This article was sent to me by a person in my church, one who heard my sermon and thought it would help someone. I found myself relating to it a lot, and thought I would post something about it here, as well as on the actual Facebook page.
The author tells her own story, about her father, and about growing up. She talks about all the ways she just wanted to escape, from Peter Pan taking her away, turning to her faith to guide her, and even wanted to develop other personalities, stronger personalities so that she could escape the hell her father was putting her through. Despite all of this, she loved her father, and when she asked for him to stop the abuse, he guilted her, by treating her badly. When she told her mother two years later, he was arrested, but she still felt guilty and embarrassed.
So much of this spoke to me personally. I loved my step-father, I called him Dad. And yes, my actual Dad had been a part of my life, but I felt lucky because I had two. One near me and one far away. And even in the midst of my abuse, I craved that normalcy, that relationship.
He framed my abuse as a punishment. He also made me promise that I would let him do it whenever he wanted. The one time I refused, he left my room, and stood ominously in the doorway, telling me "I guess you don't keep your promises." I felt so guilty, I cried as I kept myself in my bed, because who was I to break a promise? I wanted to go flying through my door, apologizing and begging him to come back. I have always hated disappointing people, and he played right into that. I didn't chase after him that night, but I never refused again. This makes me feel for the author. "He nodded his head slowly and said that he understood and he was sorry, he would never do things to me again, but that of course our relationship would change and he couldn’t be that nice to me anymore. He said he would have to treat me like shit because I obviously didn’t love him and that I better not say anything to my mother." Same guilt trip, used only to manipulate her into doing what he wanted. She was strong enough to continue refusing even through all his mistreatment of her. I gave in to the manipulation.
Her description of telling her mother is what really spoke to me. I know the look she described. It's a look I saw on my own mother's face, one that still brings tears to my eyes. Her description of telling is something I also relate to. I had stopped praying to God, God hadn't helped me. But the night before, days after my Grandfather had died, I asked him for help instead. When I told my Mom the next day, I felt this surge of strength directly before, starting in my toes and working it's way up through my body to my head. My mouth sort of fell open and my voice was talking and the words just sort of fell out. After they did, the strength was gone. Telling my mother is one strength I have never been able to take full credit for. To me, it's all the stuff afterward that took courage. All the work I did on myself, all the talking, the coming forward, that is what I have done. Telling my Mom was all Grampy, and I am so happy he helped me.
I would love to hear more of your thoughts. What do other people think? Did you relate to this like I did, or not? Let me know in the comments.
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