Today I met with someone I know, but knew little about. I was pointed in her direction after speaking with the church about my struggles with my dad and my uncle and God. They said she had similar childhood experiences and with Gods help had come to a place of forgiveness so she would not be affected by what I had to share.
It was so nice to have a conversation with someone who gets it. She understood every thought and feeling without me having to tell her. All I had to say we’re a few words and she totally got it. She shared her story with me. She was open and honest and so very brave about the whole thing. Meanwhile I danced round the difficult to say words like; sexual abuse, touching, shame, guilt and self blame. I didn’t have to share those words. She said them for me and I nodded in agreement.
She told me that forgiveness (not acceptance) would set me free as it had her. I authentically told her that I wasn’t at that stage yet. I’d gone through the shock of acceptance and I’m now in a stage of anger and outrage. It complicates matters with my dad having died. I honestly think if that had never happened then the memories of my uncle would have lay buried for a few more years. It seems the trauma of losing dad tore down my defences and left me vulnerable to all the bubbling issues that were at the pit of my stomach.
I think I need to talk a little about comparison. See, it leads into other things. While this lovely lady was sharing (in a subtle way) the horrors of her past, I took every detail in. Over the course of the day I’ve found my mind wandering back to her words, and back to my past. There are many comparisons I can make between her ordeal and mine. It’s caused me to minimise my abuse. I’m going to name some, to try to get them out of my head:
Her abusers had sexually penetrated her. Mine didn’t.
Her abusers told her it was their little secret. Mine didn’t.
Her abusers hid what they did because they knew it was wrong.
Mine didn’t.
Her abusers took her to a special place to do it. Mine didn’t.
Her abusers weren’t family.
Mine was.
Her memories are vivid.
Mine aren’t.
Her abusers did it regularly.
Mine didn’t.
She never told her parents about the abuse.
I tried.
Comparisons are ugly. I’m left questioning the very nature of what happened all over again. The questions are back with a vengeance. Was I being sensitive? Did it really happen? Did I make it up? Why has he never tried since? Was I a bad child and that’s why my parents didn’t want to believe me? Is he the monster I saw him as? Has he changed? Am I to blame? Did I lead him on? Was it all harmless? Is it actually classed as sexual abuse even if he didn’t have sex with me? Am I making a mountain out of a mole hill? Did it happen to other children in the family? Am I so messed up that I remember him doing things that he never did. If so then why do I feel so many emotions when I look at pictures from that holiday when I was 17?
There are whole sections of my life that I can’t remember. I can’t trust my memories or myself. Between the ages of 11 and 15 I suffered 4 concussions. I’m not sure if it’s that which has messed my memories up or something else. I remember having conversations with people, which they deny ever happened. A friend can recall a significant event in our childhood like a concert or one of my boyfriend’s and I have no recollection of the person, let alone the day. I spent 2 years in a toxic friendship being forced to believe something I knew wasn’t true. Did this affect my ability to see reality from non fiction? Did it make me remember the things tmy uncle did as different to what actually happened?
This lack of trust in my own memories is what causes the biggest issue when it comes to dealing with the memories of him. If I can’t remember entire people, or remember life events, then how can I trust myself when I remember what I think he did to me? It wouldn’t be fair to him to brand him with that label without being 100% sure of what happened.
Even if my memories are correct, comparison leads me to think it wasn’t that bad. I don’t have many triggers like my friend. I just don’t like to be tickled, or kissed/ sat on while laying down. Those triggers are very unlikely to happen in adult life. I just need to find the truth, state it, and move on.
My head feels like a labyrinth that I can’t escape from. Each question brings another. No answers can be found. If I don’t speak to people I’m trapped in my head. If I talk to them then I’m tossed into turmoil.
If my head is like this when I haven’t seen him for a while, how will it be spending 3 days with him? The depression has been replaced with overwhelming anxiety and worry.
– Violet
Shrink(ing) Violet 