Sexual Abuse and Mental Slavery

There are people out there that will tell you that focusing even a few moments on the pains of the past is useless. They will tell you to just forget about it and move on. And in many respects, I think they are right. We should never grow content with wounds that refuse to heal. But, what if you are one who never tried to heal before? What if you are one who pushed it all down and pretended that it didn't really hurt? What if you are one that failed to deal with it when it was occuring and are now, all these years later, still suffering of it? What if you are bound to it and just can not walk away?

I've learned something about breaking free from anything. You have to deal with why you're bound in the first place. For me, sexual abuse sold me into a sort of mental slavery. Physically I'm free. I can walk, run, skip and dance. But mentally, I'm locked up. Bound tightly to the after effects and unsure of how to get free.

Over the years, my sexual abuse and rapes have become master and ruler over my security, sexuality and self worth. I was devalued.... period. Everything about me lost it's value. My sexuality became worthless, my self esteem was junked and I just couldn't believe that I could ever really be accepted if people knew the real me. Yes, I had people in my life that loved me, but I honestly thought that was only because they didn't know the real me. They couldn't see all the junk inside. They couldn't see that I was broken. Bound up and broken.

The very first night that I was sexually abused I was sold into mental slavery and on those days when I was raped my bindings were merely tightened. My chains wrapped tighter. The length of my freedom shortened. And I have been struggling through life, trying just to survive, just to get through. But all the while I've been tied to the effects of abuse. Trying to stand and walk tall while being crushed by the memories, the shame and the anger.

So, should I take the time now to consider this deep ache inside? Should I explore this hurt? Does breaking free from my hangups mean that I should have to finally “deal” with my sexual abuse? I'm thinking, yes.

A Quick Reminder from Psalm 146:3 - Lean Not on Mortal Princes

Recently while reading through the Psalms I was confronted by a particular verse. Psalm 146:3. “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortal men, who cannot save. When their spirit departs, they return to the ground; on that very day their plans come to nothing.” I thought for a moment about my own mortal princes – my dad and the guys of my teen years, but mostly that sweet man I've been with for 15 years now - Husband. Yes, at one moment or another, I have elevated him to prince or should be prince level. I have mistakenly placed all my trust in him and leaned on him with full expectation that he would save me. And oh - what disappointment!

Early in our marriage, I can remember how warped I would feel inside every time he disappointed me. And as it turns out, it wasn't hard for him to do. All it took was some little thing he said or didn't say, some little thing he did or didn't do. And every infraction was like a punch to the gut. Like a full on assault against the very foundations of our relationship. And I would be shook up inside – angry, hurt and sure that he'd intentionally betrayed me.

You see, without realizing it, I desperately wanted him to make all the wrongs in my life right. I wanted him to bind my brokenness and wash away the muck. I was clinging to a misguided hope that my mortal prince, my beautiful mortal prince could do the one thing that only the Lord could do – save me. And every time he disappointed me, every time he showed me his true human colors, a piece of my hope died.

Instructions for husbands through out the bible spell out what they should do for their wives. Here are some of them: leave his parents and cleave to his wife, love his wife, honor his wife, protect his wife, provide leadership for her, treat her with understanding and consideration. But no where does it say restore her, redeem her, rescue her and save her. No where does it say to wipe away all her past hurts and bind up her brokenness.

And why doesn't it say that? Because it is impossible - even for our prince. Because there is only One who can save. Only One who can restore and redeem. Only One that can bind up our brokenness. Yes, while the mortal princes in our lives may be able to temporarily soothe our pain, bring comfort to us as we mourn and love us with a deeply devoted love, they will still fail us. Even though they may not want to. Even though they may long to bring us freedom. They can't. They just can't. There is only one true Prince. Only One that will save. Only One.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted. He rescues those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18). He heals the brokenhearted and binds their wounds (Psalm 147:3). And by His wounds we are healed (1 Peter 2:24). ...for I am the Lord, who heals you (Exodus 15:26). No man can redeem the life of another... (Psalm 49:7). He restores my soul... (Psalm 23:3). ...and apart from me there is no Savior (Isaiah 43:11). ...no savior except me (Hosea 13:4). Turn to me and be saved... (Isaiah 45:22). The Lord turns my darkness into light (2 Samuel 22:29). .... my wailing into dancing...(Psalm 30:11). ....my sorrow to joy... (Esther 9:22). ... mourning into gladness... comfort and joy instead of sorrow (Jeremiah 31:13-14). Heal me, O Lord, and I will be healed. Save me and I will be saved... (Jeremiah 17:14) and He said to her, "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering." (Mark 34).


Lord, your word says that it is better to trust you, rather than people (Psalm 118:8) and that we are not to put our trust in princes, who are only human and can not save us (Psalm 146:3). Lord, help me to remember this. Show me any areas where I may be mistakenly placing the hope I should have in only You on the shoulders of my husband – my human prince. Help me to release him from such an impossible duty. Help me to remember that You and You alone save. You and You alone have the power to restore, to rescue and to redeem. And it is You that can wipe away my past hurts and bind up my brokenness. Only You. In Jesus name, Amen.

Mountain Mover

Shortly after I posted Making Friends with the Past - I got to thinking. And then I got to praying. And I have to say that making nice with the past - specifically my past - is still on my mind. Still. And here I am haunted by this childish realization that has only recently crossed my mind - my past wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair! And I'm not whining. Really I'm not. But, it wasn't. It just wasn't fair.

So can I truly make friends with something that unfair? I mean truly - deep down? Maybe it is a more attainable goal to just tolerate it. But doesn't tolerating sound so wimpy? It's a bit like lowering the bar or shooting for the roof rather than for the moon? I mean our Lord is a redeemer and a restorer - He can make everything anew. He can. Right?

And so, at this very moment, making friends with an such an unfair past seems like an insurmountable task. A bit like trying to move a mountain with my bare hands. Can you imagine that? I mean it is said that Stone Mountain in Georgia weighs somewhere around 1,176,000,000,000 lbs! I can barely read that number much less truly fathom how very heavy that is. How very heavy. Okay, so literal mountain moving is a larger than life, impossible task. And that is exactly how making friends with my past seems at this point.

And I am instantly convicted by Jesus' words: "... you have so little faith. I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." Matthew 17:20

The unfair events of my past represent this huge mountain between me and true happiness. A huge mountain. These past years I have tried to climb over it, tried to dwell around it, tried to soar above it, but I have never tried to move it. Never tried to just push it out of the way. Just push it aside. And I am struck by the question, how exactly does one move a mountain? How does one attain enough faith - enough mountain moving faith? The kind that Jesus speaks of.

At times I feel as if I am so far away from the Lord, just cowering and shivering in the cold winds that blow through the darkened valley of my mountain. And then at other times I feel as if the Lord has swept me up, on wings of a majestic eagle and carried me straight to the top of my mountain. Straight to the top where I can look down with awe on the vastness and beauty of life. And life up here from this great distance is so very far away from the cold depths of the valley. And I like it here as I look out and see what awaits on the other side. And still, at other times I feel as if I am climbing the mountain. Hand in front of hand, foot in front of foot. Slipping at times and falling at others. And sometimes He is there. He is right beside me as I steadily climb. And He shows me the way, shows me the path, pointing out the dangers and leading me to the summit.

But never have I felt the power to actually move that mountain. To just move it forever out of my way. Never. What faith. What great faith! And Lord - where do I get me some of that?

Lord, I know that everything is possible with You. Everything. I pray that You will teach me to believe. Teach me to pray with the faith Jesus talked about. To cast away all doubt in my heart and to become a mountain mover. Not a mountain tolerator. Not a mountain climber or a mountain dweller, but a mountain mover. A mountain mover. In Jesus name I pray. Amen.

Making friends with the past

The past has already happened. She can't be changed. She can't be modified. She can't be altered. And most importantly for those of us with rougher pasts - she can't be fixed. Everyone knows that.... right? And yet, those of us with rocky beginnings seem to acquire this useless little flaw in our psyches. A flaw that makes us believe that we have to do something with her. Something. We can't just let her sit there. We can't just let her be. Because in some ways she is picking on us. Sticking her tongue out at us. Making us sad. Making us mad. Persecuting us and reminding us of where we have been and of who -if we are not careful - we just might become. And so, it seems to me that far too many of us either consciously or subconsciously decide to deal with her in one of three extreme ways:

Some of us make our relationship with her a toxic, one-sided disaster that is filled with despair, grief and hopelessness. We pal around with her and cry to her about our what-ifs and our if-onlys. We lay it all in front of her and let her fill our minds and hearts with memories that hurt and recollections that sadden. We get down and dirty with her and we grieve our maltreatment and our injustices. And oh, she is such a sorrowful friend. Such a powerful friend. And she is filled with pity, shame and remorse. And misery loves company and we just love her company.

And then some of us decide treat her like an insignificant nag. One that pesters. One that annoys and provokes. And she rears her ugly head every so often and we swat her down. And we run away from her. Deny that she is there. Deny that she annoys. And whenever she draws near, we just swat at her and pretend her out of existence. And the next time she comes around we swat her away again. And again. And somehow our swats never seem to do the trick. Because she is still there. And we know she is still there, but we convince ourselves that we are happier to ignore her. Happier to just keep her at bay.

And then some of us file full out formal declarations of war against her. We take control of our lives. Damn it! We take control. And we will not stand by and be defeated by her. We will not play the part of the sappy victim or the swatter of annoyances. Nope. We will be fighters. A fighter, damn it. And we set out to conquer her. To destroy her. To crush her and beat her to a pulp. Beat her until she can't say anything anymore. Beat her into non-existence.

Of course, many of us do all three. We have this ever changing relationship with her. And we bounce back and forth between the extremes. And any one of these extremes leaves us restless because we never truly make peace with her. We never truly put her in her proper place.

And so I wondered isn't there a better way? A new extreme. A way where we don't have to dwell in her, nor mourn her, nor ignore her, nor hate her, nor shame her. I mean, can't we just befriend her? Can't we just learn to take her hand and walk along side her? Can't we talk with her in the name of learning from her and accept her in the name of accepting ourselves? And can't we just learn to appreciate her for the mere fact that she exists? I mean her very existence means that we have lived. And living is a good thing. A God-given good thing. So can't we choose to accept her for who she is? Accept her for her ways, for her lessons and for her strengths. And yes, even accept her for her weaknesses and her faults and her failures. Just like we would do with any other good friend. Because that's all she really is - a good old friend that knows where you have been and what you have been though. That knows just how very far you've come. Just how very far. And even though she knows so much - she doesn't define you, nor bind you. She doesn't steal your joy, nor make you bitter. She doesn't discourage any growth beyond her. She's just a friend. Just a good old friend who happens to know everything about you.

And I am reminded of Paul's amazing proclamation in the book of Philippians - "..But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead.." (vs 3:13b).

In order to forget something, we have to remember it first and so I encourage those of us with challenged pasts to remember what we need to - to not push it down and pretend it never existed, to not battle with it, nor pal around with it. But to seek God's strength to forget to let it have any power to control who we are today in Christ. To do otherwise is to mock the suffering of the cross and the miracle of the resurrection. Scripture tells us that if we belong to Christ, we become a new person. A new person. This means that we can not be controlled by the old. This means that there is a fresh start, a new beginning - a new life. And new lives are not under the control of the old ones.

There is nothing about the past, even yours, even mine, that is too great for God to handle or to ugly for God to make beautiful. Won't you remember this the next time your past is taking up too much space in your life?


"This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!" (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Blogger's Remorse?

Whew! It's the day after I published my very first post. Only a day and all I can say is ---- UGH! I'm so tempted to hit edit - delete. I feel so completely exposed right now. Exposed even though I know there's likely very few people who are even reading this. Is there such a thing as blogger's remorse? A condition where you write from the heart - write exactly how you feel and what you mean - put aside all pretense and just lay it all out there and then..... bam.... you're stricken with fear. Scared to death. Scared of what people might think of you and scared of what people may write back to you.

Well, if there is such a thing - I've got it. Yesterday just before I hit that publish button I was so sure that speaking up about my experiences was the best thing to do. I was so absolutely sure of it. But now, it's not even 24 hours later and I'm second guessing the benefits of cutting oneself open so that the world can see that - Yep, she bleeds. Does the world really need another bleeder? Especially one that writes about it.

Okay. Okay. I'm just going to calm down. Push the anxiety aside. Swallow this apprehension. I'm just gonna' swallow it and trudge on. Trudge on because I know it is fear and shame that keeps so much misery swirling around in this world. It's the fact that not enough people want to talk about it. Not enough people want to acknowledge it. So many people just want to pretend pain out of existence. So many people say - Get over it. Get on with it. Just stop thinking about it.... blah! blah! blah! And I'm tired of ignoring it. Tired of pretending. And I'm tired of doing nothing but trying to get over it. Nothing but trying to get on with it. And so I'm gonna' try something new. I'm going to try and not be afraid. Try and not be ashamed. I'm going to confront it and trudge on - because I have much to share and much to learn and this is the best way I know how. Won't you share with me?

A Way Too Long Rant About Where I've Been.... Otherwise Known as.... My Sexual Abuse Story

5 years old. I'm a dancer. I love wearing my leotard, tights and ballet slippers and I feel really proud in my black shiny taps. Heel, toe, shuffle, step. I am a natural performer. Uninhibited, sure of myself and in love with applause. My first recital is the biggest night of my little life. I put on my costume - a little bumble bee outfit. I wear black shoes and fishnet tights. I wear an itchy tutu and yellow and black sequined body suit. I wear show biz make up and a cute little hat on the top of my long silky hair. And all is right when I take that stage and sing my lungs out -

"Be my little baby bumble bee
(Buzz a-round, buzz a-round, keep a buzz-in' round)
Bring home all the honey, love, to me
(Little bee, little bee, little bee)
Let me spend the happy hours
roving with you 'mongst the flowers
And when we get where no one else can see..."

And I remember the smiling eyes, so many of them on me. On me, because I'm that kid that sings louder than all the others. And for just a moment there are eyes on me and there are smiles directed at me. And I love it. There is no fear. There is only me and the eyes on me. And I am free... And I love it.

6 years old. For so long, life seems wondrous. I am uninhibited and sure of myself. There is no fear. No fear. But then, something changes. Something happens. George. He is a 31 year old man and he is a family friend. And I like him. I like his winks, I like his attention, I like his motorcycle. I like him. And he takes advantage of my fondness for him. He takes advantage of it and sexually abuses me. He does it on Daddy's big arm chair. He does it on my bed. He does it when no one else is around. And I mentally leave my body. I fade us into the shadows and he does things to me that are unspeakable. And I do things to him that are unspeakable. And we create secrets together. Secrets. And he plunders my spirit, steals my innocence and crushes my trust. And he confuses me. And I feel icky inside every time he comes around. And I feel dirty and ashamed. And soon, I am no longer uninhibited and so sure of myself. And suddenly there is fear. Fear of being touched. Fear of being forced to touch. And there is fear of being found out. Fear of letting anyone know. And the secrets burn in me. But I can't let anyone know. I just can't.

And then one day mom will talk to me about private parts. And she'll tell me that it is wrong to let anyone touch you there. And she'll tell me that it is wrong to touch anyone there. And I will break. Break because now I know for certain just how wrong it was. And now I know for certain just how wrong I am. I'm all wrong. And mom will probe and I will crumble under the weight of her stare. I'll be certain that she can see my dirtiness. And so I tell her. I tell her bits and pieces of bits. And she just freaks out. And I haven't even had the chance to finish. Now I really know that there is something bad, something wrong with me. And mom will tell dad and together they will tell the police. And then my world will get surreal. And I will meet the policeman and the detective and the doctor and the counselor and the prosecutor and the judge. And every last one of them will tell me that I did nothing wrong, but I won't believe a single one of them. Because I know about all the dirtiness. I know it and George knows it and no matter what anyone says - I'll never feel clean again.

8 years old. It will happen again. This time by an older neighborhood teen and his friends. They'll see me one day, riding my bike and they'll take advantage of my eagerness to hang out with the older, cooler kids. And at their urging, I'll walk my lime green bike, with the mickey mouse bell mounted on its handle bar, up the drive. I'll join them in the garage and the door will close behind me. And things will be cool, at first. But then, they tell me what they want to do. And I won't want to and I'll tell them that. And I'll think about George. And I'll think about the big mess that we made and I don't want that. Not again. And they'll tell me not to be shy, not to be scared. But I will get scared. And they will all be looking at me. And I'll freeze. I'll want to run, but my legs won't work. And the leader will lay me down and tell me to pretend that they are doctors. And I'll ask to go home. And they'll tell me not to be shy, not to be scared. And they will do as they will do and get what they can get. And that will be that. And when it is over, we will fix our clothes and they will open that garage door and sunshine will flood in and illuminate the snickers they flash at one another as I am dismissed. And their eyes are wild with excitement and I can only imagine that mine are deflated. I'm holding back tears as they throw me out. And from that day forward, they will refuse to acknowledge me. They will ignore my presence and walk away laughing amongst themselves at my stupid childlike attempt to befriend them. And I only want to befriend them to make what happened right. But it won't be made right and I will know that there is something wrong with me. I am dirty. I am damaged.

10 years old. While at a friend's house one day, he will show me his dad's hidden pornography stash and we will pass the time looking at picture after picture of naked men and women and the various positions they contort each other's bodies into. And I'll grow so confused. Experience has taught me a lot about body parts and what men like to do with them, but these pictures teach me that girls are supposed to like it, too. I won't say much about the pictures. I'll just be too confused. And once we put that stash away, I'll try to leave the room to go to the bathroom. But, when I crack open the door, I'll see his dad sitting alone in a big easy chair, his legs kicked up and a blanket covering his lap. Both of his hands are buried beneath it. And I know that he is playing with himself. And there are naked girls on the big screen tv and he has that look in his eye. The room is dim, but I can still see that look in his eye. And I'll freeze for a moment and try to quietly close the door. Close it before he notices me. But I'll be too late and his eyes will lock on mine and for a few moments we'll stare at one another. And he doesn't even flinch, just looks right into me and continues playing with himself. And I'll want to say something, but I won't know what I should say. And the girls on the tv are making bizarre sounds. And I'll look to the screen and the girls are doing strange things to each other. And then I'll look back to him and I'll see a smug smile creep across his face. And we'll continue to stare at each other and he'll continue to play with himself. And I am not sure what is going to happen next and that icky feeling will well up in my stomach.

And then it'll be over. His son will say something and the dad will hear him and quickly change the channel. And then there will be a scowl on his face and I'll retreat back into the room. And I'll still have to pee, but I will not leave that room. Not for a long, long time. And the ickyness overtakes me and I am so afraid to leave. So afraid that his dad will be waiting on the other side of the door. And so I'll stay there with my bladder aching waiting for the moment when I'll have no choice but to leave. And finally, I'll follow my friend out of the room and his dad will smile at me. And I'll know what I saw and I'll know that he knows what I saw. But he smiles anyway and his smile makes my stomach flip flop. And his eyes pass right through mine and I shiver before following my friend upstairs. I'll leave that basement with images of naked people having sex and the dad's dingy smile floating around in my head. And I'll be the one that feels dirty.

12 years old. After those experiences and after having been emotionally abandoned by my first love – my Dad - I will begin acting out sexually. And it doesn't make any sense. It just doesn't. Why I use my sexuality - the very thing that messed it all up for me. But, I have been sexualized and a disrespect for my body and my self worth has been cultivated. And I have an emptiness inside that is dying to be filled and I just won't care what it gets filled with, as long as the aching stops. And in the sixth grade, I'll begin making out with boys I've sneaked into my bedroom or off with at the playground.

13 years old. I'll meet a 20 year old who likes to read my poems. And he likes to put them to music and sing them as he strums his guitar. And I like hearing my words turned to songs. And sometimes we sing them together and sometimes we don't. But, I like hanging out with him. And one day, he'll take me to an abandoned trailer out in an overgrown field to write poetry. But once there, we won't write poetry. He'll sit me down on a dirty mattress -and though I am scared to death - tell me how he'd like me to please him. And he'll tell me to stop shaking, but I won't be able to. He is like a grown man to me and I'll be scared. He is not at all like the boys that I had been kissing and making out with on the playground. And clearly, he should be able to tell by my body language, by my trembling and by my verbalized reluctance that I don't want to do this. And I'll tell him it needs to stop. But, he'll tell me to do it anyway. And I'll not understand why this is happening, but I'll mentally fade him into the shadows and I'll work through the fear and reluctantly do what he says. I'll do what he asks. And I'll mentally leave my body and just do as I am told. And though I'll leave that trailer with my virginity intact, I'll leave feeling dirtier than I have ever felt. And he'll tell me I did good. Tell me I did real good. But, I'll just feel bad. Real bad. And we will do this over and over again and I just won't know how to make that part of us stop. I'll just want him to sing my songs and like me. And I will pretend like what happens between us isn't real. And now, more than ever, I know that I am damaged and that there is something wrong with me. I know now that this is all I have to offer and whether I like it or not, males want to take it.

14 years old. I will freely give away my virginity to an 18 year old guy I'd known for just a little over a week. Just a week. On a frigid February day, we will walk out into to the woods and go about the business of throwing out the very last bit of my innocence. And the experience will be just as cold as the frozen ground beneath us and hurt just as much. But he will keep coming back for more and I will slowly enter into a manipulative, physically, sexually and mentally abusive relationship with him. And like my mother does with my father – I will plead, beg and fight my way to maintain this broken and damaging relationship, despite his cruelties. And I will hold on at all costs – sure that I can make him change. And he'll violate me in ways that corrupt my soul. But I'll forgive him. I'll forgive him and allow his excuses to justify the misuse of my body, the misuse of my mind.

15 years old. Eventually his abuse will get carried away and he won't be content with the controlled corruption of my body. He won't be able to contain whatever it is that is in him that enjoys degrading females. And it will erupt in one singular angry fit that he rages against me one messy October night in our neighborhood laundromat. And he will be unusually heartless. Just heartless. And he will spit in my face and he will turn me away from him, pin me against a table and defile my body. And he will use me to work out his twisted thoughts. And as he rapes me, I am crushed beneath the weight of his body and my face is pressed hard against the table top and I can taste the laminate's bitterness, taste it's dirtiness. And inside I grow just as bitter, just as dirty. And I truly begin to hate myself. Hate that I keep ending up in this place where they take and I give. And I am ripped and I am torn and I am sure that somehow I deserve this, that somehow it is me that brings these violations on.

A week or so later, I'll tell someone what happened - kinda. And that someone will tell my mom. And mom, despite my pleads not to, will tell the police. And the police will come. And I will want to tell my story, but I won't be able to. I'll be to ashamed. Too afraid. Too protective of him. And so I will give them enough half truth to validate mom calling them, but not enough to do anything about it. And they will question him and he will tell them that I am a liar. And they will send us all home. And I will go to my room and cry and he will go to the neighborhood and tell everyone that I cried rape. And I will never get a chance to explain my side because the rumors will fly and everyone will have made up their minds. And I will be whispered about and I will be shunned by mutual friends. And I will walk around, holding the tears back and trying to ignore the pain. And the world around me will pass judgement and I will be convicted as a dirty slut who lied to get him in trouble. And their looks and their words hurt, but the fact that they have turned their backs on me hurts worse. I pretend not to notice. And he and I won't speak for months. But one day we will. It is sad and it is sick, but one day, several months later, we'll just pretend the whole thing never happened. I'll look past the pain and return to our toxic, twisted, on again, off again wreck of a relationship and I will not leave it until he is sent away to prison for armed robbery a few years later.

16 years old - 19 years old. And the emptiness will grow larger, grow deeper. And over the few short years to come feeling - broken, damaged and used up - I'll give myself over to promiscuity. I'll mess around with handfuls of guys. I'll carry on sexual relationships with men exceptionally older than me, at least two of which were married. And I'll never think about the wives and I'll never think about the fact that the men are in their late 30's and oughta' know better than to mess around with a 16 or 17 year old. I'll just give them what they want and hope that it will make them accept me - make them like me, make them need me, make them love me. I'll hope they'll one day take away the emptiness and so I'll let them take all I have to give. All of it. And for those moments, those precious moments just before we have sex. Just before I mentally leave and let them have their way with me. Just before I let what's happening between us fade into the shadows - I am someone. Some special someone. They pursue and pursue. And they say all the right things and I relish the attention. The affection. But I hate the sex. Oh, how I hate the sex. And there will be no joy. No carefree time spent inside an innocent youthful joy. Just drama. Over the top drama.

And before I escape my teens, I will turn to getting high to escape the tragedy that is my life. And I will have smoked hundreds of marijuana joints and thousands of cigarettes. I will have drank hundreds of bottles of wine and beer and thousands of shots of rum, whiskey, vodka and brandy. I will have tripped on numerous hits of acid and mushrooms and snorted an equal number of lines of cocaine. I will have popped untold numbers of speed, valium, and other unknown prescription pills and spent countless hours huffing spray paint, gasoline, and some unknown medical anesthetic we affectionately called rush. And all in the name of shutting down the sadness. Just shutting it down. And at one point I will enter, at my own request, an outpatient drug counseling program. Although several weeks later I will quit and declare myself cured. You see, the counselors wanted to talk about my pain. I didn't want to talk about my pain. I could have never told them about the dirtiness, the shame. So I'll attempt to cure myself with positive thinking and raw will power. But, no amount of telling myself that I am healthy, makes me feel healthy and within a month I will drink a beer, smoke a few bowls of pot and declare to my circle of friends that sobriety is for losers.

And before I escape my teens, I will have spent countless nights walking the streets intoxicated, played one game of russian roulette, several games of pass-out, and even more games of chicken across the busy expressway. I will be a regular at drunken bonfire and house parties and I will get myself into dozens of dangerous situations, some of which I will make my way out of - some of which I won't. And I will have contemplated suicide at least a handful of times and almost gone through with it twice. And I am utterly convinced that I am useless, broken and damaged. And I'll just wish the pain would stop. I'll just wish the shame would go away.

And all the while, since I was six years old, I will have continued to run further and further away from God's saving grace and anything or anyone connected with Him. I will slip further and further into darkness. And while I do not remember ever formally declaring war on God, I know that somewhere along the way I did. Somewhere I decided that he just didn't care. Somewhere I decided that a loving God, the God I'd learned about in Catholic church, the one who asked for all the little children to come to him, would never, could never have let all those bad things happen to me. Somewhere along the way, I'd determined that if there was a God - He was cruel. If there was a God, He abandoned me. And I turned away. Somewhere I decided that I was on my own. Somewhere I chose fate and destiny over God. And that God shaped hole inside me just grew - bigger and bigger. And that hunger for healing just ached - more and more.

19 years old. During the summer of my 19th year, I will meet a guy on the phone. He'll tell me he's 26, single and looking for love and I'll tell him I'm much the same. And we'll spend weeks on the phone laughing, sharing and flirting. And after much pressure from him to do so, I will agree to meet him in person. Agree that it is time for a face to face. And we will make plans to get together. Get together and get high. Get together and get to know one another. But, when I do meet him, I am absolutely horrified. Horrified because he is not 26. He is not 36 or even 46. He is easily 56 or more. And his eyes are dead, his lips like slimy slugs and his hands are wrinkled and crude. And everything about him is dark and evil and causes me to shudder. And I am repulsed, struggling not to vomit and shaking from the inside out as he drives his car fast and furious away from the safety of my neighborhood. And I get that I have gotten myself in deep this time. Real deep. And before I know it I will be trapped inside his apartment and begging for him to unlock the door and let me go. And he will pick me up in the morning and dump me off in the evening and everything in between is just nightmarish. And the man is sadistic and cruel and several times he will choke me into unconsciousness and I am certain that I will not survive the fingers around my throat and I am certain that I am going to be dead before the day is over. And as he rapes me, over and over again, I hate myself and I hate what I have done to myself.

And when I make it back home, I run to my room and I fall on my floor. And once I fall on my floor, I fall apart and then the tears come. And they don't stop. And my gut wrenches and my soul is bleeding and I am sick, just sick.

The 20's. I'll tire of the drug use, tire of feeling physically sick and run down, and aside from my addiction to nicotine, my binges with alcohol, and the occasional joint, I'll abandon the drugs. And just after turning 20, I'll fall in love. I'll fall in love with a man I befriended shortly after the last time I was raped and I'll try to move forward. I won't tell him much of my shame, won't tell him much of my pain, though he will see it. I'll just keep on keeping on. And I'll try to ignore the pain in my past. Ignore it and move forward. And at 22, I will marry that man and I'll think that becoming a wife, entering a new grown up season in my life, means that I am over all that has been done to me and all that I have done to myself and others. I'll try to focus on being a wife and stepmom and tell myself that I'm over all that junk in my past.

But I'll really be fooling myself. Because I will spend the next several years battling post traumatic stress, depression and social anxiety. I won't know what it is. I'll just think I'm crazy. I'll just think I'm mentally ill, like my dad. But that won't stop the flashbacks, nightmares, difficulty sleeping, emotional numbness and anger. It won't shut down the intrusive and upsetting memories and images. And I will pull away from people out of fear - fear of being hurt again and fear of the shame of my trauma being exposed. And I will lose weeks to depression and withdrawal and eventually lose the ability to socially relate with people at all. I'll be engaged in a daily battle with fear. Fear of being exposed. Fear of letting anyone see the real me. I will become so afraid of anyone finding out what all I have done and what all has been done to me that I will hide. And I'll crumble beneath the weight of low self esteem, negative self talk and the constant feeling that I am damaged, broken and used up. And though I will have moments of happiness and laughter, deep down I will have no true joy, no true peace. At least not the kind that surpasses understanding.

The 30's. And once I get closer to my 30's, it all starts creeping in on me. Starts creeping in until I'm unsure of who I am and why I'm even here. And I am getting worn out and tired. And then my son will be born. My husband and I will create a child. And his coming to be will prove one of my greatest joys. But his coming to be also brings me back to my junk. Because it's all still there. And I feel it rumbling when I yell out in anger. I feel it rumbling when I observe just how very clean and innocent young children are and I think surely I must have been that clean and innocent at one time. And I feel it rumbling when I cry out on my knees because I am so afraid that I will pass all this junk on to my son. Oh Lord, I wonder - how can anyone that is so broken and unhealthy inside truly do a good job of raising a whole, healthy person? Can my son survive me? Or will he too bring junk forward? Junk that I have given him.

And now – I am 35. Thirty-five and tired of pushing all that junk aside. Nearly seven years ago, I quietly became a Christian. I say quietly because it wasn't anything like I had expected. It wasn't trumpets blaring and angels singing and instant healing - not at all what I expected. Unlike so many other converts I've met, I did not immediately get a brand new life, I did not get a testimony. I seemed to remain just as broken as I'd ever been. Jesus, it seemed might not be able to do anything in my life. But I kept on reading scripture and praying. Praying and reading scripture. And I cried out every night, "Lord, please reveal yourself to me!" Oh, I wanted to believe Him, I did, but it was such a struggle. My voice of shame was louder than His gentle whispers back.

Until one day, a few years back. Matthew 18:1-14 changed my life. Scripture tells us that God's word is full of living power, sharper than the sharpest knife, cutting deep into our innermost thoughts and desires and able to expose us for what we really are (Hebrews 4:12). And I know the truth of that. God's word did that to me and God's word showed me the living Christ, in the way I needed to see Him. It was as if I came face to face with Jesus and he said to me - "My sweet child, I never wanted that for you. Woe to the men through which that pain came. Return to me and I will set you free." I know, I know... unless you have encountered Him, it is hard to believe that a few words in a book could feel like a face to face conversation with God, but that is what happened. And that was the beginning of the end of my struggle for healing. I have been journeying forward toward the freedom from the bondage of sexual abuse and rape ever since.

And now I am led here. Led to share with and learn from others on the journey. I am not fully healed, I am not fully restored and I don't always feel the peace... yet. I am still learning to let go and let God do his work. I am learning to trust again. I am learning to stop hiding and to step out into faith.

This blog is part of that effort. I long to be free. Free like I was all those years ago. Before all of the sexual abuse and rape and all of the self destructive ways I coped with the shame and pain. Oh, to be free, like the Lord intended us to be...

Fellow journeyers, I pray that this blog may bring support and encouragement on the Journey Forward. May God bless us, heal us and keep us all...