It's deeply personal. More personal than asking if you can stick your tongue in my nose.
I would say no, by the way.
I'm also not posting this one on facebook. Not yet at least.
Maybe it's something to get off my chest in an effort to fully restore my soul, or maybe to help someone with a similar weight.
Whatever the purpose, it's going to be uncomfortable for all of us. If you want to stop reading after the next sentence, I completely understand.
I was sexually abused as a child.
Thinking about typing those words has caused serious heart palpitations. Typing them is borderline panic attack. I have to keep going though. Whether for myself, or someone else, I still don't know. I'm writing this as fast as my fingers can type on an iPhone.
Did you know I blog 100% from my phone? True story.
Anyway, twice when I was nine years old and once when I was ten, my step dad molested me, for lack of a more eloquent term. I've always hated the word molest. I don't know if it's the stigma attached to its meaning, but the word itself just feels like a travesty to humanity.
I never told anyone until I was 14 and a friend confided in me that she had been abused as well. For years after that, I shoved it so far back into my subconscious that I had no adverse affects in my life. I shoveled so much dirt and buried it so deep.
I was a survivor, but that really wasn't THAT difficult to accomplish.
My mom found out and brought up the idea of pressing charges. At this point I was 19 and wanted nothing more than forget that human had ever existed. Another few shovels of dirt to make sure it stayed down this time.
Then one night, after being married for just a few weeks, it all came back.
Like the walking dead of emotional trauma.
I laid in bed crying. Praying to forget it all again. Begging for it all to just disappear. I clawed at my chest in the dark, trying to feel something, ANYTHING, except the growing pain, fear, and disgust that was overwhelming me.
Poor husband had no idea what was happening. I had never told him because that meant it had to be real. Too many years had been spent pushing and shoving and stomping that notion down.
Now here it was. In my bed. With my husband. And I was paralyzed. He asked me what was wrong and I just couldn't say it. All he wanted to do was help, but even his loving embraces triggered flashbacks and another tidal wave of turmoil. Helpless, he suggested giving me a blessing.
In my church, worthy men are given power from God through the Priesthood. That power can be used to give blessings of healing, comfort, strength, and peace.
Having faith in this power, I agreed and my husband began the blessing. He blessed me to know my Father in heaven loves me and knows me and knows my struggles and my pain. He blessed me to feel that love and to have the peace it carries with it. When the blessing was finished, I finally fell asleep.
The next day, I told husband what was wrong. I expected the head tilt, knitted brow, whimper of sympathy that I detest more than anything. Instead he stared at me for a moment and then asked to give me another blessing. It followed much the same as the one the night before, but it had one key part that shook me.
"I bless you with the ability to forgive."
It's been almost 20 years since that first terrible night, and I have yet to bring that blessing to fruition. I don't know if I ever will, especially since having daughters and seeing their frail innocence and remembering and thinking, "how could you even THINK of it, let alone commit such heinous crimes?!"
I am not perfect, and I'm still a little not ok. But having reached the end of my post, my heart isn't beating wildly in protest and my stomach isn't churning at the thought of revealing such a raw part of my life. So I guess that's a step in the right direction.
Just please, please, please don't pity me. Don't put your hand to your heart and say "oh you poor thing". Don't treat me any differently. This is part of who I am and part of who I've always been. I'm a fighter. I'm strong. And I will do more than survive.
