#NMSN14

Have you heard about this project?

#NMSN14 stands for No More Shame November 2014.
Survivors everywhere are sharing their stories and coming together to support each other.
A few amazing women (also, survivors)Rachel Thompson,  Bobbi Parish and Athena Moberg got together and started a twitter chat held on Tuesday nights for survivors with the hash tag #Sexabusechat. I have been an active participant in these chats more and more. It is a great place to share your story, get support or even just see what other survivors are up to.

I celebrated my 27th birthday on the 15th of this month and part of my celebration was sharing an essay for the #NoMoreShame project. 
Monday November 17th there will be a book release full of survivor stories, poems and essays.

I want to share this information for fellow survivors who are looking to connect or maybe you know a survivor who needs to hear that they are not alone.

Victims, survivors, thrive-rs and lifers are banning together and telling abusers NO MORE.  If you're not ready to share your story but, would like support, feel free to email me at: MrsGreggs@Gmail.com

Also feel free to check out these amazing, informative videos, made by fellow Survivors: HERE 

Rapist's Parental Rights In Iowa

I do not live in Iowa anymore but, at one time I did.
Iowa was the place where I got a fresh start. I reported my rapist, went to therapy, got married and gave birth to my son.  The tiny town of Humboldt gave me a safe place to begin my recovery as a rape and incest survivor. I am grateful for the love and community I had there and now I want to return the favor. So I will start by helping raise awareness about rapists parental rights to any children born as a result of their attack.

According to Iowa CASA : (Coalition Against Sexual Abuse)

Rape

• Nearly 1 in 5 women have been raped in their lifetime. 1 in 31 men have been raped in their lifetime.
• Approximately 80% of female victims experienced their first rape before the age of 25 and almost half experienced the first rape before age 18 (30% between 11-17 years old and 12% at or before the age of 10)
• About 35% of women who were raped as minors were also raped as adults compared to 14% of women without an early rape history.
• 28% of male victims of rape were first raped when they were 10 years old or younger.
  
  
  
  
  These Statics can also be found here .

I know these statics all too well and they still sicken me as they should anyone who reads them.
 Now imagine if you or someone you loved was a victim of rape and had a child as a result. Imagine having to let their nightmare, your nightmare interact with said child?
Why is this allowed?

In America there are states where convicted rapists are allowed to sue their victims for parental rights. Iowa is one of them. In some states women are forced against their will to not terminate a rape pregnancy, until a certain waiting period is up.  Regardless your views on abortion, a woman's body is her own and after a rapist has stolen her right, it is so unfair that the LAW  continues this injustice by not allowing her, HER right to her own body.
The Huffington post has more gut wrenching statistics here. 


I am posting today in hopes you will stand with me and fellow survivors, both those who faced parenting a child of rape, and those who have not. Please click HERE and sign the petition to help Iowa Rape victims protect themselves from further harm of their rapists and attackers. Help these survivors make a safer world than they have known for their children.
If you're against abortion then please sign the petition in hopes to discourage women from having them because they will feel safer about their child being protected from a rapist. If you are pro-abortion please sign the petition to protect a women's right to choose. Period.

Thank you in advance.

The Swirl

The Swirl.
 I am dancing with depression and it has taken the lead.
Each step is to the beat of a broken heart.  I am so weary and I do not want to be here.
Anger cuts in for a spin and I catch a second wind and hope I will be able to bow out of this tango of torment.
 The music changes to the sound of a thousand tears and Shame grabs my hand for it's turn on the floor.  Round and round we go, Confusion cutting between us, on again and off again.
My soul is despondent but, there is no stopping this ball.
 I feel as though I cannot even catch a breath.
I am up and down, and sideways, and being flung from hither to yon and back again.
My emotions and my demons are colliding in a beautiful and yet hideous portrait.
The colors are vibrant but, the couplings disastrous.
I trip over my own feet but that does not phase the party around me. My only chance is to get up and dance or become overwhelmed and subdued.  I manage to take in a deep breath, but it is quickly stolen by Fear.
 Like a dark prince dressed in black and purple he tugs my arms to bring me to my feet and to also have this dance. He is so well put together and hard not to notice. His scent is intoxicating even when one knows that scent provokes their worst nightmares. He is so familiar to my life.  He pulls me close until our eyes meet. He brings back a recall so rich in remembrance I feel pain in my body. Broken bones that I had forgotten but, never had treated. I feel bruises on top of bruises from these flashbacks. Fear is not satisfied with the dance until I have become frozen in his clutch.
I hear shrieking in the music now, like an ill violin if one could make such a cry on it's own. It is the sound of my heart strings being strung through phantasms of both past and present.

I do not escape the dance with dry eyes or UN-frayed nerves, not even a whole soul is left within me.
I pick up the pieces of tattered heart and run to find a cool dark place. A soft place. An escape even if it's only a temporary one from this madness... the swirl.

I, The Mistress, To God Be The Glory

I usually keep my blog posts strictly about being a survivor of rape and incest and related issues or topics.
This post is different from any others I have published before. 
I have mentioned before that my husband rescued me from my last rapist, my fathers cousin. He did not know at the time he was rescuing me from a living nightmare.  I have not spoken to how my husband and I began though. That changes today. 

 For so long I have not gotten to tell my side of my own love story. 
So many people have tainted it with rumors and accusations. Few have ever cared to ask me what really happened. It was a forbidden love but, an everlasting one.
  When I met my now husband over six years ago I had no idea he would be the love of my life. We worked alongside each other for a long time. He was married and I was in an on again off again relationship.

When his wife left, (Three years after we first met) I was there. I was his friend and I was removed from the "church" enough that I was trusted with the details. I won't try to pretend it was an innocent love by this point. I was very attached to Pastor James. I knew there was ongoing trouble in his marriage but, I was not any part of it.  I did not want to stay friends though, and neither did he. There was an ever growing bond between us. The chemistry was undeniable even though we did our best to ignore it for the longest time.  Yes, there was very much an emotional affair before she left but, she did not know anything about it until after the fact. Not that it makes it any better. It was wrong. 

I had always had a deep respect and care for Pastor James but, it was gradually deepening. I thought I was doing my best to contain my affections but, Pastor James took notice. He was unhappy, and he had tried time and again in his marriage to make it work. He was committed to his family and keeping them together, but he was done playing games. That is what it felt like to him when she left, a game. She wanted him to follow and he refused. The details beyond that are not mine to share but, I am not why she left. When the news finally broke to the public that he was getting a divorce, people scrambled to find something or someone to blame. It was not long before suspicion arose about there being something more between us.
So many people spoke out of turn and said I was the reason for the separation. I was why she left. I was the reason the children cried at night missing their father. I was a home wrecker, per the church people. Everyone flocked to the defense of the poor first wife, and I was just the whore in their eyes.

Truth is, she left and he didn't chase.
 I cannot speak on their marital history as I was not there and speaking out of turn is the very thing I am against.
What I do know and can share, is this... I am not the reason she left. I am the reason she did not get him back.
I do not say this with pride but, as fact. 

My now husband, Pastor James, took me in and rescued me from a rapist. He did not realize that was what he was doing at the time. He only knew I was afraid and needed a place to go, and for whatever reason my own family was not safe. Because of his ever growing love for me and the fact he was on his own at the time, he did not hesitate to keep me. He did not care what it looked like to the church. He did not give any explanation for his actions, he just acted.
Of course because of the wagging tongues of everyone who spewed lies (before we became an actual couple)... being together surely must have proven their lies to be true. (sarcasm)

I know the damage done by the choices my husband and I made back then. I know the struggles of the children and heartache of my husband. Yes, I am even painfully aware of the pain we caused the first wife. She did not deserve the hurt she endured on our account. Outside of that I did not, nor have I ever felt guilt for my relationship with my husband in the beginning of us. I remember waiting for the guilt to set in but, it never did. I was in love and falling even more hopelessly, deeper in it with him everyday. I am not in denial of all the wrongs we did. I am a woman who made a choice with a man she loved and together we chose us over everyone else.  Of course on the outside looking in, people did not understand nor care about our side of the story. They rather enjoyed talking about and fanning the flames surrounding this scandal.
I know every single accusation thrown at James and myself by church people.
"You make me sick!" "You're a false prophet" "You're just his little church whore, he will leave you once he gets bored of you." "I hope you rot in hell for the betrayal you've done here" "God can't protect liars and adulterers" "Hypocrite" "Naive stupid girl" "He's nothing but a N*****!"

These were words from church people, God's people, leaders of His flock. People who did not ask any questions, but only hurled accusations from rumors they'd heard or made up. I was not welcome in town or near my parents home where my Nanny was dying of cancer.  I barely made it to her funeral and it was made clear to me that I was only welcome to come if I was alone. My family turned on me, they had no ability to speak to me in person but, they did send plenty of emails, texts, tweets, Facebook messages and phone calls letting me know I was a failure. There was no love or forgiveness anywhere. My "church" people and blood relatives had cast us out. These people watched me grow up. Yet, none of them ever asked me about it. They just pointed fingers. One person even compared beating cancer as less painful than the horrendous betrayal they now faced. (This person did not even attend my husband's church.)

When we moved from that small town just over three years ago it was a non - "church" person who came out and helped us. So many of our true friends have stayed in touch with us since leaving. Others STILL talk about the "scandal" between that pastor and that little home schooled girl.

Those who took sides and decided the first wife was an innocent victim in everything, did nothing but talk about it. No one took care of her or her children. Things like  "My heart aches for her and her children" "I can't imagine what she is going through" "She deserves better than what that low life gave her" were said.
These words and more were shared all over social media. Good for them for saying the right things. Shame on them that it was the extent of the "Churches" actions to help her in her dark hour. She was on her own with what ever income she could make and the child support she received long before the divorce papers were even filed. I bet few if any of those people are still in touch with the first wife and her family but, truthfully it does not matter.

Where are they now?
Where are those people who had so much to say but little to do. Their lives moved on, their opinions (no matter how UN-factually based) shared and none of them are a better person for it.
Some took the time to make troll/fake twitter and Facebook accounts just to harass and spy on the accused. I was deeply hurt realizing how few people (none actually) believed in me enough to reach out once again in my life. They pretended to have pity for me but, I'll be damned if they really cared about me getting hurt. I don't really care where any of them are. None of them are or deserve to be in my life today and for that, I am grateful.

In those early days and months (and even still) it was/is James and I against the world.
We gave up everything for each other. Well, he gave up everything, truth be told I didn't have anything to lose.  He stood with me at his side and faced all the ugly accusations and attacks, never refuting or arguing with anyone about any of it. He stepped down as pastor of his church and took me away with him. We spent several weeks packing up almost 20 years of his life before me. We shared some of our most beautiful, painful and bittersweet moments during that time. I stepped into a roll as his partner and caretaker. He was hurting and had much to work through but, I was there to take care of him, give him space, be his sounding board and soft place to fall. I put aside the hell I had just escaped from. I ignored the calls, texts and attempts by my family to harass me. My whole focus was on my love and helping him in his dark hour after he rescued me from mine.
We did not step into our relationship in a Godly way, a church preferred way or, even an ideal way. We were two broken people in the middle of storms in our lives and chose each other over it all.
We were selfish and owned it. We made a choice and we are still together and have a family of our own.

For all the trials we have faced and endured together, I would not have it any other way.
I stood by his side while he went through the long process of separation and divorce. I waded through the complications of it all, finding my place in this new chapter of our life together and it was all worth it. In turn he white knuckle gripped through the lies, fear and ugliest parts of my recovery as a new survivor.  It was all so much harder than it ever had to be, but that is a whole other blog post.
I went from a single young woman to a relationship and marriage with four step children who may never love me, or even like me. I came into my marriage knowing that I will never have the option to be a mother to more than one child of my own. I chose that. 
My now husband went from one broken-to-failed marriage into a relationship-and-marriage with a broken survivor or rape and incest. The odds were and are still stacked against us.
The truth is, in today's world especially, the odds are stacked against us all. This difference is, we chose each other and in the end (though it is not advised to do so in this order) God.

Yes, at moments I wondered if we would ever get married. There were even some moments I thought we might not make it to the next. While pregnant with my son there were some harsh realities faced about life without anyone but each other. No mother to call for advice, no church to ask to pray for us. No, they were (and are) all still busy being hurt over choices that had nothing to with them.

In spite of it all, here I am today, happily married to my best friend and looking forward to a hard and beautiful future together.
I have my one brilliant son and I am thankful. I have my four amazing step-kids and I pray for them and their mother daily. 

To those who spoke against us then and still today, I forgive you.
I ask forgiveness from only those who matter and the rest I give to God. Ours is story of emerging from deep dark brokenness to a strong force that found their way and to God, be the glory. 

Superbowl Human Trafficking Myth?

  The impending game day is nigh.  I for one do not watch much sports but, I always enjoy the Super Bowl. This year my enjoyment will be tainted with the knowing that this event is drawing many pimps and prostitutes and worst of all sex trafficking victims to "service" the public. 
 According to snopes.com it's all a myth. Sadly, they are not totally wrong.  While Snopes totally ignores the sex trafficking  industry in their article to allegedly expose this "myth," their facts are correct. As you read the article, Snopes writes of several Superbowl events in which authorities did not find an abnormal amount of prostitutes to arrest at the event. It also acknowledges that the number of  prostitutes that were arrested were not new or out of town prostitutes.

Dear public, let's not kid ourselves and pretend that the majority of these victims are made victims by this event... many of them have been in the sex trafficking ring for a while. 
Let's also not pretend like Super Bowl day is the only day we have to make an impact on this rising issue. Even now deals are being made for prostitutes and sex traffic slaves to service 25-50 different clients on the day of the Super Bowl.
These "professional rapes", as I call them, will not be taking place at the MetLife stadium. That would be asking to get caught for a pimp or prostitute. No, instead hotel rooms have already been booked. If you're going to look for trafficking victims at the actual Super Bowl you may not find many. This is not a pimp's first rodeo and and they won't be that "out in the open" with their "property."
 Excuse the casualness of my speech about this matter but, I must remove my emotions to keep this post accurate and effective.
This is a hard subject to not get emotional about. If we want to effectively stop the sex trafficking that is already taking place around the Super Bowl event, we must think like businessmen and women. That is what pimps and ring leaders of the sex trafficking industry are doing. They are not sending their victims to street corners to be picked up. No, arrangements are made in advance... someone who knows someone has a number a potential client can call for "services." Professional rape sessions have already been booked and the victims body's are being prepped as we speak to please the clientele. That's right, these victims are being being plucked, waxed, dyed and sprayed for this very event.
In this way Snopes is correct. Sex trafficking at the actual Superbowl event and location is a myth.
However, what is NOT a myth, is the Super Bowl does help pimps by bringing in a high volume of potential customers. Therefore it stands to reason that the supply of sex slaves needs to meet the demands of these traveling johns.  Again, hotels rooms have already been booked and so have services for clients. It's not just in New York and New Jersey. It's been happening all across the nation as well.
You won't see children on the streets, they will be behind closed doors. You wont see alley ways filled with prostitutes giving head to their drunken client. This kind of thinking about the sex trafficking industry is weak at best. It's worse than this kind of scene.  Way worse.

According to the Huffington post the Attorney General believes the Superbowl is the single largest event for human trafficking. He's not wrong but here's an even bigger headline. EVERYDAY IS THE LARGEST HUMAN TRAFFICKING EVENT! Let's not lose site of that as we band together to battle this monstrosity. Wherever you plan to spend game day or any day, learn the signs of human trafficking.  According to  PolarisProject.org  some signs of potential human traffic victims are as follows :

-Is not free to leave or come and go as he/she wishes

-Is fearful, anxious, depressed, submissive, tense, or nervous/paranoid

- Avoids eye contact

- Appears malnourished

- Shows signs of physical and/or sexual abuse, physical restraint, confinement, or torture

- Claims of just visiting and inability to clarify where he/she is staying/address

- Lack of knowledge of whereabouts and/or do not know what city he/she is in

 These are just a few. If you suspect sex trafficking is happening I urge you to use the following resources: The National Human Trafficking Resource Center anytime 24/7: 1-888-3737-888​​ or to text to "BeFree" or 233733​​. 
(Provided by this The Huffington Post article)


 

The Not So Sexy Truth.

Rape is a prevalent issue in society today.  Attackers have gotten more brazen with their crimes and unfortunately the justice here in America and just about everywhere else has not.
 In many countries reporting rape is literally to face death. If you report rape and it can be proven that you were, it does not protect you from adultery charges. In countries like Afghanistan such charges are punishable by death.
In my own case, I never had to worry about death when I reported. At least not by law. I feared my rapist might try to come after if I ever reported. I feared being stalked and attacked. My husband was very reassuring he would always protect me. My son was still growing in my tummy at the time when I finally reported. I thought about him long and hard. What kind of life would he face? How would he feel about a mother who never reported a rapist? Maybe he would still love me, likely he would, but how much more proud would he be of me knowing I faced my fears and reported? When I reported my rapist the D.A. never took my case. I was never even contacted directly by the D.A.'s office. The detective on my case finally told me nothing was going to be done. My rapist got away with it and it was not for lack of trying on my part or my detectives part. It was very disheartening. Before I reported I thought I had so much to fear about this very result. After reporting and NOTHING coming of my case (likely due to lack of physical evidence since I did not report for over a year after escaping my rapist) I wasn't near as destroyed as I thought I would be. I was proud of myself. I was upset too but, now it is on record, my side of the story. If anyone else EVER comes forward my story will help them find justice.  My fears about reporting were valid and many survivors know what I am talking about. In America rapists get away with it too often, or their sentences are never enough. The threat we face socially by reporting are not near as life threatening as our minds try to tell us.
However in other countries like Bangladesh for example, they give women who report being raped a "two-finger test"   According to The 2010 HRW Report entitled “Dignity on Trial”,  the two-fingered test is  descried as the following..."The finger test is supposed to assess whether girls and women are 'virgins' or 'habituated to sexual intercourse'." Can you imagine the humiliation?

In Cambodia if you're going to rape just make sure you have your checkbook if you get caught. Cambodia Amnesty International  did a report Breaking the Silence – Sexual Violence in Cambodia   released in 2010, which examined the situation of sexual violence in Cambodia. The report found that, in the small minority of rapes which are reported, a very common response is for law-enforcement officials, including police and court staff, to arrange extralegal out-of-court 'agreements' between the victim and the perpetrator (or their families), in which the rapist pays a sum of money which is shared between the authorities and the victim (and her family), after which the victim has to withdraw any criminal complaint against the perpetrator, and public prosecutors close the case.

In China, men rape out of boredom and over 70% of them do not suffer any legal repercussions for it.
The United Nations Multi-country Study on Men and Violence

In Denmark just pray you didn't marry a rapist. According to a study by Denmark Amnesty International.  "the definition of rape is very narrow and abusive sexual intercourse that falls outside the boundaries of rape is dealt under several other statutes which explicitly state that the person commits a crime if he engages in "extra-marital sexual intercourse" with the victim, therefore excluding married victims."

Egypt is another place you better hope you do not marry a rapist. While rape is illegal, marital rape is not a crime.  Egypt Center for Women's Rights and others suggestion the number of rape cases is over 200,000 each year.

 In Ethiopia if you are married, it's likely you're married to a rapist. Ethiopia is the home of marriage by abduction. Men kidnap girls as young as 11 years old, hide them and rape them until they become pregnant. Meet Melu Mika her story is all too common in her country. At 13years old (in 2007) she had already been forced into marriage twice.

In India rape is the most common crime against women. It is estimated a new rape case is filed every 20-22 minutes there. How many more cases are going UN-reported? According to the Criminal Law Amendment Act 2013  Penile and non-penile penetration in bodily orifices of a woman by a man, without the consent of the woman, constitutes the offense of rape. Before 2013 rape cases had doubled between 1990 and 2008.

 In Mexico before the millennium, rape penalties were reduced if (in the eyes of law) the victim "provoked" their attacker. Laws have since changed but, it's been a slow process. Mexico is still heavily plagued with rape cases within the catholic church organization and gang rapes.

In Nigeria, marital rape is NOT illegal.

Pakistan is NO place for women especially if they are alone. In 2013 the Council of Islamic Ideology   dismissed DNA evidence submitted in rape cases and without witnesses it was not rape.

The United Nations Multi-country Study on Men and Violence in Papua New Guinea did a study and found 71% of the men participants reported raping because they felt a sense of sexual entitlement.

South Africa holds the highest incidences of child and infant rape in the world. Authorities believe the amount of unreported child and infant rapes is ten times higher than the 67,000  reported cases in 2000 alone. IRIN The humanitarian news organization says an estimated 500,000 rapes are committed annually in South Africa.

Sweden holds the highest number of reported incidence in all of Europe.

Tanzania rape statistics look much like those here in the U.S. 92% of perpetrators in reported cases knew the victim.

Turkey is full of victim shaming mentality. It is a commonly shared view that the way a woman dresses temps men to rape her.

In the United Kingdom rape is not seen as a gender neutral crime. It is a man committing an act of sexual violence against another human being. In other words women are incapable of rape.
According to a study done by a British Crime Survey in 2006-07 only 1 in every 100 reported rape cases led to a conviction.

Finally here at home in the United States where there is a rape allegation in the news almost daily no matter where in the country you live. Here are the stats form the U.S. Bureau of Justice :

• From 1995 to 2010, the estimated annual rate of female rape or sexual assault victimizations declined 58%, from 5.0 victimizations per 1,000 females age 12 or older to 2.1 per 1,000.
• In 2005-10, females who were age 34 or younger, who lived in lower income households, and who lived in rural areas experienced some of the highest rates of sexual violence.
• In 2005-10, the offender was armed with a gun, knife, or other weapon in 11% of rape or sexual assault victimizations.
• In 2005-10, 78% of sexual violence involved an offender who was a family member, intimate partner, friend, or acquaintance

 Also see stats from RAINN.ORG

I write all of these facts because it is important for us to see rape is worldwide and very much alive.
It is not hiding in dark corners of the world, it's happening in parks in broad daylight. It's happening in your backyard and even in some of your homes.  It's happening to those you love. For some it's happened to YOU. I understand why rape goes so under reported. I applaud those who do report and support those who can't bring themselves to do so.

I know this is the not the "sexy" or appealing thing to say but, this is my blog so I'm saying it.
It is my opinion, that until we become a society that would rather side with the alleged victim who "cried wolf", instead of being wrong about a rapist, we will not see rape rates lowered a great deal. Rape culture will prevail until this happens.

Rape is NOT gender neutral, it is not something that happens only to the poor or poorly dressed.
Rapist are NOT hiding in the dark, they are hiding out in the open. Rapists are in our justice systems protecting each other. Rape is not a 3rd world country problem it's a human race problem.

This is the truth.

We matter.

I started this blog over a year ago as a place to work out my recovery from my lifetime for abuse and incest. I have gone from promising myself I would take my deep dark secrets to my grave, to sharing my truths with the world.
I was abused by my father on nearly every level throughout my life. I was instrumentally raped by a half brother at a very young age for several years. As an adult I was a rape victim by more than one attacker. I was also once again an incest rape victim, but this time by my father's first cousin for over a year.

My life has been complicated and messy for most of my existence.
When my mother was given the truth time and again her response each time was to blame me.
My mother believed I was an over sexed child and she was in denial about how or why. She never called me over sexed but, it is the term she meant when she called me flirtatious and sinful.

I believed everything that had happened to me growing up was my fault. I believed my mother, that I was a bad child, an over sexed child. I believed I was at fault for being molested, raped, verbally and physically abused throughout my life. I believed I brought shame on my family when I talked about it and it was also my fault. I did not believe I had any value or rights to my own life.
My body was at the mercy of whomever was strong enough to bully it. My mind was under the control of whomever frightened me enough to over power me. I have lived a pathetic existence.
My family has all but disowned me and made sure to let me know my separation from them was on me. I have been told that I need to move on and stop talking about the past.
I need to stop punishing my parents for what others did to me.(Because, yeah, they had no part in abusing me.... oh wait, that's right... they DID.) I am being selfish by telling the world about what happened instead of my family. (Who wouldn't listen to what I had to say anyway.)
My family could accuse me of  being selfish, manipulative, over sexed, shameful etc and get away with it, only IF I didn't matter. They could use me as the scapegoat who doesn't matter. They could throw all of their denial soaked lies about me to the world but, the problem with that is... I do in fact matter.
I would have no right to tell my story, if I did not matter.
I would have no right to hug, listen to and shed tears with other survivors if only... I did not matter.
I would be shaming my family if it were not for the one simple fact.... I DO MATTER.
My story matters, the truth about my life matters.

I have started the journey of recovery in large part because of my husband and son. My marriage matters. My son matters and I want to be a better me, for them.
One of the biggest steps that I have had to repeat time and again is learning that I have value and I matter too.
 I know my family will be back with more accusations against me for speaking out about my life and truth, because in their eyes I don't matter. It would be easier for them if I was gone. It has been easier for them to not have me around back home.

I matter and my dear fellow survivors, you matter too.
Tell your story, let go of your secrets, embrace recovery and a new, better you.

It's My Day

It has been a while since my last post.

Sometimes it is good to take a break and figure some things out.
Healing is sometimes much like a revolving door; only it is a revolving door that can act as an elevator taking you up and down as you circulate once again through the same hurts and trials.
Sometimes I feel like I am going through the same old hurts, only each time it's a different level or perspective. Like I said, a revolving door that also acts like an elevator and I am still going up (or down) while going through old trials again and again... that is what healing can feel like.
I guess what I am trying to say is, that is how my life has felt and why I have not posted in a while.
I have been dealing with things I thought I had healed only to discover another part that needed more work and healing.

One of these things is resentment. Honestly, resentment is a choice until it reaches a certain point and then it feels like it takes over. I have plenty of reasons to feel resentful. At the end of the day though, I cannot ignore the fact that all those things, are things that I can change now.  
 For example, I grew up home schooled and by home schooled I mean, past third grade, I taught myself everything I know. My parents failed in educating me. I was pulled from public school because my mother felt God had called her to home school all of her children.
Here's the thing, IF you really believe God calls you to do something then you should sell out and do it or tell Him, "uh sorry, you got the wrong one." Because I promise you, God did not call you to take the first step, stop and then say, "Okay, it's yours now I did my part."
This is exactly what my parents did. They took all of the kids that were in school out and the younger kids started kindergarten at home. I was a social butterfly. I had friends, I loved my teachers and most of all I LOVED learning. I was an honor roll student and aspired to stay an honor roll student with perfect attendance forever...well, until I was to graduate high school anyway. 
 When my parents pulled me from school I was depressed for months. I cried a lot because I missed school and my friends. I had to teach myself and it seemed the biggest lesson I learned was, you don't know what you don't know.  My father used this quote all the time but, did nothing to change it for me.
He had an education, my father. He had a degree and opportunities growing up, yet did not provide the same for his kids. My mother barely made it out of high school. Aside from my parents education or lack thereof, neither of them possessed the will power to teach us. My mother read us books and had a wipe off board that she wrote scriptures or lessons on to leave up for days at a time. We took trips to local small town museums and this was extent of our education. There was never a consistent routine and whenever my grandparents called upon us for help at the ranch, we dropped whatever we were doing to go. This lack of structure was problematic for me. I am not a personality type who does well without structure and routine. All this to say that my upbringing has given me great insecurity.  When I "graduated" (was old enough to say I was done with high school.) I immediately went into the work force. I tried later to go to college. Actually, I went to college successfully, sort of,  despite being self taught and lacking any actual math skills. Truth is, I took a remedial math class at a community college. I failed it twice. My math instructor spent HOURS with me in her office teaching and tutoring me. She was so patient and encouraging but, when it came test time, I would freeze.  She told me she could tell it was psychological. She said it looked like I was waiting for someone to hit me for giving the wrong answer. She was right, I was frozen in fear at the memory of my fathers voice calling me stupid. This has left me extremely resentful.

Someday I want to be an inspiring leader, not just to my fellow survivors but to people everywhere.
I have always felt I need a formal education for success like that. Maybe my measurement of what it takes to become successful is wrong. However, there is no denying that a good education never hurts.
I am facing a dilema of sorts in my life. I want to be something great but, I am so used to taking the path of least resistance, what I call the less scary way. I am afraid to go back to school and fail remedial math again. I am afraid to try and pick something to be in life. I fear being locked in and unhappy. I am good at many things and with even a little bit of education I could be the best at something. My confidence is all but shot though. I have to admit that I don't believe in myself to make it through school. I have been too prideful to admit my fears and failures. It has been EASY to say I just did not have the finances to go to school.

So, here I am facing more effects from the lack of education that was NOT my fault --and I say it in the past tense because now I am an adult and it is on me to fight and get an education or not. I can continue with my training as a nurse aide and try to be content with that and being a good wife and mom. There is nothing wrong with that if I choose that and no one would fault me for it. Yet, inside my heart of hearts... there is a hope in me that cries for more. It's been stifled for too long by fear and pride. I have let resentment steal enough of what I could have someday been.

It is a new year, more than that it is a new day. It's my day. I get to choose my routine and structure. It is my day to learn how to use a calculator. It is my day to learn how to read a face clock. It is my day to take a baby step and set a goal.

Survivors, it's so easy to choose resentment because it is less scary than facing forgiveness. There is no shame if you are not ready to go there yet. The only shame is if we choose to stay in our resentment and let it steal from us even one more moment from who we COULD someday be. I can not sit here typing this and lead you to believe that I forgive my parents for my lack of education. I don't.
I do however, forgive myself for being prideful and afraid all this time about it.
It's my day.

Male Abuse Awareness

What if you one day noticed a change in your son's behavior? He was suddenly quiet and kept to himself more than usual? Maybe your son started actng out, and it seemed out of the blue one day he just became angry? What if your precious baby boy could no longer be reached by your words and love?
My son is two and when I look at him and think about the fact he is on the cusp of the same age I was when first abused.... it kills me. As a mother, I would die for him. I can barely handle the thought of my son ever being bullied without tears. I have posted before about teaching my son word power as a step in preventing him from being abused by others. It is a step in the right direction and it is important. I always remember... abuse can happen to ANYONE.
My husband, a leader and strong personality was himself once a victim of rape. As a child someone decided they had more power over him and took advantage. Although he suffered no pain that he can remember it does not make him any less a victim.
It is hard to talk about abuse and sexual assault on women and children.
It is much harder to talk about sexual abuse to men. So often, society reads and hears about women and children being abused. It has sadly become all too common on the daily news.

This week is national male abuse awareness week. It is time to give the guys a chance, for help, healing and hope.
On November 25th Patricia Mcknight, Butterfly Talk Radio host interviewed Mr. Philip Paris
an author along with several others to discuss the topic of male survivors.

I am a sexual abuse survivor and have grown accustomed to telling my story and sharing with other women in their story of survivorship. I must admit though, the prospect of discussing male abuse, sexual or otherwise, makes me uncomfortable. All the more reason to talk about it. Male abuse effects me and if you think it does not effect you, think again.  It is time to help raise awareness for this and the generations to come. If you know a male abuse survivor the following are a few links to help both you and your survivor.

P. Luna Foundation

http://help4guys.org/

http://www.malesurvivor.org/

http://www.naasca.org/2011-Articles/120111-MaleAbuseAwarenessWeek-NAASCA.htm

Fellow Survivor, Author of the Year

Fellow survivors,
In a previous post, I encouraged victims to tell their story to someone. Today, I want to share with you about wonderful soul who found the courage to tell her story.

Her name is Patricia McKnight she is an Advocate, Author, Speaker, Blogger, Writer and fellow Survivor/Warrior. Basically she is a renaissance warrior super hero.
Okay, well, that's what I am calling her anyway.
She grew up in a nightmare at the hands of her step father an abusive, child molester and rapist. In her self published book My Justice, Patricia tells about her childhood and how she survived. She shares about her struggles even into adult and the hardships she suffered. I have read her book and found it to be an amazing example of survivor truths. It is never too late to tell, heal and help others.

Patricia is the founder and CEO of a not-for-profit blog talk radio called Butterfly Dreams. "Butterfly Dreams Talk Radio, a community outreach broadcast production of Butterfly Dreams Abuse Recovery." According to their website they help victims, survivors, family and communities dealing with violence, abuse and/or trafficking.
As you can see Ms. McKnight is not only telling her story and truths she is helping others find their voice and get help. I would like to ask fellow survivors who can, to help our friend by sharing on any of our social media outlets the following link. This will help in making Patricia Author Of The Year . Please share this link with the hashtag #Marsocial , each share will help spread the word about Patricia's book, work and give her a vote for this competition. There is not limit to how many times you can share/vote.
Let's make noise and show the world what survivors and warriors are capable of.
Join me in helping others through the work of Patricia McKnight.
Thanks everyone!

Find Your Courage

 Survivors will never forget that first time they told their truth. I remember the first time I called what happened to me rape. I could not even say the word. I am so glad someone heard me and protected me... FINALLY.

If you or someone you know, needs help check out RAINN .

I believe in you. I support and encourage you.

I Know the Reason

I know the reason.

As a child it was always my place to sleep closest to the bedroom door.
I know the reason.

I remember watching the light under the door it would keep me up late so many nights. Light at night gives some form of stress. Will I see the light break tonight as he steps into my door way?
I know the reason.

At night I wake up when I hear footsteps. I remember listening for them as a child. Were they headed to the bathroom, the kitchen, or my bedroom?
I know the reason.

Hearing someone breathing on me at night especially if their nose whistles grates my nerves.
I know the reason.

Night never means rest, it means waiting. It means exhausting myself with tension, fear and feelings of impending doom until I fall asleep. That's how it's been most of my life.
I know the reason.

Falling asleep in my closet, under my bed, outside in the shed, anywhere but in bed, in the spot closest to the door was a crime.
I know the reason.

Hands with leather work gloves remind me of him and my blood boils.
I know the reason.

The feeling of his chest up against me from behind, as he would squeeze me until I was in so much pain and out of breath I'd collapse, brings tears to my eyes to remember.
I know the reason.

Mommy Issues

It's a common label society has given to women who choose to live provocative lives. "She's got Daddy issues."

You know if she is swinging from a pole, selling her body or is just complicated... She must have daddy issues.

I want to know where the "mommies" are in these girls lives?

Where are the mothers who raised these trifling, sad, crazy, lonely and every other label society blankets them with, women? 

Where are the moms whose daughters run away from their abusive fathers, cousins and uncles? Where are the moms who live in the very same house with their child's rapists as abusers? 

Where is their sight? Where is their voice? Where is her will to survive or fight for her child?

Every Mother's day and Birthday these past few years have been bittersweet.
I used spend this day having "Girl Time" with my mother, sister and Nanny.
We would go out to eat and spend the day doing whatever Mom and Nanny wanted usually.
I remember one year Mom and Nanny were going to a conference for the weekend. My sister and I worked hard to clean the house and cook so when mom got home she would have nothing to stress about and everyone would be taken care of.
Now, I spend these kind of days trying to enjoy and be thankful for what I do have but, at some point something will remind me "You don't have a mother anymore." Not because she is dead... no, she is very much alive. She just chose a rapist over me.

 There were times growing up that I believed I was close to my mom. She never hit me, once she broke her last wooden spoon on my rear end that's it. She didn't have to rule me with an iron fist. She didn't have one anyway. She knew she could count on me to take care of chores and organizing school or office work because eventually I would get sick of seeing it all piled up. I was a caregiver so I was counted on to care for any and all that were ill, be it human or animal.
She loved it when I would "nest" and have one room in the house tore apart because it was my "project" I had this drive to tear up a room and clean it out, reorganize and throw away junk.
I don't know that I enjoyed the renovating of a disgusting, cluttered, overloaded room so much as I enjoyed the feeling of it being clean afterwards. I had a knack for sorting, organizing, stacking, filing,
cleaning and even throwing away things that my mother did not.
My parents were hoarders.  My father collected old tractors, machinery, tools etc. My mother collected books, papers, clutter etc.  Add to this laundry for 9 people and various farm pets in and out of the house and it could get nasty, fast.
My mother knew the house needed to be cleaned but, she really had no idea how to handle and run a house that operated like grand central station, only the trains never had a schedule.
She was overwhelmed, had no ambition to conquer the place and part of me believes I helped enable this whether I meant to or not.
If I went to cleaning and taking on a project room my mother was so kind and close to me. She would fuss about what a wonderful job I was doing. She sat on her computer bragging to her friends about it. She would get inspired and cook a meal or tend to the ever growing piles of dishes and laundry.
When I was done, the house had a wonderful peacefulness that lasted for a day or two.
As a result when the house's chronic angers seemed more than I could handle my one of two escapes was destroying and redoing a room in the house.
Whatever room I cleaned and organized, was sat in and enjoyed as the new family room. We would all gather in that room and spend time teasing each other, playing games  and pretending we were all comedians.
Mother loved this. She loved watching us all interact and laughing together.
She knew she could count on me to have a cleaning spurt, get tired of living in filth and clean.
I wonder if at times she relied on these spurts to give her happiness. She wanted her children to all get along and love each other. She wanted to have a clean house but had no idea how to do it or at least that is what she claimed. She said her own mother did all the house work when she was growing up so she had no idea how to keep a house.
When I think of my mother, I think of a short, stout built woman who sat at her computer or on the phone with friends and felt she deserved a reward for every load of laundry or dishes she did.

I kind of resent her. I wanted her to enjoy me for me. I know she didn't because she told me that I was "the girl in school everyone hated" and she did not know how she could raise such a person. I was loud, bossy and got results (AKA my way) she loved and hated that about me.
She did not like to fight or argue with me. I was defensive and could be an antagonist if I felt I could make it work for me. I studied my mother and her guilt trips. I learned which of her threats were just that and when she really meant it. I also knew that with my mother I could make her crazy angry in the morning and win back her love and affection if I did the house work and left her alone long enough to cool off.

 I had to take care of my father when he got home from work. Fix him a drink, serve his dinner plate, pull off his boots and make sure the remote was near so he could watch the news. Taking care of mom consisted of cleaning for her. When my mother was sick I was the caretaker. I remember my mother being so sick for so long once that I was scared she was going to die. She refused to go to the doctor. Friends begged her to go and I volunteered daily to help her get cleaned up and take her myself. I was so afraid for her and so mad at her and my father for letting her stay that way.  She spent three weeks in bed or on the recliner in the living room. I cried in my room at night begging God to not let her die. "I can't live with him without her, he's already mean and he will only get worse without her." I said in my prayer. I baked bread and made at least one meal everyday.  I had to iron for my father.  I had to listen for her whimpers from the living room. I was only 15-16 at the time and still had to go to the ranch with my brothers to help feed and care for the cattle.  I tried to hide my fear of waking up one morning to discover she was dead.

To this day, I resent her for that. Our roles were reversed too often when I was growing up. I believed for so many years I had to protect her. I had to take care of her.
When I moved out, I barely heard from her. Often when I finally did call her she would complain that I always called at the worst time. I would go months without hearing from her. I spent several years being in torment over missing her and still being angry with her for my childhood. I wanted her and my father to divorce so I could take care of her and maybe she could love me then.
I shed tears even now, writing this because I miss her and yet I am so angry with her.
I believed I could've let go of all these things and have her in my life with a healthy relationship between us IF she had simply not chosen a rapist over me.
This choice she made, is the straw that broke the camels back. It is too late for us to ever be reconciled because of this.

I don't swing from poles, struggle with addiction or have any diagnosis on paper that says "She is Crazy".  I don't judge anyone who finds themselves with these life choices or burdens either. I am complicated, stubborn, hard to love even.  I know what it's like to have "Daddy issues" and I am also painfully aware of my "Mommy issues". Sometimes I feel mothering is all I am good for and yet, it is the one thing I am the most insecure about. I constantly question what message my two year old is getting from me? Does he ever feel like he has to make me happy? Does he feel like he has to protect me? Does he think he has to perform for my life and affection? I have Mommy issues and Mother issues.

 The hard truth now is. It's no longer my Mother's fault. She is gone and this is my burden now.

Abandoning The Family

I am not built like a man in any way. Fact is, most third graders in America probably outweigh me.
Suffice to say I am a twig of a human being physically. This fact never stopped me from attempting to work like a man though. On my grandparents ranch I saddled my horse all by myself as early as I can remember. I got in the sorting pens amongst 300 plus pound weaning steers and heifers and herded them with the cowboys.  I  have had my share of herds turning on me in the pens and running me over.  I have had my share of being rammed by a full grown 2,000 lb cow up against a fence, the ground, and a truck door.
I have been stepped on, sat on, ran into, throw off of, and kicked by both horses and cattle more times than I can remember. However, even with all these "hazards of the job" I still found myself in love with horses and caring about the welfare of the cattle.
Nothing brought me more joy than the birth of a new calf or foal (baby cow or horse). I have witnessed this miracle literally hundreds of times in my short life and every time is still just as awe provoking as the last.

As I got older my grandmother turned over the responsibility of how the cattle were handled and worked to my father.
When Grandma was in charge we hired help to come out twice a year with horses and spend 3-4 days rounding up cattle. We would cut out the old cows who were beyond calving years, trade bulls to different pastures and take down all numbers for my grandma's records. We weaned, vaccinated, castrated, and de-horned 500-800 head of cattle in each round up.  I rode across the 1,000 acres jumping creeks, swimming on horse back across ponds, getting bush whacked by buck brush and headed off a stray cow as best as my horse and I could.
I perfected my riding skills on these huge round ups and learned a lot about cattle and horse psychology.
As mentioned earlier my grandmother handed over the responsibility of these rounds up to my father.
He decided we did not need as much help and our green broke (poorly trained or newly trained) horses were enough to bring in the herds. He made me learn how to do all the castrating of the young bull calves so they could be sold as steers to the meat market.
I learned how to knotch ears, give vaccines, burn off horns, castrate bulls, deliver calves and more. I learned how to do it all by myself.
I learned how to operate the hydraulic chute (a metal box that holds the cattle still to be worked on) and I ran it well.
I had 4 brothers and a sister around at the time to help but none of them knew the whole system the way I did.
One afternoon during one of our "family only" round ups there was a cow in the sorting pens. She needed to be brought through the chute and checked. She was not one of our shorter red  Limousine cattle (breed of cow). She was a much wider black Belgian cross. Basically, she was a big cow even for our chute and putting her through it was a risk.
On ranches it is a common practice to use shock sticks. They are a battery powered long stick that ranch hands use to "shock" a cow if they refuse to move or even at times get "stuck" in a corner.  Cattle are so deeply herd minded they act blind or really stupid when they are being chased or driven and they will go in circles or stand in corners acting like they can't even see the direction they are being pushed or herded towards. When this happens a "bite" or "shock" is usually used to bring them out of it. However, the shock stick is over used often and can drive cattle over fences and make them charge too.
This wide black cow had made it into the chute and while she was being worked on she laid down in the chute. Cattle sometimes collapse under stress in tight spaces and that is what happened with this cow. My father grabbed the shock stick and repeatedly shocked the cow to get her to jump up. This is a great example of how this stick is misused. Like a tazer on a human beings the over use of shocking can cause the heart to act up and causes great distress in the body.
The cow was bawling and my father grew more angry the more he shocked her and she refused to get up. He beat on her, twisted her tail and shocked her more.
I finally screamed. I remember jerking the stick from his hand and yelling at him to stop it.
His eyes were wild and furious. I saw him clench his jaw and stare at me thinking of what to do next.
I couldn't stop my mouth now. I spent all day riding hard, getting knocked around, kicked and more. Between getting hungry and begging my mother to come pick me up early so I could leave (for what I don't remember anymore) I was spent. My filter was off and I just remember emptying my guts of things I wanted to yell at him for a long time. I returned his "You're so stupid" right to his face and at the top of my lungs I just kept yelling. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS! SHE'S DOWN, SHE'S STUCK! NO AMOUNT OF SHOCKING HER WILL GET HER UP!" This was, I am pretty sure, the cleanest of what I said and the only thing that made sense coming out of my mouth. I remember telling him we had to widen the chute and kick out the bottom board to get her up. He refused to listen and grabbed a regular board and busted it across her nose. She bellowed deep, and blood ran from her nostrils. I saw her eyes in a panic.  More yelling and shouting took place and finally I kicked out the board myself. It was a miracle in a way. I am and was so tiny. The board was a actually a short heavy metal wall and with a cow laying up against it, getting it out should have been hard to say the least. I was furious and my adrenaline was up. After kicking out the board the cow jumped up and took several deep breaths and bellowed real deep again. Then I looked at my father and yelled "I TOLD YOU LARRY!" 
It was an unspoken rule in the house not to call him by his first name. I had just broken that rule and I had no remorse.
This final outburst of rebellion was too much for him. He had held his tongue in front of my siblings and knew he was wrong, but there was no way I was going to get away with this. He swung at me and I dodged it. He then rose his hand up in the air positioning it to back hand me to the ground. I was still on an adrenaline rush and my eyes met his. I stepped closer into the swing and said "DO IT!"
He was caught off guard and hesitated. I took another step towards him and then in a very calm deep voice I said "It will be your last time."
My brothers were all witnessing this act of defiance and waited in fear and expectation of his next move.
I don't know if they were hoping to jump on him if he hit me or, if they were just as shocked about my blatant disrespect as he was and thinking I deserved whatever happened next.
What happened next was so strange (compared to other times) but, I was so glad it happened.
My father clenched his jaw more and straightened his body and dropped his hand from the air. He then took his index finger and pointed it right in my face and started yelling "You're a disrespectful brat, you are not helping anyone here. Leave and abandon us like you always do!"
Tears were welling up in my eyes from all the stress and the ever dropping rush of adrenaline. I turned and lifted my head as I "abandoned" my family in the barn and met mom at the car. I had tears in my eyes and she knew there had been a "disagreement" she was angry at ME for being the cause and being a brat "just running away from your responsibilities" she said.
I said nothing all the way home and left the house in my own car as soon as I got cleaned up.

I did eventually leave the family and "abandoned" them. It would take a couple more years before I cut them out of my life completely. I hold no regrets about this decision.

You Disgust Me. - Verbal Abuse

"You disgust me!"

Words from my father.

He said these words during an argument. It started out with me being late getting home from church of all places. Wednesdays were my one guaranteed escape from home each week. I was a member of the youth group worship team. I sang in the band and loved being with my youth group.
It's strange looking back. I was so odd and goofy. I was the home schooled, plain looking, awkward acting girl. I thought everyone there was my friend and I was completely clueless when one of the "cool girls" would ignore me or attempt to make fun of me.
I didn't know any better. Maybe this was a mercy from God for my already ridiculously low self esteem.

Growing up I always dressed very plain. My clothes were all hand me downs, worn out, outdated and sometimes just downright sad looking.  I dressed in rockies jeans, cowgirl boots and wore my hair  down to my waist. I usually pulled it up in a pony tail or wrapped it around in a bun that grew lager and larger each year. In the summer I wore t-shirts with the same jeans and boots and in the winter I wore frumpy sweaters and a jacket on top of it all.
I had big thin rimmed glasses. I was a poster child for sad looking nerd girls everywhere.
When I joined my youth group I learned how to dress more like a girl. I learned how to wear jewelry, sneakers, high heels, make up (which mostly consisted of lip gloss and blush). I was transforming in every way.
My father hated this. He hated my exposure to "worldly" vanities that "poisoned" even the youth group.  He hated my longing to be around my peers.  He hated that I was a social butterfly even for the awkward ignorant mess I was. He was proud of the fact I could sing but, he hated that it was not under his direction and tutelage.
 It was a constant battle between us about my involvement at church and neglecting home chores and family loyalty. He enjoyed finding ways to stop me from going on youth trips and outings. I was allowed my Wednesdays out of the house but, I was to be home by 9:30 and call if I was to be even a minute late. I believe this was the only the reason I was allowed out. It presented a golden opportunity to ground me or deal any punishment he felt.

I had signed up to go on a trip with the youth group and go ski for spring break.
An adult in the church had volunteered to sponsor my way and I had even saved money to have for meals and extra things. I did have to pay part of the fee for the trip and it was already done. My father had paid it and I was going. I was going, until this night anyway.
I was late getting home. I was just over 10 minutes late and this had been my 3rd week in a row being late at all. Upon opening the front door I saw both of my parents sitting in the living room, waiting for me. There was no escaping past them. It was Wednesday and I was just a week from the ski-trip.
My mother started with something about how I was acting irresponsible and this was my 3rd strike.
My father sat in the corner with this hands together and his index fingers sticking up resting on his mustache. He was glaring at me just waiting for the perfect moment to strike with harsh words to cut me to the core.
I explained to my mother that worship lasted late after service and that the buses to take kids home had barely left before me. I told her to call my youth pastor and ask. She continued to tell me it did not matter because nothing I was saying made any sense. They both argued with me and accused me of staying late and talking to boys in the parking lot in the dark.
They said I was causing the church a lot of trouble by doing this and if someone got hurt for any reason it was my fault. The church would have a liability issue (my father was an insurance man... everything was a liability issue) because of me and my being irresponsible and disobedient.
 Things escalated, there was yelling, accusations, tears (from me, while my father laughed) and then finally these words from my father "You just always have to be so belligerent and stupid! You disgust me!"
I was speechless... I knew I made him mad all the time and being called stupid was not new... "belligerent" was just his fancy Christian was of saying I was a pain in the ass. Truth be told I always felt he thought I was disgusting but, something about hearing him actually say it pained me deeply.
With that, I left the room.
I put on my pajamas, cried and then I was called back into the living room.
At first I just stayed in my room with my sister who was ignoring what was going on.
Then a knock on my bedroom came and one of my brother's yelled "Mom and Dad want you back in the living room NOW!" I got up and slowly made my way back to the living room with my head down.
I stood in the threshold that separated the living room from the kitchen. I crossed my arms and leaned up against the frame and asked "What?" (with all the charm of a teenager in full on angst and shut down mode.) "Sit down on the couch." My father directed with authority and sarcasm.
He took at deep breath and said "You just keep breaking the rules, you're always the one who has to break the rules and make everything harder for everybody. You're too stubborn." I didn't bother to stand up for myself and try to plead innocent anymore... their minds were made up. I was guilty and disgusting. He continued "I have decided as your father that you are not going on any trips and you're grounded for a month, you will not be going anywhere. Especially on some youth trip escapade. You can't be trusted." Naturally this sparked a rage within me and I glared at him with a fire in my eyes. He knew he had me and just to let me know he could manipulate me any way he wanted he said "Pepper, I love you."  with sarcasm, and evil pouring from his mouth, the words made me sick. To this day I do not know how I did not fly up off that couch and snap.
I just broke down and cried more. I had no words, no fight, no will. He found me disgusting and telling me he loved me was just a power play. Who could love disgusting? He never said he loved unless there was a fight. He had no apology for telling me I was disgusting, because it was true.
 This time of my father telling me he loved me, was one of less than five times in my life he ever said these words to me. 
It was silent and after what seemed an hour of silence I mustered up the words "Can I go now?"
I was dismissed and went to my room.  I spent the night in tears and kept trying to think of ways I could possibly win back my freedom. "You're so stupid Pepper, you don't think, you just act like a foolish idiot and that's how you end up like this because you're stupid!" I told myself.
I hated myself and my anger shifted from my father on to me.
I managed to work extra hard at chores and win back my previous privilege of going to youth but,  there was no chance of me ever getting to go on a youth trip. I was stupid, irresponsible and untrustworthy.

I will never forget my youth pastor coming up to me the following week in youth group and hugging me and telling me he was "so sorry". I was shocked and didn't know how to respond to this gesture. Why was he sorry? I was the stupid screw up. He was the first person (besides my grandma nanny) to cultivate my singing abilities and took me under his wing. I had let him down in my mind.

This was just one of the MANY episodes with my father tearing me apart verbally.

Abuse disgusts me.

That First Time

As suvivors, many of us remember "the first time."

I am not talking about our first (for some if ever) consenting, romantic, true love making time.

I am talking of the first time we were attacked, penetrated, violated and used.

I barely remember it. I know it was done by a finger. At least that is the first time I can recall with such detail. I remember the pain in my vagina for days after. I remember it burned to pee. I also remember I was less that 4 years old. The first time I remember most was a time my brother coaxed me to his room after I had gotten out of the bath tub. This wasn't new for him to do. It was a game, sometimes he had a treat other times he just wanted trick me into coming in his room so he could smack me.  If I called out to tattle it was my fault for being in his room.

This time however he told me to close the door behind me. I was only wearing underpants and my towel. He told me to lay down. I obeyed, he started taking off my underpants.  This brother 13ish years old (oldest brother and only half sibling) had changed my diaper before and had seen all my "parts" so it really did not register with me that he was demanding anything inappropriate of me, at least not up to this point when he removed my underpants. I started to sit up, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the squirmy toddler in me, maybe I was uncomfortable and was trying to protest without words. He shushed me and told me to lay down and swore he wouldn't hurt me. This was always a warning phrase. "I swear I'm not gonna hurt you." It really meant "Oh yeah, I am definitely going to hurt you but, it will be an 'accident' and you won't die."

The next thing I know my vagina is being brutally penetrated by his index finger and he is leveraging it with great pressure in an attempt to stretch out my vaginal opening. I wince in pain and try not to cry even though the lump in my throat is nearly choking me. I start shaking my head side to side to cope with this great pain in my private parts and not make to much noise to avoid being punched or getting in trouble with mom and dad. 

 Finally, it was more than I could bare I started crying and whining "it hurts." He quickly pushes his finger in deeper and down harder and then exits my vagina. 

He shushes me more and uses my underpants to wipe off his finger and tell me to get dressed and not to tell or he will kill me in my sleep. 

I ran to the bathroom, naked. I felt like I had pee and that my guts were going to fall out my private parts. 

I sat on the toilet crying for a few minutes and couldn't pee. I gave up and blew my now runny nose from crying and went to my room to put on my pajamas.

For days my private parts burned and I fussed about taking a bath. It was written off as me being a brat and nothing more. My oldest brother had gone back to his father's for the week and all was forgotten. My mother was either pregnant or busy with yet another new baby it seemed all the time. Before school age it was always my older brother (not the abusing half brother) and my sister (13mo younger than me). We were the "3 big kids" we took care of ourselves and each other. My older brother poured milk or juice for me and my sister because he was oldest (of the 3) and steady. I poured cereal and pretty much did everything for my sister. Dress her, help her put her shoes on the right foot etc. We had our own little world during weekdays. On weekends our half brother came to visit it was hell. We all wanted his attention and approval. The boys shared a room and I recall hearing a lot of thumps and thuds at night.

My brother continued molesting and instrumentally raping me. The memories and nightmares haunt me. There are times I remember in great detail, and times that are a blur. 

I remember he used rubber spatulas and repeated his previous practice of enlarging my vaginal opening with penetration and pressure. Once he even used a batman figurine (and no one understood why I was never a fan). 

That and the penguin freaked me out in the movie.

I've written in a previous blog about him forcing me to sip his urine from an Easter egg shell. 

He loved drawing me in with attention and gifts (candy, cheap coin machine toys etc.) and then inflicting some kind of horrible pain.

I also have expressed in a previous blog about how this early sexual abuse wasn't always painful. Sometimes it tickled, or I felt nothing at all. I struggled for years with guilt, shame and fear that should have never been put on me. 

He forced me to lick the bottom of his shoe once (which he had stepped in dog crap with earlier that day) just to humiliate me in front of my siblings. 

He loved that. He loved making me feel like he was about to finally accept me into his circle and then tear me down. 

I wanted his approval so badly, and had  no idea how out of balance and wrong these "expirements" were.  This was the beginning of abuse in my life. From three years old and on I was abused in different ways. 

 I look back on it all today with anger and even sadness. I know my brother was being sexually abused but, I no longer accept it as an excuse. My brother swears that he has no recollection but, I can no longer buy this lie. My parents tried to convince me that they had no clue but, they told on themselves time again with comments made after they allegedly found out. They failed to protect me because they failed to care about me. They failed to care about me because they failed to be parents. Being parents would require they act like human beings and not abusive monsters or neglectful ignorant ones.

My first time should have never happened. Today, for the first time I am completely over it. I am also completely over everyone who was once a part of my life that abused me or turned a blind eye to my abuse.

Welcome to a whole new kind of "first time." 

Forgive and Forget

The question is asked so often.

How do we forgive and forget?
This is the most overused and misunderstood religious and non-religious statement used on victims.
It is not even biblical.
Jesus Himself acknowledges the challenge of forgiving.

⁷ “Why does this man speak like that? He is blaspheming! Who can forgive sins but God alone?” ⁸ And immediately Jesus, perceiving in his spirit that they thus questioned within themselves, said to them, “Why do you question these things in your hearts? ⁹ Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Rise, take up your bed and walk’? ¹⁰ But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins”—he said to the paralytic— ¹¹ “I say to you, rise, pick up your bed, and go home.”                                              
                                                                                                             Mark 2:7-11 NLT
There are no scriptures to even support forgetting.
This phrase "Forgive and forget" sounds great (Or does it?) but, it lacks acknowledging the human aspect that makes forgetting, impossible.

 I have gone back and forth with this battle of forgiving and forgetting. 
The truth, I don't think it is healthy for me to forget in the way people want me too.
I cannot forget the abuse, the rapes, the nightmares, the depression and so on.
Even if I COULD forget it... and believe me I want too, I wouldn't. Knowing what happened, remembering it all, drives me. Sometimes it drives me crazy but, mostly it drives me to be proactive for and with other survivors.  
The only time "forgetting" is referenced in regard to anything like forgiveness (and it's not at all referencing forgiveness btw) is when Paul speaks in Philippians. 

¹² I don’t mean to say that I have already achieved these things or that I have already reached perfection. But I press on to possess that perfection for which Christ Jesus first possessed me. ¹³ No, dear brothers and sisters, I have not achieved it,^[a] but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, ¹⁴ I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us.

                                                                                                     Philippians 3:12-16

I do not think Paul is speaking about "Forgive and Forget" I believe he is talking about so much more.

He is forgetting life as he knew it before Christ. He is forgetting things that have tried to hold him down or back. He is not making a fool of himself and forgetting the abuses he endured at the hands of men. He is forgetting any anger etc. he had about it. He is forgetting any forgiveness he withheld from it. That is my personal opinion but, go read it for yourself. Paul admits he has not achieved perfection or arrived. Rather he speaks about shifting his focus to the future and pressing on. He is not speaking about forgive and forget, just his life in general.

It is a misconception that forgiveness is a "ONE AND DONE" deal. It is a process, like healing. It is for YOU not the one you're forgiving. Forgiveness is for everyone... from God, through Jesus yes, even abusers. Is it my job as a Christian to forgive my abusers? No.
It's between God and them if they get forgiveness or not.
I choose instead to focus on my forgiveness with God.
I do not let the momentarily satisfying thoughts of revenge and anger control me or keep me from my forgiveness from God. Instead I trust He keeps me and will continue to do so.
Forgetting is not what it seems. I do not believe it means to forget the transgression against you. I do believe it means to forget the anger and misery that tries to own you. Forget, means to cause your abuser, attacker, monster, nightmare etc.... to lose power over you with the damage they inflicted on you. I believe it means to forget life as you knew it as a victim. I believe it is important to forgive yes, but I won't forget the scars or deeds.

I will however process my anger through forgiveness and forget it.