Category Archives: abuse survivors

S.

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When S was little she loved Elmo. We did not get PBS on tv so we watched DVDs. I always associate Elmo with her babyhood.

The first time someone talked about her being “damaged goods” because she was a sexual assault survivor I was knocked back. In a country where women are paid and applauded for nudity, a little girl’s non-consensual abuse would make her “damaged goods?!”

Children are hurt, wounded, violated, and robbed by sexual abuse

But they are not damaged goods. Ever.

What damages us all most is when we hand the abuse of children over to the wolves and refuse to speak out and fight for the dignity and safety of every little girl who once loved Elmo.

What if it was Scout?

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I think it is safe to say I love Harper Lee. So much so I named a pet “Scout” and have been itching to name a kid Harper for a decade.

Atticus has seen me through some tough times.

But here’s the thing, because of my outspoken telling of our family story (adoption, RAD, abuse) I know a lot of victims of child sexual abuse.

Most are white, stable, well-educated and financially stable.

They are not Mayella Ewing.

And yet I believe the reason why 90% of these people are extremely quiet about their stories is the grim stereotype associated with Mayella.

Think about it. How would our perception of abuse victims be different if it had been Scout, Jem, or Dill who had been abused?

Would you tell your story if you knew people would think of you as a Ewing?

Would you fight any harder if it were Scout?

And, for a diehard TKM fan this is hard; Mayella Ewing deserved better. From her wretched father of course, but how about everyone else in Maycomb? Was there no one who could have helped her?

More than 50 years later I will say it–
No
At least very, very few…

Sabbath lessons

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I used to preach. Seems weird to me now because those sermons, talks and exhortations all exist beyond the scrim of discovering that my children (and their friends) had been, were being sexually abused by my adopted son, Charles.
By the time the abuse was revealed I had already quit because Em was having lots of problems. Charles just finished the deal.

All this to say that following Jesus is not about hearing or preaching sermons. It is about living the life of God in His wake and in His love.

Harder than a sermon, as elemental as a preschool lesson–

1. Ask Him to pour out
His love all over you

And
2. Pour it out on others

Bad night…

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It started with the baby tossing a new testament into the toilet. It went downhill from there. Everyone has times when they feel hopeless, when they feel lost. I write this, but I don’t know, some people seem pretty darn self-confident.
Sigh.

Sometimes I wish I could unspool things, undo them, un-live them. I cannot, so instead I write about them to attempt to make sense of them. Sometimes it goes so dark even writing feels futile–no one is listening, no one cares

About what? Inappropriate magazines at grocery checkouts. So bad I avoid taking my kids to the store. I complained, others have complained. The magazines got worse. The store is owned by Christians

About what? My son looked for his favorite PBS show on yahoo video and was sent to a page with two clips from the show and an array of hard core porn. I complained but what good will it do?

Really. I believe that no child in this country should be exposed to porn of any kind and I feel like a voice in the wilderness.

This is an election year. Is anybody listening? Does anyone care? Our children are not safe in the grocery store, at church, looking for educational shows in their own homes. Our children are not safe.

Oh, and the new testament? Jesus descended into hell before for me. He knows the territory. He knows what He is doing.

He knows this stuff hurts…

Like hell.

Grandfather of the year…

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I always wondered what my father would have said or done if he had been alive when we discovered that C had abused children. I will be honest, I doubt he would have moved mountains.

But I have come across a grandpa who is. In response to concern about a grandchild he has started an online protest, cold-called people warning them and posted hotline numbers.

I do not know the whole story. I just think this response is atypical.

Most of us go the quiet road…

Epilogue

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justcould have been a much longer book full of the things you find in successful memoirs–descriptions of meals and vacations and conversations in transit. It stops abruptly (except for the necessary introduction) two years ago at the end of 2009.

I did not put the rest of the story in because it was worse, yes, worse.

Our families, church, and many colleagues did not handle our story well. Our children were isolated and lonely. Out of everyone we knew, one couple confronted Charles about what he had done. Most people sent him cards and money. Some said unspeakable things.

Many long acquaintances just withdrew. Some old friends disappeared.

There was something good and valuable that happened.
Dozens of abuse survivors and rape victims shared their stories. We may have winnowed out family and friends, but we are deeply grateful for those who have listened, shared, and grieved with us.

And we now know that the only uncommon thing about our story is our willingness to speak out. Most families hide the story and ignore the damage.

It is time for that to change.
It is long past time.

Every family, church or community that turns a blind eye to an identified predator is responsible for the victims

All the innocent victims.

I broke my own rule

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One time in the same week I wrote a letter to someone and a poem to someone else.  Both someones had behaved badly.  My intrepid partner (always the English major) told me he liked the poem more than the letter.

Of course, I thought. Poetry is the marble colonade you hide in when followed by ghosts or splendor.  A letter is an everyday thing.  Too blunt to be art.  But is any of this about Art?

No.  Not really.  It is about sanctuary and splendor.  Borrowed safety and borrowed beauty.

And attempting however obliquely to suggest the existence of Absolute Love.

So I violated my own rule about my other blog– called etiology.  I told myself I would keep etiology free of my obsession with grief and injustice and the anger that follows these things.

I once wrote a poem I cannot see myself publishing.  Too painful, too personal.  I once wrote a letter to C’s prison therapist which simply described C’s crimes from what his victims and witnesses had said.  Just the facts, as they say.  The therapist read it and said he read my anger.

 

Anger? I thought.  That was just the facts.  I wonder what he would think if he saw my angry letter.