PROTECTING MY DAUGHTER

Today I watched Gretchen become a woman.
Time after time overpowering her attacker.
Using and practicing life-saving self defense techniques.
I was proud, amazed, and in awe of her strength – her voice.
I was doing what my mother didn’t do – protecting my daughter.

Keep breathing! Keep breathing!
I told myself.

Surrounded by strong female voices
I sounded weak and small.
Shouts of “NO!” and “STOP HIM!”
Drowned out my whispered “No.”
My father didn’t hear me either.

Keep breathing! Keep breathing!
I told myself.

I wanted him to stop.
I wanted to scream at him.
I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me.
But I couldn’t – I was too small.
I had no voice.

Keep breathing! Keep breathing!
I told myself.

Gretchen has a voice – I had none.
Gretchen has ways to defend herself – I had none.
Gretchen has power – I had none.
Gretchen has a father – I had none.
Gretchen has a mother – I had none.

Keep breathing! Keep breathing!
I told myself.





MOTHER’S WORDS

Mom, Dad is doing things to me.
I don’t like it.
I’m scared.
Tell him to stop.
Please help me.

Well, dear, what do you want me to do?
You know how angry he gets.
Maybe you shouldn’t go into the bedroom.
Oh, and close the door to your bedroom, too.
I think you’re too old to wear those kind of pajamas.
Sitting on his lap probably isn’t a good idea either.
I suppose I could say something to him but…

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse

Melanie's Story

When I was five years old, my mother started dating another man. Some time after that, maybe when I was seven or eight, he started sexually abusing me. I don’t remember many things clearly such as when and how it started or exactly what took place over the next several years. I'm also not sure when it ended. I don’t have clear memories of abuse after I was about 14. When we would visit him at his house he would tickle me, or at least that's what he said he was doing. While tickling, he would touch my breasts and my crotch in very sexual ways and would rub himself against me. When I told him to stop and tried to move away, he told me to hold still and insisted that I liked it. Often he would put his hands inside my shirt or pants. I would tell my mom to make him stop tickling me, but never told her what was really going on. I didn't know how to say it, and I just assumed that she probably knew.

My parents divorced when I was in junior high, and he moved in with us. The abuse continued for at least a couple more years if not longer. I don't remember an actual end-point, but I think there may have been things that I’ve blocked out. I do clearly remember one night when I was probably about 16 when he came into my room in the middle of the night. I woke up and realized he was at the door of my bedroom. I was terrified that he would come in, so I pretended I was still asleep. He came into the room, sat on the side of the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. I didn't want him to know I was awake and didn't want to be that close to him, so I rolled over onto my other side, at which point he got up and left.

I don't know why this episode scared me so much or why I remember it so clearly compared to some of the actual physical touching. The only thing I can figure out is that it was one of many times that he came into my room at night but the only one that I remember because nothing actually happened. As I said before, I don't remember a lot of what happened, but over the years I have come to believe that I've repressed some things. There were physical sensations that I felt sometimes as a teenager that I couldn't explain. I never really knew where they came from, but they occurred in what I thought was a half dreaming/half waking state. After becoming sexually active as an adult, I realized that these were sensations of a sexual act and that I would not have recognized them as such as a teenager because I'd never experienced them before. Now I wonder if these things actually happened to me and I somehow removed myself from the situation by entering something of a dream state and refusing to acknowledge what was really happening.

When I was a senior in high school, the relationship between my mom and this man was deteriorating. Late one night, after they'd had a big fight and he'd gone back to his other home, my mom asked if he could give me a hug and kiss at my graduation. I said that I didn't want him to, and she asked if he'd ever done anything out of line. I told her he had and gave a few of the details. She was surprised, said that she would end the relationship and asked if she could confront him with this accusation, to which I said yes. When she talked to him a day or two later he denied it and said I'd made it up, but my mom defended me and refused to see him again. I don’t think we’ve talked about the abuse since shortly after she confronted him because it’s a difficult subject for both of us. I've often wondered how she could not know that it was happening, but I believe that, at least consciously, she really didn't. I know that it’s helped a great deal that my mom believed me without hesitation even when he accused me of lying.

It was difficult for me to see the real effects of this abuse in my daily life, although I know that it definitely affected who I was and what I did. It wasn't something I thought about every day, but over time I came to realize that I needed to think about it, deal with it and try to put it behind me. That is easier said than done. It's a painful process that I’ve been working on for probably 15 years now, and I'm still far from done. I've read a couple of books for survivors of sexual abuse, talked to a few close friends about what happened to me and spent a lot of time thinking about how to move beyond this experience and grow from it. I think that counseling would probably help me deal with it more quickly and fully, but have not found the courage to go that far yet. I’m still afraid of digging too deeply. I’ve spent a lot of time trying not to blame myself and not be ashamed of what happened. I do think that talking to others about it and admitting that it happened has helped a lot. Somehow, just letting it out and telling others what happened takes away some of the power it has over me.

I'm now married and have two beautiful little girls, and I believe that has really sped up the healing process. An intimate relationship with my husband has not always been easy. Fortunately, I'm married to a wonderful man who has always held me and let me talk about the abuse when I've needed comfort and support. He has tried to understand when my past interferes in our sex life and has been completely supportive of my doing anything I need to do to heal.

Having children has been a wonderful experience for me. In unexpected ways, it has helped me overcome some of the effects of abuse. Before my children, I really disliked having my breasts touched, which I attribute to the abuse. Once in a while I didn't mind it, but generally breast touching was not allowed in our relationship. This was frustrating for my husband and disappointing for me. Interestingly, I really wanted to breastfeed our children, and wasn't worried about my experiences interfering with it. When my first child arrived with health problems and was unable to breastfeed, I used a breast pump to express milk for her. This became physically painful for me, but otherwise was not difficult. After I stopped expressing milk and our sex life returned to something more normal, I discovered, much to my surprise, that I was not only no longer turned off when my husband touched my breasts, but that I actually enjoyed it.

Since the birth of our second daughter, I seem to have become even less inhibited sexually. I’ve also stopped thinking quite so much about the abuse and how it has affected me. Maybe this is because I’m busier or because my focus has moved to my children as I try to be a good mother to them. Or maybe it’s because the parts of my body that were violated, that I associate with these memories, were the parts involved in producing, nurturing, birthing and nursing two beautiful children I love more than anything.

As a mother, I think the biggest fear I have about the abuse I endured is how it will affect the way I treat my daughters. I’ve read statistics about how often those who have been abused, in turn abuse their own children, whether sexually, physically or emotionally. I can’t believe that I would or could actually abuse my children, but it scares me to death that I’m at a higher risk to do so because of my past. Every time I get upset with them or yell at them I hate myself for it and wonder why I react the way I do. Is it because of the abuse? Am I headed for something worse? I guess that fear is a good thing and remembering and acknowledging it will hopefully help me to keep from doing anything to hurt my kids. I try very hard to be the best, most understanding mother I can be, but the fear is real and I resent that it’s there.

I wish this thing had never happened to me, but I try sometimes to look for good that may come from it. It’s pretty difficult to imagine anything good. I guess the best I can say is that I survived it, and I really do like myself. That in itself is really something.

To learn more, order Survivor Moms: Women’s Stories of Birthing, Mothering and Healing after Sexual Abuse