I remember the hiding. At first, it was behind a curtain in my parents’ apartment bedroom watching the light dance on the floor under my feet as I hugged my knees. I was three years old. Later, it was in books that gave me hope that there was goodness in the world. Then, it was in the forest behind my house, high up in a pine tree whose limbs spiraled like a staircase to the top. I was 11 and pretended to be a National Geographic Explorer far away in some exotic land. Much later, it was the overachieving – through AP classes and extra-curricular activities that kept me busy and absent from home.
For the child who experiences repetitive sexual abuse, the hiding is a form of avoidance from their abuser, a momentary refuge. Still, it is also a shame response to what has occurred to their physical personhood. Their body feels foreign, like a traitor, especially as it blossoms into womanhood. It feels like the proverbial carrot tempting the rabbit, only you don’t want to be a carrot, you just want to be a kid. Kids weren’t meant to think about their bodies being used by someone else because it was “just too irresistible.”
Their bodies are for play, wonder, and exploration. So, you hide. You hide behind a mask of “I’m fine”… “I’m successful”…“I’m the good kid” or so many other coverings. You hide until the mask cracks, the books don’t distract, and the good grades and the busy schedule don’t cancel out the shame. You finally learn that to fight the shame, you must courageously look it in the eye and name what happened. Simply put, you tell the truth. You say it out loud “I was sexually abused by two men during different time frames from the ages of three to eighteen. It was evil. They sinned against me. Therefore, they are to blame. It is their shame, not mine.” Telling the truth has power because it lessens the shame.
The first time I told the truth was to my biological mom when she found my underwear in her bedding. I did not share it with words, but instead within my chest, heaving sobbing tears as she cradled me, her silent tears falling too. It was the last straw for her after suffering years of spousal physical abuse from the drug-peddling, alcohol and drug-addicted man who claimed he loved us all. She also told the truth to social services, and after taking several other factors into consideration, my brother, my sister, and me were placed in foster homes and we were eventually adopted together in a new home.
The second time I told the truth was as a 12-year-old middle schooler. I whispered it to my friend on the playground who maturely knew truth like this was too heavy a load for preteens. She told a teacher. Soon, I found myself telling the truth in greater detail to police officers and a social worker by answering questions and miming with dolls when the shame rose to the top and I couldn’t say it in words. This would soon be my first lesson that telling the truth does not always make the bad thing stop. Telling the truth made some people close to you ashamed and made others whisper when you walked by. I would sit in family court in the late 80s as my adoptive father was sentenced to court-mandated counseling and told he could not live in our home while he “got help” for his “problem.” I realized telling the truth sometimes made you feel guilty for separating your abuser from the rest of his family.
He would come back home after a year and a half. The abuse continued, but I denied it because telling the truth didn’t change him the first time and I didn’t want to feel guilty again. Also, there was always the looming threat that weighed heavy on the shoulders of an adopted oldest child, “If you tell anyone, you, your brother, and your sister will have no home or family.”
The third time I told the truth, I was a sophomore college student. I learned that telling the truth could have a great cost. I was completely disconnected from all of my family, and my tuition was no longer being paid for. I helped the district attorney for my local county bring charges against my dad for his sexual abuse from the ages of 6-18. I had asked him to please go to counseling and get real help, but he said, “ it wasn’t a good time.” To be clear, I did not do so in anger, but because I felt responsible for holding him accountable so he would not do this to any other young girl. I wanted so desperately for him to change and I knew in prison he would have to face what he did in the sexual offender’s program. This is when I learned the lesson that love can look like holding someone accountable for their wrongdoing.
This day in court is the clearest in my memory. I sat on one side with my attorney, a victim witness advocate, and a couple of college friends who had known me for just over a year. I read my victim impact statement with a wavering voice. On my abuser’s side sat several people from the church I grew up in. The church where elderly ladies handed me cards on my birthday with a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze. The church where I heard about the “good shepherd” and my wounded heart longed to be guided by him. The church where I spent my awkward teen years with crushes, pimples, and God’s Word firmly planted in my heart by the most fun youth leader. The church where I was baptized after I came to a saving faith in Jesus Christ. It stung to see no one from that side sit with me. Admittedly, I do not know their motives, but the message my young heart received is that some churches will support abusers, but not the abused. This led to more feelings of shame, at least in the church context.
Because of the evidence in the e-mail where my father admitted to abusing me, he pled guilty. He would be sentenced to 20- 40 years in prison and serve about 20 in all. There was no celebration when he was sentenced on my part. There were many more tears because telling the truth in spaces where you don’t feel supported by those you care for can bring more shame. There was great relief he could not touch me again or hurt another girl in the same way.
The shame lingered until I got help in a few different ways, later in college. I went to therapy where I processed the trauma, I had experienced and finally accepted that the abuse was not my fault. I found a church that was not afraid to come alongside this wounded heart and affirm that I was sinned against, while also balancing truth for responsibility on how I would now live as a follower of Christ despite this wound. They would welcome me, and I would learn the lesson of what family really looked like through my church family.
It was here that I learned that hiding was not all that bad if I made God my hiding place, my refuge. I began to see that my adoption as His child was my ultimate identity, and he was a Father who would never hurt me. He is a Father who would look out for my best interests. He is Father who sent his Son to take all of my shame. He was a Father who sent the Comforter to make His home in my heart. With this Father, I would always have a family.
Encouragement for Moms:
Whatever shame you are holding onto today, whether your shame is your own doing due to sinful choices or whether it’s others’ shame from their sin against you, may you lay it at the feet of Jesus. May you make the Father your hiding place. May you be comforted by the Holy Spirit within you.
Prayer for Moms:
Lord,
May you heal our physical bodies, hearts, and minds from the ravages of abuse. Help us to trust you as our Father, our good Shepherd, and our Rock. May we take refuge in you when memories of trauma come to mind, or we feel shame. May we remember that you have taken our shame in exchange for your honor by Christ’s work on the cross. Help us to seek help and complete the courageous and difficult work needed to heal. May the church be a balm to the aches of our past, and an encouragement and support in our present. We praise you for the promise of your continued presence and comfort in our lives.
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