A Passion for Tradition

I wonder sometimes where my passion for tradition was born. When did I become a person who created annual events, who choreographed seasonal field trips, who craved and searched for and then made the exact same recipe year after year after year? Certainly my childhood was not filled with that kind of consistency. Each year as the seasons changed, so did my environment. Beginning life with two parents, then shuffling between one and another, then finding myself sheltered in the homes of various extended family and friends as I grew older, there were no annual traditions. Life was constant change, completely beyond my control.

Somewhere along the way, I started to create anchors for myself. I began to build my own traditions. Now it did not matter where I lived or who I was with, the traditions came with me. The annual stomping of the leaves that fell in my school courtyard, the celebration of the first cup of cocoa each winter. There were recipes I made and gave to friends as an expression of the idea of home, warmth, nourishment, goodness. Occasionally, my traditions did mirror positive moments spent with my own family. Like Old Testament altars, I stacked stones together in places where I had reasons for thanksgiving, something to help me remember and find my way back to what was good. 

When I was about eleven, I remember making a trip to a pumpkin patch with my brother, stepmom, and baby sister. We walked around, climbed on hay bales, took pictures, and brought home pumpkins. We painted faces on the pumpkins and set them outside, waiting until the time was right to carve them.

Pumpkins carved a prior year.

It was cool and damp on the day that was set to carve the pumpkins. A windy day, where wet leaves fell and became glued to the pavement, creating a colorful, slippery collage on the ground. My aunt and cousin came over to join us for the fun, bringing big orange pumpkins of their own. We had newspaper ads spread out on the dining room table, the overhead lights turned on brightly, the day growing dark outside the patio door. The grownups were chatting and laughing as we did the work of scooping the guts out of the pumpkins. Pulling the long, stringy pulp out, heavy with seeds. We received instructions on how to separate the seeds from the pulp, with the promise of a salty, roasted treat to eat after the carving was done. I remember drawing the face on my pumpkin once, twice, three times, trying to get it absolutely perfect. I wanted the classic jack-o-lantern, perfectly circular eyes, a triangular nose, and big jagged teeth in a gaping, open-mouthed grin. The boys were nearly done carving, and I was still retracing the lines one more time, trying to get it just right.

It was warm in the house, with the oven going, and everyone gathered in so close. We cleaned up the mess and moved to sit at the pink Formica-topped breakfast counter, waiting to have our warm from the oven pumpkin-seed snack now that the dirty work was done. 

As we sat there, swinging the oak bar stools back and forth, something shifted in the room. It was as though the air and light were sucked out of the space. A spark had been lit, and my dad was turning to fire, as he did so often those days. Everyone held their breath as he pulled all of the oxygen to himself. I don't know what started the argument. I didn't hear it escalate. I only heard my aunt trying to reason with my dad, and I heard him tell her to get the hell out of his house. She held out her hands towards him while he shouted, as though her upturned palms could ward off the brutality in his voice. I saw the shift in his body, the motion of his arm moving into her, and saw her double-over when his fist sunk into her belly.

It's a mystery, the moments our brain chooses to remember, the shadows that lodge themselves in our mind, the events we cannot forget.

When I think about it now, I have to really focus to remember much about what came before it all fell apart. I recall holding my baby sister at the pumpkin patch, trying to keep her still, and smiling for the camera. I know that I was squinting into the bright midday sun. I remember the fresh smell of just cut pumpkin that night, the slimy and rough feel of the strings of pulp slipping through my fingers. I reach for those moments, the happy ones, the place where everyone is smiling and laughing at the countertop, just before it turns. Because the darker memories come more easily; the trauma is harder to forget.

So in my life now, I am forever striving to find my way back to the altars, cling to the anchors, to carve out memories for my own children. I don't want them to have to search to find a joy-filled moment like the ones I knew before the room filled with fire. So we turn everything into a tradition. We do all we can every season, each year. We go together as a family to annual events and we fill our life with moments where the room is full of light and warmth and the voices of those we love.

We go apple-picking.

We eat snow cones and try the bounce house and pose for pictures.

We pet the ponies and the goats and look at the chickens.

We milk the cow.

We take the hayride.

We run the corn maze.

We get hot and sweaty and cranky, and not every single moment together is filled with warmth and laughter and perfection. But some of them are.

And the world doesn't break apart. The earth doesn't spin off its axis. The memories don't burn up in a fiery rage. I pray and pray that even though we get it wrong sometimes, my little ones won't have to search too deep to find the good parts. So we make the traditions happen again, season after season, year after year. And every time one of my children asks me, "When are we going apple picking this year?" or says, "It's about time to make hot cocoa," or reminds me, "We need to start making holiday cookies soon," I add a stone to the altar of my gratitude, and my heart heals a little more.

As the years pass, and time stretches out behind me and marches on in front of me, I don't have to search so far or look so deep to find the happy memories. They are growing all around me.

*We are especially grateful to the Down Syndrome Guild of Kansas City and the Albert Pujols Family Foundation for helping to make our annual trip to the Red Barn Farm one of our many family traditions.

5 Things I Want to Say: Words from a Sexual Abuse Survivor

I have been asked some interesting questions about being a sexual abuse survivor. I have also heard or read a number of statements about sexual abuse survivors, perpetrators, families and victims. I'm not here to set the record straight, to tell you what not to say or what you should say to a person living a survival story. I am here to take part in a conversation, and I will be grateful as long as we are talking about sexual abuse and getting it out in the open.

I believe the missing link to healing for many is survivors and their loved ones being able to openly and honestly discuss sexual abuse and how it impacts their lives. We see that this ability to share our stories, whether they are centered around recovery from addiction, battling mental illness or simply navigating daily life, is what helps us to know and understand one another. I love that as a society, we are beginning to recognize that before we can even begin to address these problems, we must first discuss them. We must open the conversation, we must find our voice.

I am committed to being a person who says, "Hey, I'm here, I survived sexual abuse and this is what I think we need to talk about." I am only one voice. What strikes me as important right now may not ring true for others. Words I find comforting, others may find hurtful or make them sad. All I can do is let you know a few things I want to say as a Survivor, and hope that others begin to find their voice to add to the conversation. Here are just five things among many that I want you to know.

1. Being Young Doesn't Make Surviving Abuse "Easier"

When it comes to discussing being a sexual abuse victim, I have heard people say, "Well, you were very young." This statement seems to dismiss the validity of the abuse because of my age. While children are known to be resilient, it does not mean that since everything happened long ago, I should not be greatly impacted in my daily life as an adult. In fact, of children who are sexually abused, 20% of them will be abused before the age of eight. When abuse occurs at a young age, during a developmental stage when children need a tremendous amount of reassuring love and care, it can and absolutely does have lasting effects. Being dismissive of someone's experience based on their age (or any other factor) is likely to increase their challenges on the path to healing.

Adding to the minimizing tone set toward children who experience sexual abuse, many adults seem to think that children cannot accurately recall their abuse, or are more likely to exaggerate or embellish the story. The truth is that false reports by children are incredibly rare, making up only four to eight percent of all reported cases. In those instances it is usually the adults involved who are fabricating the story and asking the children to repeat it, not the children creating a story from their own imagination.

It should not surprise us that many adults have a history of childhood sexual abuse that was not reported during childhood. Research estimates that only about one-third of abused children will tell someone about their abuse, and of those only a small number will actually be reported to proper authorities or law enforcement. Children (and adults) do not tell their story for many reasons, including feelings of shame, fear of punishment or consequences, an inability to find words to express what is happening to them, trust in or care for the individual perpetrating the abuse, and many other factors.

It doesn't matter if abuse victims are very young or adults, when unwanted sexual behavior is exhibited toward them, it will likely have some impact on their life for the remainder of their life. I know that some victims may forget about their abuse for a time, live in denial, or bury it deep within their subconscious for years and years. For myself, I can point to very specific memories of incidents when I was being abused, beginning at a very young age. I can remember the light in the room, the face of my perpetrator, and perhaps most significantly the way it made me feel. It doesn't matter that I was only four years old. Shame is a feeling I can identify now as an adult, and it is a feeling I have known for as long as I can remember.

2. It Doesn't Matter How Many Times Abuse Occurred

Another statement I have heard that minimizes the impact of sexual abuse is, "Didn't it just happen that one time?" I would like to ask in response, "Isn't just one time, one time too many?"  I wonder if we would say the same to a person who had been physically beaten. Would we suggest that because they were only assaulted once, that assault was less damaging to them? What if that assault left them permanently scarred, or disabled? Along the same lines, would we suggest that if an adult rape victim was raped only one time, the rape was not detrimental in their life? The damage that occurs when a person is sexually abused as a child can cause deep wounds that they will battle for as long as they live. The scars may not be visible to you, but they are often sending shock waves through a survivor's life years later.

In addition, do not assume that because one instance of abuse was reported or told to you, that was the only abuse that occurred. Children will often minimize their abuse experience or rationalize the events as a means of coping with the abuse. As a result of fear, or a feeling of responsibility for the well-being of the family, children will attempt to carry the abuse themselves in order to minimize the fallout they see occurring all around them. Remember that shame is a powerful force, and will often cause us to remain silent.

The sexual abuse I experienced did occur on multiple occasions, with more than one perpetrator, over the course of several years. As a child, I was unable to fully communicate what was happening to me. I believed that something must have been wrong with me that made me continually become the target of different abusers. I did not want to be the cause of more pain and discord in my family.

The frequency, duration and type of abuse does have an impact on a survivor's road to healing. However, I would never assume that my path to healing is any easier or more difficult than that of another. Abuse that occurs once can have a lasting impact, in the same way that one violent encounter can leave a person scarred for life. A survivor should never have to justify their experience by providing numbers or statistics to quantify the challenges they face as a result.

3. I'm Never Going to Get Over It

Surviving childhood sexual abuse means living with a tremendous sense of loss.  Many survivors will grieve the loss of their childhood or innocence far too soon, the loss of their ability to trust, the loss of their relationship with friends or family members who may have allowed or disbelieved the abuse and more. Grief is a powerful emotion, and it isn't something we get over. We heal, we learn how to move forward, we find ways to honor our experiences, but we do not get over it.

I would never tell a person who has lost a parent, family member or close friend that they should get over their grief or sense of loss. I recognize that while grief will change, while the sharpness of the ache may smooth over with time, their loss will stay with them and they will confront that grief and sadness at different times of their life to varying degrees

I used to think that once I was really, truly "healed" from my past experiences, I would no longer be troubled by any flawed beliefs, any moments of sadness over what was lost, or have to face the realities of my past in any way. At this time in my life I find that idea ridiculous. How can I no longer know and reflect my own history and experience? In the same way that a recovering addict will identify themselves that way for the rest of their lives in order to keep the addiction at bay, I believe abuse survivors will have to recognize their triggers, see how the abuse experience clouds the lens they view life through, and generally continue to choose to walk a path toward healing throughout their life. Sometimes they will be in seasons where the abuse is a shadow, following behind them, there but not in the forefront of their life and heart. Sometimes memories of the abuse or challenges will present in new and different ways, forcing them to once again search out healing and a way forward.

I have had to review my path of healing many times throughout my life. I have had to consider how my history of sexual abuse affects my marriage, the birth of my children, my role as a parent, and how I face disappointment, stress, challenges and loss in life. While the wounds no longer fester and ache in the same way they did before I faced them and dealt with them through my faith, counseling, prayer and a willingness to heal, that old scar still tingles from time to time. I may always grieve what was lost, but that doesn't mean that I don't also rejoice in all that I have been given as well.

4.  Talking About It Now Doesn't Mean I'm Ungrateful

Acknowledging that I still feel the loss of much in my past does not mean that I do not fully appreciate my present circumstances. In fact it is just the opposite. It is precisely because I am so blessed, so loved, that I find the strength to share from my story, in hopes that others can find healing as well. Some days it is the ache of gratitude over this incredible gift of life, to be married to a man who adores me, to have healthy children who are loved and sheltered and growing into incredible human beings, this ache pushes me to say something about all that happened before.

I talk about surviving sexual abuse so that my children will know the power that faith has had in healing and changing my life, and subsequently their lives. I talk about surviving sexual abuse so that others who are just beginning to trudge through overwhelming feelings of sadness or shame can know that they are not alone. I talk about surviving sexual abuse so that friends and family members of other survivors may glimpse what it means for their loved one to navigate life now. I talk about surviving sexual abuse because I have a voice, and many survivors have not yet been able to tell their story, and maybe never will. I talk about surviving sexual abuse because the first step to overcoming this tragedy in our world is talking about it, turning on the light and sharing our stories.

5. You Can Help Prevent Childhood Sexual Abuse

The last thing I want to say (for now) is that you can make a difference and help to prevent childhood sexual abuse. It may feel overwhelming, but there are actually five very simple things that you can do to help prevent childhood sexual abuse.

The 5 Steps to Protecting Our Children

1. Learn the Facts - The statistics can feel overwhelming, but learning to separate truth from myth is important when discussing sexual abuse.

2. Minimize Opportunity - Childhood sexual abuse most often happens in isolated, one-to-one situations and is often perpetrated by someone the victim knows.

3. Talk About It - Be honest with children at an age-appropriate level about sex, their bodies, and boundaries; help them to feel safe to talk to you if something happens. Listen to stories from survivors to understand the long-term effects of sexual abuse.

4. Recognize the Signs - Every person is different, and the signs abuse is occurring may be subtle, but you can learn what to watch for as indications of abuse.

5. React Responsibly - Understand that very few reports of abuse are false, and know the appropriate methods for reporting suspected abuse in your area.

Once you click the link above to learn the facts, consider Joining the Movement at Darkness to Light. I just found this organization and I am so grateful to know they are taking strides to protect our children.

I would also like to ask if you would consider sharing this post with others in your circle of influence. While I know that there are many resources available for sexual abuse survivors and their loved ones, I also know that they are not accessed nearly as often as they are needed. We each have a circle of those who trust what we post to be important or worthwhile to read. Please think about whether my story might benefit someone in your circle who needs to know that they are not alone in their journey toward healing and finding their voice. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Sharing our stories is how we will change the world.

Hello there, shame...

Almost immediately after I hit the word “publish” on my post last week, my body was flooded by a very familiar feeling.  I felt exposed, as though everyone was seeing me, and in being seen, I felt ashamed. I felt as though an enormous, heavy boulder landed on top of me. A heat rose up from within my chest, and an aching pressure began to spread from the center of my body, throughout my limbs. I wanted to crawl into my bed and feel instead the weight of comforting blankets on top of me, bury my head in the covers. 

Oh, hello shame, my old friend. Here we go again.

One of my earliest memories, perhaps my very earliest memory, is one of shame. I was only about four years old. A friend I’ll call Sara was inside my family’s trailer to play. We were putting together a block puzzle, a scene of Winnie the Pooh’s birthday party. It was tricky as the pieces were all cubes, with different pictures on each side. My uncle was there, watching us I guess. We were all sitting, cross-legged, on the floor. At some point my uncle leaned forward and asked Sara if she would like to play a game. 

“What kind of game?” Sara asked.

“It’s a secret game,” my uncle answered, and leaned in closer toward me to show Sara what he meant.

Sara said no, she didn’t want to play, and she needed to go home and find her mom. I remember watching her leave, and feeling overwhelmed that what my uncle told me all the time must be true--I was bad. Every time he touched me, my uncle told me not to tell anyone, or I would get into a lot of trouble.  My parents would be very angry with me, because I was bad.

I feel like that day solidified that lie in my heart. Since Sara could tell her mom, she was obviously good. I wished that I could be as good as Sara, but it was too late for me now. If I told anyone about the game, I would be in trouble, and I hated to be in trouble. Even more terrifying than being in trouble was realizing that if I told anyone, then they would know how bad I really was. I stared at the chocolate brown shag carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the window on the floor, at the colorful scenes from the Winnie the Pooh birthday party on the blocks, while my uncle played his game.

Even now I can feel the weight, the ache, the pain that the shame of that moment brings to me. Even now I am burdened that Sara was strong, and I was weak. The voice in my head tells me I should have known better, I should have told someone; I should have been able to stop it. Even right this second, shame would have me believe that by telling my story, I am letting people know that there is something hopelessly wrong with me. 

That is what I have believed, in my soul, for years. I frequently think of myself a bad mother, an awful wife, a terrible friend. Not as a good person, who made a few mistakes or a bad decision, but as a deeply flawed person who is somehow inherently bad. While it is painful for me to feel that way, the greatest fear I have is that those around me would suddenly see that I am no good. Part of the fear that keeps me from wanting to hit publish on any story about my life is that same lie my uncle told me: “If you tell anyone, then they will know how bad you really are.” 

The truth is not that Sara was strong and I was weak, or that Sara was good and I was bad.  The truth is that Sara was able to leave in part because she felt safe to tell others around her. I did not feel safe at that time. But I do now. I am so grateful to be surrounded by many family and friends who know most of my shameful stories, and they love me anyway. 

Now that I am safe, I can stop playing my uncle’s game.  I’m not going to sit in my living room and stare at the red and brown striped carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the window on the floor, at my dog and cat curled up together, while his game continues to go on inside my head. The shame I experienced, the lies I believed, they do far more damage in my everyday life than any physical scars I may carry. I’m tired of listening to the same tape playing over and over. This time I get to stand up and call out my abuser and say I refuse to believe your lies anymore. 

It’s funny that even after years of therapy and time, writing these few posts has been where I finally realized the root of my self-loathing. I did have a counselor one time ask me if I thought I was a good person. I told her no, I didn’t think so. I think she asked me why I felt that way, and at the time, I didn’t have an answer. Today I do. I think that I am a bad person because I have been told that I am a bad person for as long as I can remember by people in a position of trust. But those people were lying.

 

I know that shame and believing lies about ourselves is not specific to survivors of sexual abuse. All of us experience shame; it is a universal emotion brought on by all kinds of circumstances. Shame would like to keep everyone in the dark, to keep us from telling our stories. The truth is that when we make our way out into the light by sharing a little bit more of who we are with the world, we find out that we are not alone. We find new ways to connect and to show grace and compassion to one another, which is a tremendous gift. I have been so blessed by the kind responses to my previous post, and the encouragement from so many to continue. That support is a large part of what is motivating me to dig deeper and find the strength to share more of my story. 

I hope that as I continue to share more of my story, others will join me and begin to be able to share their truths as well. It is in being open and honest and truthful with each other that we take away the power that lies and shame may have over us. Telling our own stories, receiving kindness from others, hearing truth that challenges old lies, this is what gives us more strength to throw off the heavy weight of shame that has been holding us down. 

So, goodbye shame, you jackass. Until we meet again.

                “Shame derives its power from being unspeakable…If we cultivate enough awareness about shame to name it and speak to it, we’ve basically cut it off at the knees. Shame hates having words wrapped around it. If we speak shame, it begins to wither. Just the way exposure to light was deadly for the gremlins, language and story bring light to shame and destroy it.”

- Brene' Brown, Daring Greatly

Right Type of Story

I have been thinking quite a bit lately about my story.  I have been trying to unravel the series of events that make up the narrative of my life until now.  I am searching for clues, trying to fill in the blanks, putting together pieces of memory and outside views of certain chapters of my existence.  Because my story has very dark moments, I struggle to decide what exactly I want anyone to know about this journey, the conflict and climax and resolution of my experiences on this earth.  I know that the antidote to darkness is light, and the desire to shed light on hidden places causes me to feel compelled to find words to share about those dark moments.  But the words don’t come easily.

When I was six years old, I was being evaluated by a mental health worker due to confirmed reports of sexual abuse.  My uncle admitted that he was a pedophile, and had violated numerous children.  He acknowledged that he had committed various acts with me so many times that he could not recall the exact number or complete nature of the encounters.  Throughout most of the proceedings in the case, I was silent.  While I accurately confirmed the accounts of the abuse in a matter of fact way when asked, the most frequent note in the reports from various police officers, family service workers and counselors is that I refused to speak, and that I cried.

During one of many counseling sessions intended to help me talk about my feelings regarding the abuse, the therapist asked me to complete an exercise by looking at various pictures and telling him a story about what I saw.  A family services worker who was observing the session noted that I was extremely reluctant to participate in the exercise.  His exact words were, “La’Tisha is very much of a perfectionist and was afraid that she would not tell the right type of story.”  Already, at the age of six, I felt a desperate need to please the people around me.  I had already seen that when a story deviates from the allocated plan, upheaval would follow.  I knew that my story caused problems, people were angry, and it was better to keep my mouth shut than to invoke more trouble by speaking how I truly felt.  I needed to tell the right story, the one the people around me wanted or needed to hear, and I made it my business to do so.

Years later, I want to find a way to speak for the little girl who cried silently.  I believe that the story I tell—with my life, my time, and my words—is important.  I know that a good story can open our eyes, shift our perspective, and change the way we see and interact with the world around us.  I want to tell my story of beauty for ashes, of restoration for what the locust has eaten, in a way that makes others believe that kind of reconciliation is possible.  I’m trying very hard, though, to be less concerned about telling the “right kind” of story.  The only story I have to tell is my own.  The only way I can tell my story is to share it honestly.  The only way this story can be wrong, I think, is if I do not tell it at all.

I am tired of being silent about how surviving this kind of childhood trauma affects my life every. single. day.  I know that I am not the only woman who is trying to be a loving wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend while constantly battling the demons of her past.  I believe that my children should know something of what I have experienced, because I believe that history we do not learn from is destined to repeat itself.  It is time to find my voice and speak.  I want to tell my story because I know how isolated, lonely and discouraged I feel at times, and I believe it may help others to know that they are not alone.  It is time for me to break the silence of what it means to live as a survivor.

Because these are the most important truths: I live.  I survived.  Each and every day that I continue to struggle to be here, to be present, to be enough, is a victory of survival.  I am realizing that the truth is that I will never completely move on.  I will move forward, but I cannot change what I see in my rear view mirror.  This is my life.  Every once in a while, I have to look back and notice that the past is still there, behind me.  Sometimes, peeking in that rear view mirror helps me to correct my course.  Keep moving forward, but don’t forget what got me here. 

That is what I’m setting out to do.  Look back through that past and acknowledge how it has shaped me.  Stop trying to shut it down and pretend that I am fine now, and that the story isn’t integral to who I am.  I need to accept the fact that my abusers took from me things that I will never be able to regain.  The plan now is to get loud about how I’m dealing with that loss, and to share gratitude over all that I have also gained.  Some days I will blog about the here and now, and other days I am dedicating to writing the past in a book.

As survivors go, I know that I am fortunate.  Throughout the storms I faced as a child, there were always places of shelter.  I am grateful, so grateful, for the opportunities to be where I am today.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the people who showed that they cared and intervened on my behalf.  And so I recognize that when I raise my voice, I do so not only for myself, but also for those who were not so sheltered.  I raise my voice for those who are forever silenced by their circumstances, those who are perhaps destined to repeat the cycles of abuse, those who had no pause for breath in a lifetime of shame, beating, berating, and abuse.  I also raise my voice for the little girl who could not find words, and silently cried.  This is ultimately where I find the courage to share my story, on behalf of the many, many stories that may never be told.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves;

ensure justice for those being crushed.

Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless,

And see that they get justice.”

Proverbs 31:8-9