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