Awareness Wednesday: A Testimonial, A Story of Strength

i have often found that we are drawn to people who have experienced similar things to us,
whether we are aware of it or we learn of it after we have invited them into our lives

in these past two weeks i have been so blessed with the support and love of numerous people,
but one night a friend approached me saying that she had no idea i had been through these things

she had a story
and she felt comfortable enough to share it with me
and she felt led to allow me to share it with you 

the following is an anonymous testament to despair, healing and strength
these are not my words,
but hers...

This story is full of detailed accounts of assault, suicide, and rape. I’m giving you the trigger warning to end all trigger warnings. If you are in a bad place, this isn’t the story to read. There are no unicorns and happy endings. I promise you.

It’s funny how music can take you back to a time and a place so fully and immerse you in a moment so fully that you forget that time is a real thing. I had a moment like that tonight while listening to the Disturbed version of “Sound of Silence”. I have been thinking of writing this for my friend for a few days, but with homework and life, it was easy to put off, but when I heard that song tonight, I was reminded so strongly of my time in Wilmington, NC that I almost got sick.

            You see, that was the year I was raped by my best friend. My best friend who we always joked about looking exactly like David Draiman (the lead singer of Disturbed). Any time I heard Disturbed on the radio, I would think of him. Unfortunately, I still do. That situation was difficult, but the aftermath was the worst. He was married. He had a son. I was living with the man I was engaged to. He had just been hospitalized for 3 weeks after an accidental overdose on an MAOI and it had altered his personality. After it was over, I laid in the fetal position in my bathroom floor until he left but the next day he called.

            “Did something happen yesterday?” he asked. I can still remember the tremble in his voice.

            “Yes. You raped me.” I was pretty good at hiding my emotions and even managed to come off indignant.

            “Why didn’t you call the police?”

            “I don’t know.” And I didn’t.

            “Well, it won’t ever happen again, but if I ever hurt you, call the cops.” That stopped me right there. I don’t want to defend him, but some part of me fell apart when he said that. I’ve agonized over that for years. But, to understand why, you have to know a little bit more about me. That wasn’t the first time I’d been attacked.

            I have been assaulted or molested by three family members, one boyfriend, and my friend mentioned above in some fashion since I was six years old. It started with an older niece. She had been abused by her mother’s boyfriends and I guess her way of handling it was to take it out on me. She was emotionally and mentally abusive, but it was when she made me do things to her that the dynamic changed. I would spend weekends around her and she would tell me that if I didn’t do what she told me to, that she would make up a lie to my dad and he would never want to talk to me again. She said she’d make him not love me anymore. So I did what she said.

            Then, when I was a little older (around 10), I started to blossom. I was the first girl I knew with boobs and a butt and apparently my grandfather thought I looked much older. One day he caught me in the mudroom and knelt down in front of me. He put his hand between my legs and said “I haven’t felt down there in a while.” I was horrified. I’m still horrified. He was my second favorite person in the world next to my cousin. I had always felt like an unwanted outcast around my grandmother, but Papaw had always made sure to make me feel special and loved. Little did I know that I was extra special. Any time I was there after that incident, I tried to avoid him, but he had a way of sneaking up on me. Like when I was sleeping on the couch. His death a few years later was very difficult for me. I mourned the grandfather that made me feel loved but hated the man who made me feel worthless. And to top it all off, I had to listen to everyone talk about what a tremendous, godly, man he was. I still do. I can’t tell my Dad what happened. He idolized his father. Same with my brother who was basically raised by him and who brought him back after his heart attack just long enough for Papaw to say “tell my family I love them”. Too bad he didn’t have the courage to say “tell my granddaughter I’m sorry”. He left this world and met his Maker to whatever end, and left me here to pick up the shattered pieces of my childhood.

            The next on the list is my cousin. It seems each story gets a little more difficult to tell. I used to spend a week every summer with my aunt and cousins down south. She had a pool and that’s where I spent most of my time. I always loved swimming at night, but even though I could swim very, very well, they were always really strict about never swimming alone. I was around 13 and so I convinced my cousin – we’ll call him Sam – to swim with me. The pool was lit and warm after a very hot summer in southern NC and we were having a nice time. Sam kept pulling me over to sit on his lap which I thought was odd, but we had always been a very affectionate family. Plus, he was much older than me and had a daughter a couple years younger than I was. I was a little freaked out, especially since I could feel him under his swim trunks. It got bad enough that I said I was ready to go to bed. He said okay, but suggested we dry off some before going inside so we didn’t drip on the floor. So I laid down on the hammock with him. Getting more and more nervous, I decided to pretend to fall asleep hoping he would either leave me alone out there or push me off to bed. He did neither. As soon as I leveled off my breathing, he took the chance to touch me very inappropriately. I thought I was over this, but it still makes me sick to my stomach to think about to this day. Anyway, I realized that the situation was only going to get worse, so I pretended to wake up and literally ran to my bedroom where I cried myself to sleep praying to God that he had never done anything to his daughter like he’d done to me. I never told anyone this because I didn’t want to hurt my family. I didn’t want to be responsible for tearing up my family, never realizing that it wouldn’t have been my fault if that had been what happened. I still see this cousin every once in a while. I wonder if he can sense that I know. I wonder if he feels sorry.

            When I was 18, I started dating a guy that I knew through close friends. I thought he was different than all the other guys. Aren’t they always, though? He was smart and affectionate and always complimented me, but after about a month things started to change. He could see in me the weak, impressionable girl that he could push around and control. It ended up being the worst nine months of my life. He was a diagnosed schizophrenic sociopath and during his rages, he would hold me down and twist my neck to the point where I could feel ligaments tearing. I wonder if some of the spinal problems I have today are from the abuse I suffered under his hands. The night of my high school graduation, he had got mad because I talked to a male classmate. He was also mad because I wanted to go to college, but he said he would kill me before he let that happen. To drive home his point, he shoved me on the bed and put his hands on my throat and growled in my ear “remember what I said I’d do to you when I wanted you to know that I hated you?” Well, I give you three guesses what that was. He hurt me physically, but at that point I think I was numb. I remember lying there thinking if this is all rape is, I guess it’s not that bad. Who gets to a point in their life that they think being raped isn’t as bad as what could be happening? This girl does. But, as in the first part of this story, this one doesn’t end happily. Two months later he committed suicide in front of me.

            So you can see now why, just two years later, when I was holding that phone talking to my best friend and rapist, I wasn’t sure what to do. I never did report him, but we never really spoke again. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, but I realize it would do neither of us any good to find him. The only people I ever told about this were my childhood best friend (who is like my sister now), my fiancé at the time, and the man I’m involved with now. My best friend was the only one who understood. I told my fiancé after we broke up and he acted like I had cheated on him because I never told him. The man I’m with now says that I’m not allowed to be upset because I allowed it to happen and didn’t call the cops. He also says it’s my fault if he ever went on to rape anyone else. This is everything that’s wrong with our society.

            Since when is it my fault because I didn’t stop him? I’m not at fault for any of the other incidents, but this one I am? He had about 175 pounds on me. I was scared, but numbed. It was just a messed up situation. I’m mad that he got away and terrified that someone else got hurt, but I understand my reasoning. I don’t blame myself. In our society and justice system, I question whether he would have been punished, yet my reputation would have been dragged through the mud. In our advanced culture, we still question the clothing choices and personality traits of the woman before determining whether or not she’s allowed to be a victim. So, in my mind, I chose not to be a victim at all. All these things happened to me, but they do not define me. I am defined by my ability to overcome them, not be overcome by them. I’m sure I can come up with some more euphemisms, but I’ll save you from that.

            The point is, yes my life has been pretty rough, but there’s a lot of people that have been through worse. At some point we have to decide how we are going to process our lives and use the events that take place. My friend who owns this blog was adamant about me being okay to tell my story and I really am. Yeah, some parts still make me mad and yes, I still cry especially when I think about some of these things, but every day that I think about it and don’t fall apart is a victory over their choices. I have come a long way to say that I love the person that I am today. I’m weird and a nerd and sometimes I talk too much, but I think God has chosen to use those traits for His service. I don’t always know what the goal is, but I always trust that He will lead me down the right path. If by telling my story, I’m able to help someone else in a similar situation, then I know that it wasn’t all for naught. If God’s light can shine through me despite the terrible things that have happened, maybe someone else can realize that the same can happen with them. Through Him all things are possible. So I’ll leave you with one of my favorite quotes, though I don’t know who said it first:

            “God gives us only what we can handle. Apparently God thinks I’m a badass.”

(Of course, this isn’t true because God doesn’t put us in these situations, but He will get us through them. I just like thinking he thinks I’m a badass. Because I am.)

...i know this girl to be so strong and so free spirited

and in my own life i question why God "allows" these terrible things to happen to the people we love and admire the most 

i wouldn't wish these events on my dear friend ever in a million years,

but i'm glad that she is who she is today 

because she is pretty great

and is the reason for many of my thanks to our amazing Lord. 

if you have a story,

i will give you the same advice i gave this friend:

write it all out 

don't let it sit inside of you and eat you alive 

you never know how God will use your healing process. 

Awareness Wednesday: I Want to Understand Why.

this week i'm going to talk about a relatively recent revelation.

it's going to seem out of place at first, but bear with me for a moment. 

this past february, one of the interns for my campus ministry hosted a small group on race in the church.

before our first meeting i was sitting on the couch, preparing myself for just a brief history about racial relations in the US and how they developed.

our group settled in and listened to the introduction.

well, to be completely honest, i was half listening and half convincing myself the conversation was not going to mentally exhaust me because of everything else i needed to devote my energy to later that afternoon.

before i knew it, we were in the midst of the prologue and the following words momentarily jerked me out of my thoughts.

 

"racism perpetuates itself through generations. it's kind of like those that abuse were [most likely] abused."

(hind sight: what a strange comparison. not untrue, but strange.) 

let those words sink in one more time...

those that abuse were [most likely] abused

my breath caught in my throat and i involuntarily reached for my notebook. my hand just started writing.

was he abused?

does he abuse us because he sees that as a way to regain the power that was taken away from him?

who? who destroyed the little boy inside of him?

how long did it last? 

was nobody there to help him? 

i couldn't control the questions spilling out of my head.

it was the first time i had ever considered the other side of it.

i had been so wrapped up in my own view of the situation and my own healing. i was so concerned about the terrible things he had done to me and how it was ruining my life, or at the very least making is unnecessarily difficult. at times i obsessed over ways to put him behind bars and destroy his ability to hang out anywhere children could possibly be. all i wanted was for him to feel even an ounce of the pain he had caused me and everyone else around me. all i wanted for him to say was “kayla, i’m so sorry. i know i hurt you in unimaginable ways. i know what i did was wrong. i am through with it all now. i found Jesus and He changed my life for the better.”

for 21 years.

for 21 years it was all about me.

sure, i had forgiven him, but the idea that maybe he actually was hurting just as badly as me, if not more than me, struck me hard.

i mean, can you imagine being driven to find sexual comfort in children? and not necessarily just children in general, but children within your own family? can you imagine being in a place in your life where that is justifiable in your head and in your heart? seriously, what must you have gone through? what happened? what prevented you from healing from those terrible things?

the questions could go on forever.

i remember only snippets of the remainder of that hour, but i will never forget the foreign feeling that washed over me in one of the most comfortable places i have here at school. 

the last thing i wrote before we closed in prayer was one simple statement...

i want to understand why. 

what would the world be like if we considered the silent storms that were raging on in the people who have lashed out at us the worst?

how different might my situation be if i had a conversation with him about what happened? (that is assuming he would even acknowledge a conversation like that.)

i think it is so so so important to be aware of the “victim” side of National Child Abuse Prevention Month and Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, but i think it is equally as important to be aware of the “perpetrator” side of it too.

we, myself included, so often think only badly of those that commit sexual assault. and assault is bad, it is SO bad. but how can we expect these people to heal from their terrible nature if we put them in a box and don’t give them the room to change and turn away from their actions? we all struggle to own the sins we commit. we all do terrible things. we should all be given the opportunity to better ourselves if we so desire. 

[i am NOT justifying assault, like whatsoever. i just think we should create safe spaces for those that commit the act in addition to those that fall to the act. definitely not in the same place. i had to move to the other side of the US to even begin to heal. proximity is no bueno in this case.]

one last thing before i sign off:

a friend reached out to me this past week and allowed me to be a little part of her healing process. i asked her if she would like to share her story as a part of this series, and she said yes. she has chosen to remain anonymous.

if you would like to add your story to this testimonial series as a form of awareness and/or healing, i would love to add it to the collection! (this can have a name attached, or it can be 100% anonymous.)