Thank-you

"One of the greatest diseases is to be nobody to anybody." Mother Theresa

I used to feel that nobody cared about me. That I didn't matter. What I thought didn't matter, What I wanted didn't matter. Who I was didn't matter.

Even when someone offered love to me I couldn't feel it. It actually hurt so I ran from it. I didn't think I was worthy. I knew I wasn't. I lived my life running, hiding - angry, scared, hating everything about who and what I was.

Then God touched me. Powerfully. Broke through when nothing else could. In a hospital emergency room where I lay under oxygen. I felt His touch. The doctor had said I wouldn't live past the year because of all the damage I had done to my body from the drugs, the eating disorder and the street lifestyle.

But God touched me. He broke the hold the drugs had over me. Yet even though He touched me I still hated everything about myself. I blamed myself for the kidnap, beatings and rape and for all the stuff that happened. I couldn't stop hurting myself. The self loathing ran deep.

Blogging. It's broken the aloneness. I've kept silent for so long. Afraid to tell the awful things that happened. Afraid to speak. So I write. Here I can say it.

I have fought everything alone. Couldn't tell anyone. I didn't want anyone to know because I felt different than everybody else. Stuff that happened didn't seem to be happening to others. I pretended so much that many times I wondered if it happened at all. But all I have to do is look at the scars on my body and close my eyes and see the images in my mind.

I don't feel alone in the fight anymore. Thank-you guys.

Memories

"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us." Oscar Wilde.

Last night my friend told me she saw a movie. A movie about a woman whose story is similiar to mine. She told me she understands me better. She said she couldn't have survived what I did. She said she's glad I survived.

Hearing her say that, knowing she watched that movie and related it to me made me feel scared. Vulnerable. I couldn't talk. She's read my book. Edited it. Believes God wants to use me to help others. So why do I feel afraid? Listening to her talk about that show brought up painful memories of what happened. The memories hurt. They hurt really bad.

I talked to Maury Blair, author of Child of Woe. He said everytime he shares his story it hurts. The memories surface and it feels like it's happening all over again. But he said he won't stop telling. He does it because God touched him. Healed him. He talks to give hope to others and to help them find some freedom.

I didn't think it would be like this. I didn't think writing what happened would be so hard. When I remember it feels like I'm back there fighting to survive. The anger is there too. Anger at the people who hurt me and anger at myelf for being so powerless.

Why did God let it happen? Why did He allow it? I think of my friends who committed suicide or died by accident. He let me live. He redeemed my life. Why me and not them? I have to tell. Like Maury, I feel compelled to tell even if it's going to hurt everytime I do.

Pride

"Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real." Thomas Merton

In spite of all the drugs I did and the many times I had my head bashed against a wall, I went back to school - to university. Got on the dean's honor list. I thought they made a mistake. I thought I didn't deserved it. I thought if they realized they had given it to me they would take it back.

I struggled to talk in school. I couldn't stand up in front of the class. I couldn't even stand up at my seat or even answer a question. I was afraid of being seen - afraid of being noticed. If I opened my mouth everyone would know that I had no idea what I was saying, that I didn't make any sense.

I couldn't stand up and talk, but I could write. When I write I don't have to prove myself. I don't have to convince anyone of anything. I don't have to stumble and falter and look stupid. No one's looking at me. No one's judging me. When I write, I'm free.

I've always felt like a fraud. I always thought, if people knew........... so I pretended what happened never did. I pushed everything down and copied other people, how they acted, moved and talked. I did all the 'normal' things everyone else did. Then I came home and threw up and cut my arms forcing myself to be strong. Continuing to live a lie.

I never wanted to tell anyone in my life where I came from. Hardly anyone knows. It was so bad that I've been afraid of what people would think of me. Pride. I think I have a lot of pride. Bad pride. The kind that keeps you from living the way God wants. Funny thing about pretending - it keeps you in a cycle of shame - hiding from the world and even from yourself. Somehow I had convinced myself what happened wasn't so bad.

A friend of mine knows I've been writing. She told me last night she can't wait to read my book. I told her I don't know if I want her to see it. She said, It won't change the way I think of you. But I'm not so sure. Pride. I've always worried what people will think of me if I tell them all the stuff that happened. Pride. I want to be real. I don't want to pretend anymore.

My book will be published soon. People will know. They'll know the truth. My friend told me yesterday her church is considering having me speak. She's on the women's committee and she told them about me. She gave them my blog and a copy of the radio program I did. Everyone will know.

When I'm alone I feel God. I feel his presence. His gentle touch. I can't live in silence anymore. I owe that to Him. Maybe I owe it to me too. And if my telling helps just one person find peace and freedom, then the shame of telling versus that of staying quiet is worth it.

Hope

"If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go on in spite of it all. And so today I still have a dream." Martin Luther King, Jr.

We were about the same age. Both of us stuck on a locked pysch ward. Me - to serve out my sentence for drug possession; her - I don't know. They said she was an attention seeker. She didn't look any different than anyone else, but one morning, she poured lighter fluid over her body and lit a match. Her shrill screams, the smell of burning flesh and the sight of the flames engulfing her terrified me. Once medically stable, they threw her in an isolation room. I didn't get that. Why did they punish her? It was a pretty desperate act just to get attention. Why couldn't they just give her the attention?

They didn't know I had been raped or beaten. They didn't know I had been told so many times I deserved nothing and called horrible names. All they knew is I couldn't stop hurting myself, or shooting dope or throwing up. So they pumped me full of pills or tied me to the bed like an animal. What they did was instill more hate inside me. And all that hate made me hurt myself even more.

You can't force anyone to stop self-destructive behaviour. Stopping comes only from feeling safe, feeling accepted, feeling cared about.

It's like the story of the sun and the wind. They had an arguement to see who was stronger - who could make the man take off his coat. The wind blew and tried to force the coat from the man, but only when the sun shone it's warmth, did the man remove his jacket.

The warmth of God's touch cut through my pain, my hate, my fear. It didn't happen all at once. It took time. Time for me to feel safe. Time for me to trust. First, He broke the hold of the drug addiciton. I stopped shooting dope but I still wouldn't eat and I cut myself all the time. I used to scream at God, You want to kill me? Then go ahead. Do it. I don't care. Do it already! I dare you to kill me. In the gentleness of His love, He overlooked my attitude.

Hope. I want to reach out in gentleness like God did for me. Maybe what I lived can give hope to others who live in the dark.

My Voice

"Words are the voice of the heart." Confucious

I never talked. I never told. I never said the things that happened. Instead I hid - overwhelmed with shame, wondering if all those awful things even happened at all. I used to talk in the third person - almost as if I was speaking for someone else and not for myself. I lived as if I wasn't a part of myself - Separate. Detached.

This blog has become my voice. It's given me the freedom to write what I can't say - to put a 'voice' to the memories that play in my head like old reruns that have kept me cowering in shame, - terrified to be seen.

When I sit at my computer and type - I feel free. It kind of feels like running in the woods. I can say what I want. I can say the truth. I can be honest. No one's looking at me.

My book is finished. My writer friend edited the whole thing. She said she was entralled. She said I'll touch many lives. She told me she's proud of me for writing it. My other friend, my best friend, gave my name to some local churches to speak at in the fall. The fall is too far away for me to worry about right now, but I hope I can stand up and have people look at me and tell the truth of what happened.

This morning I went for a run. I listened for God's voice. His voice gives me courage. This morning, I heard, 'trust.' One word. One powerful word. I believe He led me to write. He brought some amazing people to help me including some of you on the blog. I'm grateful, really grateful.

I want my voice to be heard. I don't want to be silent anymore. I want to help other people find peace and freedom. Maybe my story will give them that.

Gut Sense

"We know what a person thinks not when he tells us what he thinks, but by his actions." Issac Bashevis Singer

Her voice was sweet and she seemed kind. I trusted her. But she helped the rapist hold me in that house. Six months, unable to get out of there. She could have let me go at any time. She had the keys to the gate, to the doors - but she wouldn't. She threw me in that small cold empty room, took away my shoes so I wouldn't run, locked the door and even held me down for him....... how could she have appeared so nice, yet participate in something so awful?

What does the face of an abuser look like? I learned the hard way it's not the creepy looking guy that everyone tries to avoid or the dishelved man slumped in a downtown alley mumbling to himself. A pertetrator of harm could be anybody - male or female, young or old. The scariest thing - you can't tell by simply looking at someone if they're unsafe.

This past June my daughter came home from school and said, 'the teacher wanted us to share something we learned from an adult.' She looked at me and smiled. 'I said my mom taught me - something or someone may look good, sound good and have a group of people supporting them, but listen to your gut. Trust that gut sense. If it says danger, - trust it. Run.'

It's taken me so long to learn that. I'm thrilled at 13 she gets it. I've always lived with this fear of someone hurting my girls. It's made me a bit crazy at times and definitely overprotective. Kids trust too easily. They believe in the good of others. How do you not scare them but keep them safe? When my 13 yr. old was small, I was terrified she would go with anyone. But I wasn't a young child when I was pulled into that house. No age is safe.

I have to trust God. Trust Him to keep them safe. My head tells me not to worry. That God surrounds them with His angels and is protecting them. I have to trust. I have to believe.

Letting Go

"Deny your weakness and you will never realize God's strength in you." Joni Eareckson Tada

For years all my efforts went into forcing myself to be strong. The cutting, the drugs, the throwing up - all of it were my attempts at pushing myself to be strong, to not fall, to not give up.

No matter what happened or what anyone did to me - I struggled with myself to stand firm. I refused to cry, refused to admit I was scared or even that I needed help. Instead I lashed out. I felt like I was in a war - fighting so hard I nearly killed myself. Even after God amazingly freed me from the drugs - I continued to hurt myself - refusing to eat, forcing myself to throw up, biting my arms, punching and cutting myself......I told God I trusted Him but I didn't trust Him. I didn't trust Him to not allow me to get hurt again.

As a kid I was threatened to never show fear or sadness. But how do you really do that unless you lose a part of who you are? I went away. Far away. In my head. In my own world. A world where no one could reach me. A world where I couldn't reach me. I got lost. The way back has been long. Hard. There were days I didn't want to come back. I struggled with not wanting to be seen. Being seen meant getting hurt. I didn't want to get hurt again.

I've been afraid of feelings. I never knew how or what to do with them. So I punished myself for having them. Sadness, fear - even joy.

Yesterday I went running in the woods near our old place. As I ran through the secluded hills and trails, I felt like I had come home. In the quiet, the calm, the peacefulness - God's whisper in my spirit reminded me - He was with me. Everything will be ok. I'm learning to let go. I'm learning to lean on His strength.

Silence No More

"I swear never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. Silence encourages the tormentor never the tormented." Eli Wiesel

It's taken me a long time to be willing and able to tell. For years, I said nothing. For years, I couldn't admit what happened. I didn't want anyone to know. Keeping silent though, hurt too much. It kept me in a cycle of shame no matter what I did or how many things I accomplished. I couldn't let people look in my eyes. I knew if they did, they would see how damaged I was.

One day last April, I sat at my computer. The thought jumped into my head, 'I wonder what happened to him?'

I googled his name. Nothing came up. I googled everything I could think of that would bring a hit, but still nothing. And then, a woman emailed me. She knew him. She had gone to university with him. "Call me," she wrote.

I called. She talked. She told me he had spent 3 years in prison for raping his daughter. The woman sent me newspaper articles and court records. She asked how I knew him. The words got stuck in my throat. I couldn't say.

She suggested I call Mike. I did. Mike told he was ruthless, vile, sadistic. He said he had pulled women into his house and locked the door from the inside preventing them from getting out. Over the years five other women told Mike similar stories to mine. - the violence, the rapes, the confinement.

It shocked me to hear what he said. Someone knew. It had happened. I didn't make it up.

I put the phone down. I thought of getting in my car, closing my eyes and driving. But my girls needed me. I would hurt them. I couldn't do that to them. So I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I spent hours writing, and then reading and rereading. I forgot to eat. I forgot to feed the kids. I stayed in my room with the blinds closed, the lights off.

Why now God? Why are you letting me go through this now? And then I learned his son killed himself. I learned of what he had done to him. I felt sick. I thought of my kids. If anyone hurt them, touched them - I would kill them.

I need to tell. I can't be silent anymore. For the boy's sake. For my sake. For everyone who has been raped emotionally or physically - for eveyone who has been humiliated, shamed. degraded in any way.

I need to tell. I want to slip my hand in God's and trust Him to bring something good from everything that took place. I believe He dropped the thought in my head last April, to find out what happened to him.

I"m stronger now. Somehow everything that happened made me strong. I just need to know it's ok to stop fighting. To let go, to trust.

Because I Remember

"Because I remember, I despair. Because I remember I have the duty to reject despair." Eli Wiesel

I feel sad today. Really sad. Not sure why or what caused it. Maybe it's the move - the changes - the need to let go of what was familiar.

Last night we went to check out the wooded trails. They're beautiful, but they're not the same as the ones I used to run in. A guy ran up to us and excitedly pointed across the marsh. "Look." A deer stood in the distance grazing. I thought of the other woods where the deer were everywhere and only an arms length away. It doesn't matter, I tell myself. It doesn't matter. You'll discover new places.

This morning I jumped on my bike and rode until my legs hurt. On the way home, I came through a huge cemetary. I passed an old man wiping the top of a tall gravestone with a cloth. I saw sadness etched on his face. I wanted to stop and say something kind to him but I couldn't. I rode by wondering if he was still taking care of his deceased wife in the only way he could.

I passed a section of about 50 uniform gravestones. Soldiers. Who were those young men who sacrificed their lives? What were their dreams, their hopes, their desires? Were they scared as they watched their friends fall beside them knowing the next bomb could be them? Who were their families who have lived with the pain of their death?

I rarely cry. I have always forced myself to be strong. To not give in. To not fall. I learned that as a kid being humiliated and beaten and terrorized over and over and over. I fought so hard to stay alive - taking all the anger, hurt and pain out on myself. Just to stay alive. - to not buckle. Not fall.

This morning I cried.

I took the kids to see the new Pixar movie, 'Up.' These are the makers of Finding Nemo and Toystory. I needed to laugh, to feel good.

I sat in the theatre crying. Couldn't stop.

The movie was about a boy growing up,getting married, unable to have children - him and his wife holding onto a dream they never fulfilled together. And then she dies and they want to put him in a home. This isn't a kid's movie. It's too sad. Too much about the hardship of life. In the end, he allowed himself to dream new dreams.

I walked out of the theatre knowing I needed to give myself permission to let go of what was and to trust God with whatever lies in the future.

I never allowed myself to cry because I was always afraid if Idid I would fall apart. I didn't fall apart this morning. I think it's ok to cry. I think it helped me to let go and move forward.

"Faith is like radar that sees through the fog - the reality of things at a distance that the human eye cannot see." Corrie Ten Boom."

Since we moved, I've been a mess - really tired and totally frustrated. A few things went wrong and I buckled. I don't like me when I'm like this. It feels too much like the old me - wild - on edge - out of control. I hate the clutter. I hate the boxes. I need order. I need space with things put away. My head knows it will happen in time but I also can't find things. Like the card the publisher gave me at the writing conference. He told me to call him. He told me he wanted to help me. I can't find his card. I want to give up.

As I drove to work I prayed. I put the music on full blast. Music that sang of God's love and care. I started to calm down. I hadn't prayed since we moved. Too much confusion. Too much chaos.

"God, where did I put that card?" The thought jumped in my head, 'the green pencil case.' The green pencil case? Ok then, where did I put that pencil case? Silence. All day, I thought of that pencil case. All day I wondered where I had put it. Came home. Told my daughter and said it could be in one of a gazillion boxes. She opened up one and pulled out a green pencil case. "This it?" she asked. We opened it and there was the publisher's card.

The missing piece for me - Prayer. Trust. Faith that God knows. He's with me. Even in the chaos. Even in the mess.

Closing my eyes I see myself fighting to survive. Fighting to get away from people who are hurting me - climbing a six foot fence in the middle of winter, with no shoes desperate to escape - cowering under the blows of my father's hands - cringing from the stick my mother beat me with - fighting myself - throwing up, cutting and biting my arms, shooting dope - getting high to numb out - forcing myself to be strong, to not buckle - to stay alive.

I feel God's love. His care. The gentleness of His touch. Stop fighting I tell myself. You don't need to fight anymore. For today, it's ok again. For today, I can trust. And breathe. And know He is with me. I can let go and still be safe.