They Don’t
Understand
They want to
understand our pain. Who am I talking
about? I am speaking of the ones in our
life that love us so much. Their heart
breaks for us. They can hardly bear to
see us cry. And we survivors of child
sexual abuse, we hide. We hide, because
the last thing we want them to see is our suffering, because in our struggles,
they feel helpless to comfort us, to ease our pain. We dream of the day when we wake and the
flashbacks are gone, never to return. We
long for a guarantee that the body sensations, the smells, the triggers are
gone for good. We try so hard to run
from them, but no matter how long ago the abuse happened, they find us. When they find us in a strong and grounded
state, we can manage most of the time to regroup, to breathe deep, keep our
eyes open to the safe reality that surrounds us, to press in and press through
the pain. And when it passes, we breathe
deep and praise God that we are safe in our skin. But on those days when the evil memories
visit us in whatever form; when we are tired; depressed; weak; it is like an
explosion of glass in our spirits and we quicken to find all the chards before
they cut deeper into our soul. As much
as they want to, they don’t understand why we can’t forget the pain. They don’t understand why it haunts us.
Weeks ago I hit a
wall of exhaustion. If you might relate,
the kind of exhaustion after months of pushing limits, that a 10 hour night of
sleep doesn’t begin to rejuvenate. But
the bright light in my future was a family beach vacation. I was excited to go on vacation with my
family, to finally put my feet in the sand and be stilled by the rhythm of the
ocean. It had been an exceptionally
strenuous week physically by helping my daughter move. Of course what you think will take only a few
hours, took two days.
On the way to the
beach, I decided to see my mother since it had been some-time between visits
and have more quality time by spending the night. It was a pleasant visit and as we were
retiring for the night I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a bust
of David, a family heirloom so to speak, that had adorned our living room foyer
table for as long as I can remember. The
bust was now residing on the bedside table.
The image flashed in my mind of walking the trail of horror to the
bedroom where I had been summoned as a child.
“Don’t, don’t you go there,” lashed the harsh voice in my head.” The command was obeyed, I laid my head on my
pillow, sang Amazing Grace in my head and fell asleep.
The sleep was
restless as a looming dark shadow was enveloping me. When my eyes fluttered open, I saw the
headboard of the bed. Flash to 1974, I
was 7 years old with my eyes focused on the headboard as I was instructed to
stay still and stop squirming. I took a
breath that would not fill my lungs because I felt as if an elephant were
sitting on my chest. So began the short
shallow panic breaths, I tried to get out of my mouth to my still sleeping
husband I need to go. “I need to go
now.” He awoke to what the heck is going
on? I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t stand
my skin. I wanted to peel it off. I had to get out of that bedroom, I had to
get away from that peering statue of David. I had to run but my husband said, “Come here,
sit down, what is wrong?” As he reached
for me I tore away and looked for an escape.
The bathroom door was open so I darted for the door. I tried to get it closed but he was in hot
pursuit. I fled through another door to
the toilet trying to make a beeline out and ran head first into my
daughter. I backed up to collapse on the
toilet. By now I was
hyperventilating. I couldn’t catch my
breath. I could not explain to them what
was happening and they didn’t understand.
I was completely horrified for them to see me in this condition. I appear to be a pillar of strength on the
outside, resilient and confident woman, but today I was a broken little girl,
humiliated to be seen in this condition.
You see these days have come and gone over the last 30 plus years in
private. Rarely has anyone but my
husband witnessed the turmoil or noticed the turbulence. My daughter grabbed my hands and tried to
make eye contact with me and attempted mindfulness techniques to ground me in
the here and now. She tried to slow my
breathing by instructing me to take long deep breaths, from my panicked
panting. I couldn’t look her in the eye
for now the shame was choking me, and I just wanted to hide. I was in a deep tunnel with the waterfall of
tears dripping off my chin, as I heard my husband say in a puddle of
frustration, “let’s call an ambulance.”
They just didn’t understand. The
sound of sirens in my head jolted me back to reality. The reality that I had to get the wall built
fast to hold back this tsunami of pain.
Within minutes I had experienced flashbacks from the pit of hell
watching a little girl’s dignity and humanity be stripped away. Somehow what had seemed like hours, was just
a matter of minutes and I was composed, apologetic and searching frantically
for the mask of “I’m ok.” I prayed,
“Jesus please help me.” I washed my
face, forced a smile and went back to life as a wife, a mother, a
daughter. I had roles to play and
pathetic was not one of them.
The days that
followed were to bid rest and relaxation, and the real kind that only long
summer days at the beach can deliver. But
unfortunately, the breakdown forced my emotions into a tightly wound
spring. I tried so hard to be engaged in
the moment, to laugh, to share, but I found myself forcing the
merrymaking. The darkness had gripped me
tightly and I squirmed tirelessly to get out of its grasp. I read senseless magazines, I took long
baths, I got up early and read scripture, I prayed for the darkness to lift and
my joy to return. I darted the questions
of “How are you?” from my loving daughter with the “I’m fine, don’t worry about
me,” and the apologies for her having to witness me shattered. She said “good,” but the unspoken response in
her eyes was “I know you are not good mom and I don’t know what to say.” We understand the discomfort they feel and we
wish with everything we could wash it away.
We understand there are no words of comfort and the fear of sharing the
wrong words. Then there was my precious
husband who took the brunt of my brooding.
I had nowhere to deflect the pain but on him, and I hated myself for it,
for punishing him for my present condition.
Like the strong and mighty man of God he is, he just took it, realizing
I was hurting. I couldn’t look him in
the eye, I couldn’t explain why or how I was hurting. My default button of isolation and silence
had been pressed.
The incident
happened on Friday night and it was not until the following Thursday that the
fog lifted. It was as if the sun broke
through and the sound of the ocean washed the residual fretting away. I was heartbroken that once again my past
abuse had stolen my present joy. I was
heartbroken that those I love the most, I pushed away. I was heartbroken that this rare week at the
beach was spent fighting the demons of abuse and my precious time at the beach
had sifted through my fingers like sand and was gone.
Over the next two
weeks, I have been drawing even closer to God, again asking my whys. “Why God did these horrible memories flood my
mind? Why God could I not process them
and pack them away in a safe place? Why
God did I have a total melt down, and in front of my husband and child? Why was I not stronger to stand against the
darkness and fight, like I fight for every survivor in my path? Why don’t people understand our pain?“ And a small voice said, “You were depleted,
you were tired, you were frail, and most of all, you were tender.” In my quiet moments with God I received
revelation. Healing is a journey that takes a continuous investment in our self
through self-care, self-awareness, self-compassion and selfless surrender to
God. I received revelation that they may
never understand, but God does. For HE
is the only ONE who understands our pain is God in three persons, The Father,
Son Jesus Christ and Holy Spirit. The
Father understands the pain and suffering of His children by witnessing the
will of man turn to perversion and abuse, Jesus sympathizes with our pain
through His own suffering on the cross, and the Holy Spirit feels our pain as
He resides in us. As we may be quick to
resent those who don’t understand, quick to dismiss those who have a blink of
disbelief, quick to shut those out for self- preservation, quick to feel like
no one will ever understand, remember these words. God understands.
Angela Williams
Tips for friends and family of a victim of
child sexual abuse:
ü Pray for
them and offer to pray with them
ü Offer a
hand or hug
ü Be
sensitive
ü Give space
and time to grieve
ü Remind them
to take slow and deep breaths
ü Let them
know you are available if they want to share
ü Believe
them and be a good listener
ü Know
that you can’t take away the pain
ü Help them
stay in the present moment
ü Shower
them with love and compassion
Scriptures of Meditation:
Matthew
10: 29-31
29 Are not
two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground
outside your Father’s care.[b] 30 And
even the very hairs of your head are all numbered.31 So
don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
Psalm
126:5
5 Those
who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.
Deuteronomy
31:8
8The Lord himself
goes before you and will be
with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”
2 Timothy 1: 7
7 For God
hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound
mind.
Challenge to fellow Survivors of Child Sexual
Abuse:
Don’t suffer in silence.
We are here and we understand.
678.578.4888
