Survivors Journey Part 8 – Why did you molest me?

I don’t want to write today. Admitting that tells me I need to. I woke up angry this morning following my counseling appointment yesterday where we began talking about being molested. I don’t want to go there, I just don’t, but I know I have to; otherwise forward motion ceases and the revolving door recommences. Revolving doors merely take you right back to your place of origin unless you consciously decided to step out on the other side. I’m tired of going in circles. They give me a headache.

Fearing I will hurt my mother (as I know she reads my posts) and being looked down upon by others’ is what keeps me from wanting to talk about being molested. But how people respond to my journey is not on me. I must trust in God to deliver what you need to reap from my reluctant vulnerability. He continues to reassure me I am adequately prepared to heal from the pain and devastation of being molested. I must not allow fear to override journeys’ forward motion.

Regardless of this knowledge, I am bombarded with an overwhelming sense of shame mixed with a super-sized portion of anger. When I think about being molested, it makes me sick to my stomach. I was about eight years old when the first encounter occurred, and it was my brother at the helm of the offence. He invited me into his bedroom one summer afternoon and told me to sit on the side of his bed. He proceeded to take down his pants, exposing his genitals, and reaching down with his left hand he began stroking his penis. He giggled with excitement as the erection commenced. I knew what I was witnessing was not appropriate, but I must admit there was a level of amazement as I had never seen male genitals before. How was this physical feat possible? I loved and trusted my older brother and in no way wanted to garner his disapproval by rejecting him, so I sat there and watched until he was through, praying my mother would not catch us. From that moment on, our physical boundaries would  forever be skewed. It was three years before the next encounter would take place.

January 1978, my father left and my mother began to emotionally fall apart. It was a horrible time in my life – so confused and lonely. I was 11 ½, my brother was 13 ½. Not long after Dad’s departure, he began entering my room at night after Mom had gone to bed. At first he talked about playing games, make believe of sorts, or play acting as different characters together. His role would always be one of the dominant character, i.e. football player and the cheerleader or playing house. It seemed so strange at first and was quite uncomfortable, but this was my brother and I trusted him. Growing up, we had always been very close. Throughout my life, he protected me, garnered healthy, brotherly affection on me, and I looked up to him. I had no fear of him whatsoever. Even in the mix of all that was going on I didn’t fear him; rather I was confused but still trusting with love.

It wasn’t long before he began to manipulate our nighttime scripts. I was instructed to lie down on the bed as he assumed a position on top of me. He began dry humping and touching me. His body seemed to weigh 1000 pounds, taking with it the air I needed to survive. I felt so dirty, trapped, and alone. Why are you doing this to me? Why am I not fighting back? Can’t you see this is wrong? I don’t want to be here. Please go away, and just leave me alone… But this was my brother, and I loved him.

 

Days would pass before I was notified of his next impending visit. He would start the day by “asking me” if I would like to “play” that night. He had worded his intentions in such a way that he could deliver these messages to me in front of our mother. I know now he had no shame or remorse for what he was doing, and I was too afraid to say no. As the weeks grew into months, I tried to make excuses in an attempt to deter his desires, but my defenses began to run dry.  I was littered with messages of “You’re Not Worthy” from my father, so the last thing I wanted was to experience my brother’s rejection. I just wanted to be loved and cherished. As disgusting and dirty as I felt on the inside, I didn’t’ know what else to do but succumb to his twisted desires as the shame and guilt began to take hold. I was so vulnerable, and it was in that vulnerability that I was victimized. I had lost my voice.

By August, my parents’ divorce had been finalized, and we relocated to a new city. Thankfully, my brother’s visits had decreased following our move. Shortly after my 12^th birthday, my menstrual cycle began and with it a renewed sense of power and control filtered in. Armed with a large, bristle hairbrush, I barged into my brother’s room waving the weapon in my right hand and said, “I’m a woman now and you can’t touch me anymore. Do you understand?” He laid there in his bed, staring blankly at me. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!?” I shouted. He sheepishly agreed with a slight nod immediately before I exited the room. I had found my voice and had taken back my control. As I closed his door, I was immediately washed with overwhelming relief knowing I would not have to endure what had become his disgusting hands on me ever again. Though I rose up with hair brush in hand and drew a definitive line in the sand, the damage had been done.  As with my previous pattern of behavior, I quickly stuffed the emotions and filed the past nine months into the “You’re Not Worthy” memory folder. I then began to carry the full weight of responsibility for what happened believing it must have been my fault. Rather than directing the anger at him for his betrayal and preying on my vulnerability, I directed it toward myself for not fighting back. I was 12 years old. What did I know about dealing with trauma other than to deny it? I was merely trying to survive.

About four years ago, I felt an overwhelming need to be honest with my brother and address the hurt and anger I experienced at his hand. Thirty years had passed since the onset of his abuse, and it was time to confront my abuser as an adult. Early one morning, I drummed up enough courage to call his house and share with him my feelings as well as my reasons for not desiring any level of relationship with him. His immediate response to me was, “Jesus Christ, Michelle… that was 30 years ago! I haven’t thought about that in 30 years. Are you kidding me? That was a horrible time for all of us.” He continued to deflect any level of accountability and made me feel as if I was making a mountain out of a molehill. I guess that’s what abusers do. He was quick to ricochet personal responsibility and minimize his impact insinuating the passage of time should have been sufficient to heal the wounds. He was wrong.

The following day, I received a call from him at which time stated he never meant to hurt me and he was very confused during that time in his life. He referred to me as his “little sister,” claimed to love me, and would never intentionally hurt me. While it felt somewhat satisfying to finally hear his apologetic words, the truth is I don’t believe them. I believe he reached out in an effort to make peace with the hope that in doing so he may supersede any possible fallout within the family. Like I said, it’s just my opinion…

Here’s my truth:

I was his little sister. I trusted him and he violated that trust in the worst way.

He preyed on my vulnerability and has done so with no authentic level of personal accountability to this day.

He initiated and pursued every act of molestation, not me.

I was his victim. He knows it. I know it. God knows it.

I am not to blame for his actions in any way.

I denounce any level of shame, guilt, or responsibility for his manipulation of me. He knew better, yet he still continued to advance.

I am choosing to step out on the other side of molestations’ revolving door by allowing myself to feel and process the pain. When I am done, I will then be able to safely file this chapter of life in a healthy place of my brain that brings true closure to the once open wound. I choose to resume journeys forward motion. It is in my healing wake that my brother resides, and I’m not looking back.

Is there are area of your life where you need to take your power back?

 

Survivors Journey Part 5 – Subconscious Messages

I adore my father. Most girls do. The problem for me is I never felt he adored or delighted in me. I mean truly, effortlessly, or soulfully delighted in me. All I ever wanted was to be “daddy’s little girl,” but that would never be my reality. I’m not saying he didn’t love me, but I never truly felt it. To this day, I mourn for little Michelle. All I ever wanted was to experience my father’s love, to know I was a priority in his life, to feel like I mattered, or to be invested in. No matter how hard I tried to garner my father’s affection or approval, I seemed to be met with indifference or left feeling that I was not good enough.

For as long as I can remember, my father was emotionally disconnected. His primary goal in life was to become a successful  entrepreneur, an accomplishment he seemingly exceeded in obtaining. My father is the most driven man I know, but while his financial success is undeniable, the price paid for him to achieve it was not. That price was my brother and I and the paternal relationship we unsuccessfully received.

I was 11 years old when my parents divorced. What a tender and vulnerable age to go through such a traumatic experience. Not that any age is “good” to experience divorce, but pubescent years are so critical in defining one’s stability. I never saw or heard my parents argue…ever, so my father’s departure truly blindsided me and left me deeply confused. The events that follow are based on my recollection, my reality…my heartbreak. Though there are four individual realities as to what really took place during this period of time, I can only share mine. After all, this is my road to recovery, and mine alone.

As my brother and I got older, we began a tradition of opening our Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve following dinner. Truth be told, Mom and Dad probably preferred this to that of the 6:00 am Christmas morning! When you think of Christmas Eve, you probably envision yourself surrounded by family and friends; however, we never resided near any of our extended family so most of our holidays were just the four of us. I don’t know where my father was on December 24, 1977, but I don’t recall his presence during the daytime hours. Following dinner, I could feel a thickness in the air, an unsettling emotion that weighted down what should be a fun, family event. When you’re supposed to “feel” a certain way but the immediate circumstances prevent you from doing so, yet you don’t know why. Something just felt “off.” Mom was always so joyful this time of year, yet her brow was imbedded with lines and her tightly pursed lips displayed a noticeable, downward turn. I didn’t know how to act, nor was I oblivious to the fact that this was not a joyful day.

Within a few minutes, my father slowly entered through the front door. His posture was slumped, shoulders rolled forward, as his eyes stayed focused on the path before him. Where had he been all day? I found myself in an extreme state of emotional discomfort and anxiously anticipated the evening’s conclusion. Dad immediately parked his intoxicated stature in a metal folding chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. I had never seen my father like this before, under the influence or otherwise. It wasn’t long before he stood up and proceeded down the hall toward their bedroom leaving us dumbfounded in his emotional wake.

I don’t recall opening gifts that year. I assume we did, but the emotional trauma overshadows my ability to recall events other than what I’ve shared, including anything that occurred in the coming days. That is, until the cold, winter evening of January 2, 1978.

My brother and I were crouched down in a makeshift, backyard fort we had recently consructed. As the cool air continued to sink into the quiet night, we began to hear my mother’s screams coming from inside the house. I remember feeling confused and fearful as thoughts raced through my mind wondering what was happening. I had never heard this level of escalation in my mother’s voice before. She was yelling at my father. What had he done? Why was she yelling? In a state of shock, we cemented our feet into the leaf-covered floor and perked our intimidated ears in an attempt to overhear what was going on. Though we were unable to decipher what was being said, we could hear Mom’s voice continuing to intensify. Within an instant, a loud crashing sound rang through the night air, and we knew something was really wrong. The only words I ever understood that night were the ones that followed the sound of shattering glass, “Get out! Just get out! Get out of here, now!” I have never heard such pain, anger, and brokenness in a woman’s voice, not even my own.

Eventually, my brother and I quietly made our way into the house when we felt the conflict had ceased. There, on the living room floor, lay the evidence of crashing sound we heard in the form of a broken lamp. It seemed so surreal, so out of place. I immediately knew to proceed with caution.

The following day, my father briefly returned just long enough to gather some of his personal belongings. Immediately before he departed, he sat next to me on the side of my bed and said, “I’m sorry Shelly. I’ve got to go. I’ve just got to go.” It was the first time I ever witnessed tears streaming down my father’s face. Not abundant ones, but tears nonetheless. With that, he tossed the hanging bag of clothes over his right shoulder, and I watched him shuffle down the long hall toward the front door. Click was the only sound I heard, and he was gone.

You’re not worthy enough for me to stay.

You’re not worthy enough for me to fight for.

You’re not wanted.

You’re not important.

You’re not enough.

Those were the subconscious messages I received from him. This man that I adored was gone, and in his wake was a path of emotional destruction that continued to escalate in the months to come.

I witnessed my mother fall apart emotionally and physically to the point of contemplating suicide, a fact she shared with me many, many years later. If not for my brother and I, she may have flirted with the notion for more than one long and lonely night. Amid her brokenness and my witness of such depletion, I now recognize the effect this had on me.

“As God as my witness, I will never love anyone as much as she loved him. I will never love anyone to the point that they can break me as my father seemingly destroyed my mother. Never.”

From that day forward, I began to stuff my emotions. Fear and insecurity would not rule me, or at least I would not allow anyone to perceive they ruled me. My emotions were like a light switch. I could turn them off or on depending on circumstance. You see, I am not worthy; therefore, I must not feel. I must stay in control of myself at all times. Mom loved Dad with all her heart and was thrashed by succumbing to vulnerability; therefore I must not be vulnerable. I must not love.

I was headed for a life of mere survival, self-protection, doubt, insecurity, and severely lacking in self-worth. That’s not living; rather, it’s merely going through the motions. The only thing more tragic than living this kind of life would be to continue to do so when you intellectually recognize you are and do nothing to overcome it.

I ask you this: What emotionally toxic baggage are you knowingly not addressing? What counterproductive, subconscious messages have you received in your past that continue to plague your forward motion?

As an adult woman, I have to wonder what was so broken in my father’s heart leading up to that Christmas Eve in 1977 that prevented him from facing the night head-on. What was it that tormented him so much that he had to seek courage and comfort from a bottle? I am thankful beyond words that in recent years I have received the “I delight in you” validation from him that I so longed for. It was a HUGE “ah-ha” moment for me that initiated the path which allowed he and I to get to that point in our relationship. It is a part of my journey that will surely be shared when the time is right.