Alcohol was usually a factor in the abuse that occurred between my stepdad and me. Of course, he wouldn’t remember abusing me every time that he did. He was usually drunk to the point of nearly passing out. I wonder what his demons were? What caused him to commit such atrocities against an innocent child? Was he drinking to forget something, or was he drinking to ensure that he wouldn’t remember the acts as he committed them? Sometimes I allow myself to wonder about all that. Other times I am just simply angry and disappointed in his choices.
Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, And wine unto the bitter in soul. -Proverbs 31:6
That
verse has always piqued my curiosity. In historical movies, we’ll often see
someone who’s dying given some wine to drink to ease their suffering. It’s a pathetic
scene to watch, as we, the viewers know already that the person won’t make it through
to the next scene. The rest of the characters will carry on without them. It’s
a kind of release, isn’t it? Wine drowns the pain and numbs the senses. But where
is God in all this? What chance was He given to mend things? I wonder – was it
His will that no final miracle of healing occurred, or was it man’s choice to
fully exclude Him? Why are some saved, and others given wine to numb the senses
and ease suffering? It’s something I’ll probably never know this side of Heaven,
and that’s okay with me. God has His reasons.
Many times,
over the years, I have heard people say “the worst things often happen to the
nicest people.” Is that true? Was stepdad ever a nice person? Something bad
must have happened to him to cause him to commit such heinous acts against
children. There is a ripple effect that can occur from trauma. One person hurts
another who then goes on to hurt someone else, who then goes on to hurt yet
another person, and suddenly, before anyone wakes up to what is going on, there
is a generational curse in effect with decades of pain, trauma, and sorrow. Where
and why did it begin? How does someone choose to finally end the cycle? Where did
my strength come from? Why was I the only one who put a stop to it? I have a hard
time believing this was not orchestrated, on some level, by a being far larger
than myself. God, Himself had to have had a hand in this. I’m sure of it.
Rather, as it is written: “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no heart has imagined, what God has prepared for those who love Him.” – 1 Corinthians 2:9
The day
I told that female cop what was happening at home was a very long one. She left
our classroom around 9:30 am, and I told her then, in the hallway outside the
classroom. From the hallway, we went to the guidance counselor’s office. I
recounted my story there to him. Then, I played board games and waited for the
social workers to arrive. I recounted my story to a very nice lumberjack-looking
man (think Yukon Cornelius from the old Rudolph films at Christmas time). He
had dolls and asked me kindly, gently, to show him what stepdad had done to me,
using the dolls. I was terrified because he was a man, but I did the best I
could at nine years old. After he was done talking with me, I had to recount my
story to a very scary-looking police officer. He assured me he was there to
help me, but I had already formed an intense fear of police officers by that
point, so I clammed up and only spoke as much as I was able to. The female
police officer took me in her car to the police station, and I sat there for
hours, coloring on pages of McGruff the crime dog and any printer paper they
could spare. Police officers came and went, offering me snacks, cookies, and
eventually some dinner. It was past my bedtime when I was finally allowed to
leave. I forget who took me, but I do know that I wasn’t allowed to go home. Instead,
I went to live with my grandmother, three blocks from my parent’s house. I was
now considered a “ward of the state” – whatever that meant.
Grandma
didn’t drink. She wasn’t chaotic. Her house was stable and we were on a nice
routine day in and day out. She asked me questions I wasn’t comfortable
answering, and I behaved like a scared mouse, trying to stay out of her way.
She loved me fiercely, I know that now. At the time, it was hard to see it. She
was trying to understand how, yet again, her daughter had made such a heinous
mistake in choosing a man and imploding the lives of everyone around her.
Grandma was beyond angry with my mother, not with me. I was too young to
understand that at the time, and I felt very unwanted and bothersome at first.
I began to resent every adult in my life. This wasn’t what I wanted. This wasn’t
a whole lot better than the abuse. At least when I was home, I had my best
friend – my sister. I had my toys, everything that was familiar to me and I had
my family pets. At grandma’s, I had old people’s food, a stark bedroom, and a
lumpy bed and I was forced to watch Lawrence Welk every night he was on. My
perspective was skewed, but then, I was only nine years old and this was all so
overwhelming. Where was my wine to dull the pain and numb the senses? Did
anyone see how miserable I was? How hard the adjustment was to make? I don’t
know. All I kept hearing was “your poor dad. He’s really going through the
wringer right now.” How was I not supposed to feel guilty?
On the
day of the trial, I was led into a big, cavernous room. In the front, sat a
wrinkly old man dressed in black with a stern look on his face. His blank
expression scared me. I’d seen it before, on my stepdad before he abused me.
This man in charge looked like he hated children. I don’t know if that’s true,
but it was my thought process at the time. I sat next to the Yukon Cornelius-looking
social worker, and as the wrinkly old man in black asked me questions, I
answered them to the best of my ability. Minutes later, he was satisfied with
my answers, and I was told that I could leave now. What just happened? I had no
idea. Apparently, that was the trial. I was only informed of that days later
when I asked my therapist when I would get to tell my side of the story. She
said I did already, and I started crying. They hadn’t asked me about everything
that I wanted to say, and I remember knowing that a lot of details were left
out. They didn’t know all of it! I felt like a dumb kid that no one loved or
cared about. My story didn’t matter. Only my stepdad’s did. I see that now,
reflected on the court papers where he admitted to just six counts of sexual
abuse, three of which were renamed as “harassment of a minor under the age of
14”. What a stretch of the truth. How deeply disappointing. The adults in
charge let me down.
I am
determined that as a mother and an adult, I will listen to the children around
me. Even when their stories seem silly or insignificant, such as my son’s make-believe
stories about the rocket ship he keeps buried in the backyard. (Apparently,
this rocket ship is equipped with everything one could ever need to survive any
situation here on planet earth). By listening to children and building a
rapport with them, we enable them to feel free to tell us all the things – big or
little. When it matters, they know they have a safe adult to talk to, who will
take their story seriously. As parents, we should be that adult for our kids. I
take that responsibility very seriously and I am honored by the level of truth
that my kids share with me. It is hard sometimes to sit and listen to some of what
they have to say, I will admit. There are times when I just want to get up and
get chores done, as I am an action-oriented person, but if I do that, I know I
will miss out on forming a relationship with the most precious people in my
life. So I prioritize everything around them the best I can. Truthfully, I can
only hope I am doing as good a job as they say I am. Most days I feel like a
failure because I am tired and my brain hurts from processing so much of my stuff.
But I march on, praying every day for God to grant me all the skills I need to
parent my kids in the way that He needs me to parent them.
And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates. -Deuteronomy 6:6-9
 |
| My heart bursts with love for these kids |
Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.
National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788
National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/
988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. https://988lifeline.org/
In Christ alone our hope is foundRun, don't walk for help! You're worth it.
