Stepping Outside the Secrets

A Spiritual Journey from Sexual Abuse to Inner Peace

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Contents

The Beginning

Oh no! That sound again! The wailing of the neighbor's dog, outside in a chain link kennel full of dog poop and dirty water, totally neglected. Beaten down by the hard rain, wind, hail and snow, Buddy and his lonely existence seemed to be noticed by no one but me. I cringed every time I heard his intermittent cries, each pitiful howl sinking my heart deeper and deeper into sadness. I wanted to rescue him, take him away, hold him in my arms, and tell him I loved him; but I was powerless. My own dog, Spirit, a beautiful and healthy dark-red golden retriever, lay beside me on his comfortable cedar bed. In response to his puzzled look I crouched down, enfolded him in my arms, and gave him a comforting hug, transferring loving energy to the wretched pup outside.

In an attempt to help, I called Animal Control; they did nothing except make the owner clean up the piles of poop. The next morning my disheveled hillbilly neighbor banged on my front door, his face red with rage, and screamed that I'd be sorry if I didn't stay out of his business. Buddy – such an ironic name – emitted another long, mournful wail, like someone grieving the loss of a loved one. Choking back tears and welling up with fury, I entertained thoughts of stealing the dog and killing my neighbor.

For two years I agonized over Buddy and wondered why he bothered me so. Staring out the back window, I watched him pace back and forth in his tiny cage with no way out, wanting to comfort him, to reassure him he was not alone. Then one day it hit me. His pain was a reflection of my own suffering growing up in an abusive, alcoholic home. Like Buddy, I too was trapped with nowhere to go and no one to rescue me. I knew what it was like to be alone in a living hell!

I was five. Dad sat in his overstuffed, dirty green chair reeking of alcohol, puffing on a cigar, filling the warm room with a stinky blue-gray haze that made it difficult to breathe, while Mom scurried around the house like a scared rabbit, trying to meet everyone's demands. Sitting with his unbuckled belt and unzipped fly, Daddy called me to his lap. At first I was excited as I leaped into his outstretched arms. He's paying attention to me! I loved my daddy and hungered for his love in return as I cuddled in his protective arms. Resting there, I felt everything would be okay.

But it wasn't, for soon my life changed forever.

One evening, Dad patted his lap and said, "Come here, honey!" He put his arm around me, rubbed my slim shoulder, stroked my blond hair, and told me, "You're my special little girl." I lay in his big strong arms, soaking up his attention, trying to ignore the stinky cigar in his hand and the smell of alcohol on his breath. To be close to Daddy meant I had to put up with all his foul smells.

As we sat alone in the living room watching The Lone Ranger, my dad's favorite show, he rubbed my stomach and then slipped his hand under my shorts and panties and touched my pee-pee. I froze! What is he doing? What if someone sees us? It doesn't feel right. I wiggled to get off his lap, but he held me tight and whispered in my ear, "It's okay, honey. Daddy loves you." Does that make what he's doing okay? I don't know. I'm confused. I want him to love me. Is this love? It must be all right then. I sat still, letting him touch me, but deep down I felt yucky in my gut. Something was wrong. All I wanted was Daddy's love and attention – and to get it I had to put up with his rough, rubbing hands.

Each night, when I heard my father's old yellow Ford Fairlane pull into the driveway, my heart raced and my shoulders tensed up. Will he touch me again? Will he start a fight? I knew he'd be drunk, but how drunk would he be, and who would he pick on tonight? Usually it was Mom, but Jeff, the oldest, was also one of his favorite targets, and he didn't hesitate to use his leather belt on the rest of us. Why doesn't he just stay away? Everyone is happier when he's not around.

He came into the house and Mom got in his face and screamed, "Oh no, John, you've been drinking again," as if it were a surprise. "Shut up!" he said, as he brushed her aside and staggered to his chair. Mom followed him, shouting, "I thought you were going to stop drinking." Dad lifted his right hand and backhanded Mom hard on her right shoulder. "Get out of here."

Sorrowfully, I watched my mother run crying into the kitchen. I hated him. I wanted to hit him back, but I sat silently on the couch, not moving a muscle, trying to be invisible, my stomach in knots, afraid for my own safety and feeling guilty that I could not protect Mom.

Soon it was dinnertime, accompanied by the tension that was always present when Dad was around and drunk. My stomach began doing its usual flip-flops, hunger mixing with fear. You could always count on a big drama unfolding at the table. Dad didn't want to eat and cut the high from his buzz, so he'd start complaining that his steak was undercooked while the rest of us sat staring at the hamburger on our plate. Mom jumped up like the puppet she was around Dad, rushed to the kitchen, cooked the meat some more, hurried back, and placed it in front of him. He picked at it like it was poison, snarled, "It's still not right," and stormed away from the table in a huff, leaving us all upset.

Mom cried, groveling and offering apologies to Dad for her cooking, which made me angry. Why can't she see what he's doing? It isn't her cooking. He just doesn't want to eat. I hurt when I saw her trying so hard to please him. I wanted to scream, "Stop it, Mom, it's not your fault!" but I knew it wouldn't do any good. Dad had already brainwashed her into thinking she was to blame.

I liked Mom's cooking. She made great meals like meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and string beans, and her delicious homemade chili. Sometimes, she surprised me by baking a cherry pie, my favorite dessert. She'd whisper in my ear, "I made this just for you." I'd smile my biggest smile, feeling so special.

I hated the fighting, but at the same time I felt sorry for my father. He drove a big oil truck all day to support the family. Why couldn't he have a few drinks after work? But what did I, a child of five, know about such things? I couldn't understand the dilemma of a mother overwhelmed with too much responsibility, unpaid bills, and a drunken husband.

Our house sat on a tree-lined street in a mid to upper-class neighborhood in Covington, Kentucky. It was an attractive twostory, red brick home with potted deep-red geraniums lining the porch railing. An old wooden swing, painted pea green, hung by heavy chains from the porch ceiling, a favorite spot to sit on hot summer nights. The house was surrounded by two giant oak trees, which provided a canopy of shade in the sweltering Kentucky summers and an abundant supply of acorns for the hungry chipmunks and squirrels.

Inside the front door was a rectangular-shaped living room with a couple of stuffed chairs and a couch flanked by two end tables, each with a lamp. A beautifully crafted wood mantel rested atop the fireplace, with built-in bookcases on each end. Through the arched doorway to the left was the dining room, where we gathered for family meals around a large oval-shaped oak table. Behind the dining room was the kitchen, Mom's room, with its brightly painted yellow cabinets and matching yellow window valances.

At the top of the staircase leading to the second floor was my room – the girls' room – sparsely decorated with a small dresser, double bed and daybed, just enough room for me and my two sisters to sleep in. Down the hallway on the left was our only bathroom, quite a challenge for a family of ten. At the end of the hallway were two more nondescript bedrooms. The boys' room, to the right, had two double beds for my four brothers. My parents' room, on the left, held a double bed plus the baby bed for my youngest sister.

Behind the house there was an extended driveway with a basketball court. Up a small embankment filled with orange tiger lilies was a spacious backyard with a swing and plenty of room for touch football games. Everything looked idyllic from the outside. But inside, the walls guarded well-kept secrets, and skeletons hid in the closets: dark secrets of sexual abuse, hard, heavy drinking, and violence.

Mom was a hardy woman of German heritage who believed strongly in hard work and religious devotion. Being a devout Catholic, she did not practice birth control, so the babies rolled out like cars off an assembly line. I was the fifth child in six years, followed by three more. I liked being in a large family and having lots of brothers and sisters to play with. I don't remember Mom ever holding me on her lap, hugging or kissing me, or even telling me she loved me; but somehow I knew she did.

Once it began, my father's sexual touching continued, apparently with no one in our crowded home paying attention. Then one day my mother came around the corner, saw me sitting on his lap, and screamed, "Elaine, get down! You're too big to be sitting on your father's lap!" I jumped down, feeling as if I'd done something terribly wrong. It's my fault. I'm to blame. I'm a bad person.

Looking back, I see how I took on the blame, as many abused children do. When we are young, our vision of the world is small, and everything is about us: what we do or don't do. If I hadn't said that, this wouldn't have happened. If I hadn't done that, everybody would have been happy. The tendency to self-reference is what makes it so easy for a young child to pick up blame. Young children do not possess the mental skills necessary to refute the erroneous idea that they are to blame and to see that there is no truth to it. I repeatedly told myself that if I hadn't sat on Daddy's lap it wouldn't have happened. It was my fault, and I carried that shame for years – until I realized it was only natural for a child to want to be close to her father and want his love. I did nothing wrong!

There are many other reasons why children grow up blaming themselves for sexual abuse. Sometimes they feel it's their fault for not trying harder to stop it, for not saying no, or for not telling anyone, even if their perpetrator said it was a secret or threatened harm if they told someone. If a child experienced abuse from multiple abusers who are not related, she might feel that it's her fault because there were so many. This is what happened to me. There were multiple abusers, and because I was the one constant in the picture I felt there must be something wrong with me. Some children feel guilty because it felt good or they were sexually aroused, which is natural.

The shame and blame that is picked up by a sexually abused child creates a veil of secrecy. You can't tell anyone because you assume it's your fault, and that would make you a bad person. There is a saying that we are only as sick as our secrets, and this is especially true with childhood sexual abuse. Part of the healing involves getting the bogeyman out of the closet, talking about the secrets, and coming to the realization that we are victims. A child can never ever be to blame for sexual abuse.

The sexual abuse at the hands of my father marked the beginning of my confusion between sex and love. The two intermingled, with love and sex being one and the same. For many years I struggled with setting healthy sexual boundaries with men, continually unable to say no. I found myself perpetually thinking that if I went along with sex, I would get love. Yet, that never happened. I ended up feeling used and abused. Finally, I realized that sex is sex and love is love. In adult relationships, they sometimes go together. Sexual abuse, however, is never about love. My dad and others who abused me didn't love me. They stole my soul and stripped me of my dignity.

Catholicism and Shame

It was Friday, and I wakened to the sounds of birds chirping outside my open window. I lingered in bed, not wanting to get up, until it dawned on me that in two days I was going to make my First Holy Communion. My excitement at the thought propelled me out of bed like a jungle animal, eyes wide open, on full alert. I had to get ready for school, where Sister Lucille would go over the final instructions for Sunday.

On Saturday night Mom tied rags over all the bathroom faucets so I couldn't get up in the middle of the night and take a drink of water. In the early fifties the Catholic Church had strict fasting guidelines. Sister Lucille had told me, "You are forbidden to eat or drink anything after midnight if you want to receive Communion the next morning. If you break your fast and go to Communion, you commit a mortal sin. And if you die before going to Confession, you will go to hell." I certainly didn't want to go to hell, so I was glad Mom tied up all the faucets.

Finally it was Sunday! I got up and took a bath and Mom curled my hair. She dressed me in a beautiful white-laced dress with a gathered waist and ruffled hem, then placed on my head a long white veil that extended down to the middle of my back. White gloves and shiny white patent leather shoes completed my outfit. I looked and felt like a little porcelain doll.

In church, my family watched as I reverently approached the altar and received Jesus for the first time. The Church taught that Communion was the actual body and blood of Christ, so this was a special moment. I was so thrilled to meet Jesus in Communion that I thought my heart would burst. I bowed my head and said, "Jesus, I love you so much. Thank you for coming to be with me."

After Mom took pictures outside the church, we drove home and friends and family began arriving for my party. I could hardly contain my excitement. They were coming to see me in my pretty white dress. I was the star of the show. Even some of my older brothers' and sisters' friends showed up. My oldest brother, Jeff, who was thirteen, invited his best friend Ronnie to drop by. Ronnie was a fixture at our house. He was like part of the family. When Ronnie saw me, he said, "Hi, Sweetie," and gave me a big hug. "Now don't you look pretty in your white dress?" Beaming a sunny smile, I politely said, "Thank you."

I liked Ronnie. His easy sense of humor made me laugh, and I especially appreciated that he paid special attention to me. It was both exciting and disturbing to watch how he and Jeff always managed to get into trouble together. I secretly observed them as they took a big swig of wine from the bottle for the guests on the kitchen table. Later, I saw them sneak outside behind the house to have a smoke. They were often up to no good.

The guests milled around me and made over my dress and gave me gifts: prayer books, rosaries, cards and money. Mom served her delicious deep-fried chicken, baked beans, potato salad, and chocolate cake. We had a feast. I fell into bed that evening exhausted but very much in high spirits.

The next day I left early for school to spend time on the playground before church. All our school days began with Mass and Communion. The bell rang. I came in hot and sweaty from playing and took a drink at the water fountain, something I had done every school day for two years. Not until I got to church did I realize I had broken my fast. I panicked and wondered which would be worse, committing a sin or telling Mom I didn't receive Communion. Confused and worried, I obsessed over my two options. When the time arrived, I just followed my other classmates to the altar and received Communion, but I knew I had to go to Confession the next day.

Along with First Communion came Confession, admitting our sins to the priest. Yikes! This was not half as exciting as receiving Communion, but a good Catholic has to do it. Terrified, I went to Confession and confessed my sin: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I broke my Communion fast." The priest replied, "What you did was just like spitting in the face of Jesus."

I was devastated. I felt so ashamed. Tears began pouring down my little seven-year-old cheeks. I mumbled through my Act of Contrition, left the confessional box, and ran out of church sobbing. How could I have hurt Jesus? Surely, I am a bad person. I had picked up the blame and carried guilt about my father touching me, and now I had hurt Jesus. Horrified, I felt I would carry the priest's harsh reprimand for as long as I lived, and I have never forgotten his response.