I’m No Super Hero

Posted on October 7, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

Of all the emotions I have had to face on my journey to be a survivor, anger is certainly the hardest.  Anger is an emotion, at least in my opinion, society has decided it is not safe to have.  The perception is that women cannot control anger, and therefore should not have it.  Anger is a masculine emotion.

I never wanted to be angry because I did not think I could control it.  I thought once I tapped into the anger, I would never stop being angry or that I would be consumed by rage.

Anger can lead people to be out of control if they are not in control of it.  Anger can be taken out on others inappropriately, but anger is also powerful.

I have joined a support group for survivors of sexual abuse.  The stories these people, who are predominately women, tell are astounding.  They have been tortured by members of their own families.  These are people who are supposed to have loved them.

These people have been bound and gagged, electrocuted, kidnapped, raped repeatedly, harassed, burned, drugged, gang raped, raped with objected, beaten.  I can barely tolerate to hear the stories of suffering.  I am angry at their abusers and angry at systems of “justice” that fail to act.

If we heard any of these peoples’ on the news, we would be appalled.  The outcry would be so loud and cries for justice would drown out the sound of traffic in New York.  There would be thousands of people storming the gates at the Hague to raise cries of crimes against humanity.

Because that is exactly what child sexual abuse is.  It is a crime against humanity and a violation of human rights.

I did not get that for a very long time.  I knew what happened to me was bad, but I did not realize how bad it was.  To use an overused phrase,  I could not see the forest for the trees.  I was so broken by the abuse, I could not see how bad it really was.  I could always see how bad it was for others, but for myself, I simply could not see how bad it had been.

It was so bad, it almost destroyed me.  And there are parts of me it actually did destroy.  My thought process has been permanently altered.  I have struggled to feel safe, to form a lasting relationship, to be in charge of my sexuality, to live my life to the fullest.

But I have battled back.  I am in charge of my life and even thought the abuse has changed me, I push on, even when it’s hard.  I get up every day and try to live life to the fullest.  Some days I don’t succeed, but I’m come to the point that I can take that in stride (at least for the most part) and get up again the next day and try again.

I don’t do that because I’m a super hero.  I wish I had a cape, but that would just make me a regular person with a non-breathable polyester cape.

I do it because again and again, I see the people in this group get up and battle back.  They express their pain and frustration, then in the next second, they are comforting someone else who is hurting.  I do it because I see people move from being broken and feeling victimized to saying, “I won’t take this anymore.  I’m choosing me.”

It is worth it to deal with the anger, even though I don’t like it because on the other side of the anger, there are amazing people living every day.  It is hard, and it is hard for them, but they go on and show such strength and such admirable courage.  I will keep writing my little blog posts, spurred on by the courage and strength of others.

I make no suppositions that I do this on my own.  I write for myself, but then I write for every survivor who keeps pressing on.  I also write for the survivors who did not make it, and for whom the pain was too great.  There is no shame in that, except that we as a world full of human beings, do not feel the collective anger necessary to stop abuse.

We don’t feel that anger because we don’t feel connected, and we don’t hear the stories.  But there are people who have heard the stories, and their lives and perspectives are changed because of it.  I don’t give up because I know peoples’ perspectives can be changed and then they are aware.  The awareness may not change the world, but it is one step closer to a changed world because another person recognizes the horror of abuse.

So, I’ve been dealing with the anger and the outrage, and in the process, I got a reminder that every bit of it is worth it because I’m not the only one who feels it or who fights against abuse.  For me, that is more than enough.

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In Ways I Cannot Describe

Posted on September 25, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

I just got back from a wonderful vacation in Florida.  While I was there, I saw five dolphins.  To me, dolphins represent the freedom that I have never known in life.  They are so majestic and beautiful.  I have stood and watched for them for hours.

When I am lucky enough to see even one, it is as if my heart beats in a smoother pattern.  It beats as if there is a peace in the world and I may some day know it.  It touches my soul at a depth I cannot describe.

In 2001, my sister and I went to California.  Before we left, I had done some research into getting a tattoo.  I found an artist in Santa Barbara.  I loved her work and decided I wanted her to do my tattoo.

I wanted a dolphin.  I wanted a piece of that freedom as part of my body.  I felt like so much had been taken from me, I wanted a visual reminder of where I had been and how far I had come.

We went to the shop and realized it was almost closing time.  Pat Fish was congenial, though gruff.  I didn’t want flash, but was so nervous I couldn’t ask her to design something for me.  So I chose a design and she tattooed me.

It took two hours.  It didn’t hurt because my arm quickly fell asleep because it was tucked under my body so she had easy access to my shoulder as flat as it could be.

It is deep, and I bled a lot, but that is also somewhat symbolic.  All the pain I went through when I was a child was hidden.  I kept it all inside.  The tattoo reflected the pain and the hurt, but made it visible, and turned it into something beautiful.

Pain is not beautiful, but so many survivors turn their pain into passion and speak for themselves and other survivors as often as they are able.  In that way, the experience is transformed and something beautiful comes out of it.

My tattoo is in a place where I can show it if I want, but usually chose not to show it.  That, too, is similar to my experience.

When people find out that I have a tattoo, they are often surprised.  I often hear, “You don’t seem like the type to have a tattoo.  Why do you have one?”  I usually ask if they really want to know.  That gives them a second to think about it, and gives me a second to gather the strength to tell my truth.

It takes a lot less effort to tell my truth than it used to, but there are always implications, for me and the person listening.  For me, it is telling something that people do not really want to hear and risk touching the pain all over again.  For them, it risks touching their pain of they were abused as well.

There is no beauty in what happened to me.  Absolutely none.  I hope that I bring beauty to it by telling the story with grace, truth, courage and care.  I also hope it makes it easier for others to speak their pain.  That is the best result I could every possibly experience.

That, like the dolphin, touches my soul in ways I cannot describe.

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But The Bad Days Don’t Last Long And I Know What It Feels Like To Be Whole

Posted on September 7, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

Jennifer’s Story, Part II

The first adult I told about “my affair with the pastor” was also a minister, who served at the denominational college I attended (recommended by my pastor, who continued to see me on visits to campus).  I was having trouble in a class at college and this man was asked to look in on me.  When I confessed to him what was going on, he said was outraged at my pastor but never considered turning in his colleague and friend.  It remained a secret, as I started going to him for counseling.  For the next year or so, we talked frequently and he tried to help me understand what had happened to me.  He admitted that he too had been attracted to girls my age when he was a pastor at a church and told me how tempting some girls were.  He made it sound like it was just one of those things…wrong but sometimes inevitable.  He asked me in our “counseling sessions” when was the first time I pleasured myself, concluding that I was one of those early sexual girls.  We eventually stopped “counseling” but remained friends while I was at college.  Just before I graduated, he started trying to have sex with me.  I guess he finally couldn’t resist.

The second person I told about what happened to me in my church was the Campus minister.  He informed me that if I wanted to, I could bring church charges against the pastor.  He said that if I chose to do so that I should be prepared to put my family through hell and have my entire sexual history exposed.  He recommended that instead, I focus on healing my own pain and guilt.  Basically, he treated me for sexual addiction.

The third person I went to for help was also a minister, from another denomination.  He waited three days after I told him about my experience as a child to start molesting me.  I was 25.  He was 65.  When I tried to break it off, he became enraged.  He wrote letters to my boss, my friends and my husband describing the sexual contact we had been having.  He was defrocked by his congregation and forced into retirement.

The first non-minister, woman I told about my abuse was a professional counselor at the college where I was getting my masters.  She invited me to join a support group for survivors of sexual abuse.  We had a group of five and met regularly.  The group encouraged me to report my first abuser to the church, which I did.  I wrote the Bishop and told him that I had been molested as a minor, and named him.  I received a letter back from the Bishop weeks later saying he was very sorry but the statute of limitations had run out and there was nothing that could be done.  I’m sure that if my counselor at that time had known of his response, she would have been outraged.  She never got to see it, though.  She was killed in a car accident on the way to work.  The group disbanded.

From that point on, I went through periods of time, when I tucked my abuse away, other times when I went to therapists and worked on issues.  Little by little, I got healthier and understood more about myself.  But, for the next 20 years I carried one very unhealthy belief with me.  Deep down, I still believed that what happened to me at 15 was somehow special…unique, and that I was at least partially responsible.  That changed when I found out in 2008 that another woman had brought church charges against my abuser AND HAD LOST!  Suddenly, I realized that what happened to me was in no way special or unique.  For the first time in my life, I owned that I was a victim.  A victim of a master abuser.  I have heard so many times that in order to heal, you have to stop being a victim and become a survivor.  But truly, for me, real healing started when I stood in the realization that I was a victim.  Since that time, I have become a survivor and I have found the self that was lost for 30 years.

After finding out that my abuser was able to avoid a conviction in the church when my letter had established a prior history, I became extremely angry.  I started looking for the woman who had had the courage to bring charges.  When, I found her, it was incredible.  She told me that my letter was read aloud at her pre-trial hearing and even though it was determined that it could not be brought as evidence, it gave her the strength to continue when doubts filled her mind.  Life is amazing, and after she lost her battle to convict him, she continued on her path to becoming ordained and she is now the pastor at the church where I was abused!  We have become soul sisters and visit regularly, but I have not visited her in my home town yet.  I’m working on the courage to visit the church and let her make it a safe place for me again.

Every paragraph in my story is a story in itself.  I would like to start writing about my healing process and the insights I have embraced.  I have been blessed with finally finding and loving myself…most days.  Some days are still very hard.  The slightest thing can set me off.  But the bad days don’t last long and I know what it feels like to be whole.

Thank you so much for sharing your story, Jennifer.  I know it will help other people heal.

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My Name Is Jennifer Part I

Posted on September 6, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

I have lifted up the offer to several people for a guest blogger.  Someone has finally taken me up on the offer!  This is Jennifer’s story, Part I.  Thank you for your courage and your strength.

My name is Jennifer.  I am a survivor of sexual abuse.   My abuser has never been stopped from abusing people, even though he has been accused multiple times by multiple people.

I grew up in a small, Midwestern town in the sixties and seventies.  I was born with a difference; I am one-handed.  In a small, Midwestern town, we didn’t get very many “different” people, so I experienced a lot of overstated reactions as a child.  People would gasp, point, cringe, and pity, and almost everyone I met asked “what happened to your arm?”  I didn’t know how to answer.  Nothing happened to my arm,   so I would answer ‘I was born this way.”

7th and 8th grades were particularly hard for me.  I wanted more than ever to fit in, be accepted, and couldn’t.  I found it difficult to talk to my parents about things, so I turned to my youth group pastor for counseling.  He was a wonderful man.  All the youth loved him, and he always made time if you needed to talk.  We did a lot of talking and I finally started to feel as though someone really cared for and accepted me.  Then he left.  He decided he wasn’t cut out for ministry and he left the church.

In my denomination, pastors were assigned by the bishop.  The conference was having some problems with another pastor who had gotten into an argument with his secretary and slapped her.  She sued for assault and won.  The bishop decided that a new start was what this man needed, so he was assigned to my parish.

I see now that I had already been groomed to be his victim.  I was isolated, depressed, hungering for acceptance and love.  I didn’t talk to my parents, didn’t have many friends and was eager to please.  He must have been salivating the day I walked into his study and introduced myself, asking for help.  He dropped everything, stopped his unpacking and listened to me describe my fears, anxieties and woes for over an hour.  At the end of my visit, he hugged me long and hard and told me he hoped I would come back.  He mentioned that Saturday mornings were a good time because it was quiet in the church and he could spend more time with me.

On one hand, he was very quick to act.  He was touching me on the hips, buttocks and small of my back.  On the other hand, he was so patient.  He waited months for me to decide that he must be in love with me and “make the first move”.  He asked me to show him around the new church, asked me my opinion about decisions he had to make, caressed me when he talked to me in private.   We were sitting and talking one day on a couch in a Sunday School room, and eventually started hugging.  When I stood up to go, I noticed a lump in the front of his pants.  It so happened that we were studying human reproduction in Biology class at the time and soon after, I saw an animated film that told how when a man is in love with a woman and they want to make love that a man gets an erection.  Suddenly, I knew — he was in love with me and didn’t know how to tell me!  The next time we met, I let him know that I loved him too, but I wasn’t sure that it was right that we have sex.  Again, he was so very patient, but the touches became much more sexual.  I would have done anything for him at 15 years old.  And I did –for three and a half years.

The rest of Jennifer’s story will be forthcoming tomorrow.  Thanks again for your courage and your strength!

 

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Who Am I?

Posted on September 4, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

“I like hot chocolate. I like to read. I was raped when I was five and I never knew I liked those things.” I was standing at my job, waiting to prepare the woman’s coffee, and this is what she told me.  I was a little stunned.  Most people are not quite that frank about their abuse.

At the same time, what she said resonated with me.  I have often eaten things or drank things or done things because someone else liked them.  I did not know what I liked.

It wasn’t only that I didn’t know what I liked, I didn’t realize I didn’t know.  Once I realized it, I didn’t really know what to do to find out.

It started with strawberries.  I used to think that strawberries were my favorite fruit, yet when I ordered a shake from  Whitey’s Ice Cream, I would get raspberry.  I didn’t think about it, but if you had asked me, I would have said strawberry was my favorite.

The same was true of colors.  I used to believe my favorite color was blue.  I have no problem with blue and it is something I wear a lot.  I knew I did not like to wear black or white because it made me look pale.  I went to Boston for a women’s conference several years ago and was going to buy a blue sweatshirt.  My friend suggested I buy one that was more of a raspberry color.  I was hesitant because I didn’t think it would look good on me.  It took a lot of internal debating, but I finally bought the sweatshirt my friend suggested.  I loved it and wore it for years.

All of my choices were taken away when I was being abused.  I tried to be the perfect daughter – not say anything to rock the boat, not disrupt my family.  I didn’t want to admit all the pain and horror I was going through.  It seemed like too much to reveal.  I felt like my soul was already dead and wasn’t sure I had anything left to sustain me.

My sense of self was so diminished.  Not only did I not know who I was; I didn’t think it mattered.  No one seemed to care that my father was abusing me.  I thought no one cared about me enough to do anything to help me.

At the same time, I knew that wasn’t entirely true.  As I’ve talked about before, I did have some completely amazing friends and teachers who did care.  They may not have been able to stop the abuse, but they nurtured my spirit and helped keep me alive.

The loss of self is such a traumatic thing.  I found myself trying to mold myself into what other people wanted me to be.  I wouldn’t voice my opinion because I didn’t know what the other person’s opinion was and didn’t want them not to like me because we didn’t agree.

I craved people to like me.  My self was diminished but not completely gone and I would often hear myself saying things I knew I did not believe, but I was trying to please the other person.  That was what I had been trained to do.

My father and my other abusers had molded me into such a receptive person, I didn’t know how to even begin to figure out what I liked or who I was.  I got over that slowly and eventually began to feel again and feel a sense of who I was.

So who am I?  I am a woman who likes raspberries and rainstorms, ice cream and intelligence, bagels and brownies, rum and rainbows, stars and sunshine, friends and fun, writing and working.  I live, I laugh, I love, I cry.

Know who I am yet?  Not a chance, but I’m learning as I go and I hope you continue to learn with me.

Please watch this week for a guest post from a woman in the Midwest who is a survivor and advocate as well.  I can’t wait to introduce her to you.

 

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The Power of Change

Posted on August 18, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

Today, President Obama spoke in my home town.  He spoke in Atkinson, Illinois.  If I were able, I would have gone.  I love the fact that the president spoke in my town.  I am excited that Obama is president of the United States.  Not everything has gone as he thought and hoped, but I think the fact of who he is, his heritage, ethnicity, etc., gives me hope.  It takes a looong time, but society and attitudes can change.  That does not mean there isn’t a struggle, and there aren’t people who are angry, but things can be different.

I know someone who used to work for the President, and I sent him this email when I found out about Obama’s trip to Atkinson. “Hi Mike.  I know you don’t have direct ties to the president anymore, but if you have his email, could you let him know on his trip to Atkinson, Illinois, he will be in the town of a convicted child molester who no longer has to report, and who has brutalized the lives of at least nine people?  I just think he should know.”  After I hit send, I added, “Here’s my blog address if he’d like to read up.”

Did he speak about child abuse while he was in Atkinson?  No.  Did he have the police arrest my father for just being a general danger to society?  No, unfortunately not.

But it doesn’t really matter.  Just by sending that email, it is a reinforcement to me that things have changed.  I have changed.  The way people see sexual abuse survivors and the way laws are written and enacted is changing.

It is slow and painful and there are days that I don’t believe one single thing will ever be different.  Children are still being abused.  People are still turning away and ignoring it, but people are also aware.  Mandated reporting has become the norm, not the exception.  It is harder for priests and ministers to say they couldn’t report because of confidentiality.  Some states are also moving toward charging a mother or father as an accessory to a crime if they knew and did nothing.

People like Erin Merryn are traveling around the country, talking to law makers, and getting laws passed to educate kids about child sexual abuse.

People like Chris and Ophelia de Serres are posting videos and speaking out in the My Name is Project and Male Survivors, helping people find their voices.  They are letting people know that there is no shame in being abused.

People like me, from small town, rural, 950-people Atkinson, Illinois are telling their stories.  I found my voice.  I lived through the pain, the self-hatred, the shame, the thoughts that it would be better if I were dead.  I got through always feeling like a freak, an outcast, “unclean.”

These are all things I never thought I’d do.  And most of the things I do in my life are all things I never thought I would do.  I never thought I’d go to college.  I never thought I’d get a master’s degree.  I never thought I’d travel outside the country.  I honestly never, ever, ever thought I’d survive.

The pain of being abused was blinding.  I could not see anything that was not connected to abuse.  I saw abuse in everything I read, every sentence that was spoken to me.  It was everywhere.  My senses were flooded with it and I could think of nothing else.

There are still days in which my senses tingle with the memories.  The anxiety sometimes lives just under the surface and makes it hard to breathe.  I see men that look like my father and feel the flight mechanism take over, then have to remind myself that it isn’t my father and I am safe now.

I’m still cautious and aware, but I am no longer haunted with flashbacks.  It has been years since I had one.  That doesn’t mean that I couldn’t have one, but to me, it means I’ve worked through a lot of the pain.

In most situations, I can now say to people, “I am a survivor of sexual abuse” without feeling like my insides are being ripped out.  I can listen to the pain of another survivor who is struggling and actually listen.  I am no longer overlaying their pain with mine.

It took a lot of therapy from a very good therapist and the love of truly understanding friends.  I could never have done it by myself.  But I have moved through most of the pain.  As a girl from a small town, I did things no one expected of me.  I have done things that were not only not expected, but discouraged by my father.

I am reminded again of the grace and tenderness of my friends.  They could see the potential through the broken, anguished person I felt I was.  And they held on.  When I wanted to give up or thought I had had all I could take, they were there with open arms on which I could lean until I was able to move on my own.

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It is a constant process, but I see myself more through the eyes of my friends and people who believe in me than through the eyes of a pedophile.  It is an amazingly different perspective.

I’m still a small town girl, who is proud that the president went to her town today.  But now I’m a small town girl with dreams and tangible potential.

 

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I Just Have To Remember

Posted on August 10, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

I went to the fair with my friend last weekend.  She knows practically everyone in town.  And she has friends from high school with whom she still hangs out.  They play and frolic like kids when they get together.

And seeing that was a beautiful thing.  They laughed, they sang, they danced.  It was like being in some sort of dream.  I will laugh and have a good time.  I used to sing, but I never dance.

I do not feel the freedom.  The music touches my heart, but it does not touch my feet.  They root to the floor and refuse to let me move.  I am afraid I will look stupid.  I am afraid that people will be watching me.  I am afraid I will lose control.

As a survivor of abuse, I spent a lot of my life feeling completely and totally out of control.  I used to be in gymnastics and swimming.  I think I had some talent at it, but what I had to wear made me too uncomfortable to learn the moves or enjoy the water.  I felt exposed.  I always felt that I held back because I didn’t want to be noticed, either for a talent or for my body.

I didn’t want to be noticed.  Most of the time, I wanted to hide.  I wanted my life to stop spiraling out of control and not having any say about it.

I wanted to stop hurting.  I didn’t want to be scared.  I didn’t want to have to hide such a horrible secret.  I didn’t want other people to have to hurt as much as me.

There are many survivors I know who are dancers.  I greatly admire their physical presence and the freedom they exhibit in their dancing.  My friend Nissa is a dancer and she made a beautiful video entitled, “My Name is Nissa” as a response to the “My Name is Chris” video.  It is a dance of healing from sexual abuse.  She choreographed it, and her best friend wrote and sang the song in the first video.  I have watched the video several times before, but never listened to the song until today.  Before, I loved the grace of the dance.  It gave me chills before.  Today, it touched that deep place in my heart that has no words, but strums the heart strings.

As a reminder of part of the freedom I have gained, I got a tattoo on April 11, 2000.  I had wanted one for a long time, but held back.  I finally got it on a trip to California with my sister.  I got a dolphin on my left shoulder blade.  I love it.  The day after I got it, I was still in a little bit of pain, but we went to Disney Land.  I felt more free on that day than I ever had before.

People ask me why I got a tattoo.  I always ask them if they really want to know.  If they say yes, then I tell them because I was sexually abused as a child and it helped me reconnect with my body and it helps me to feel free.

As I said when my friend dance at the fair, I was reminded that dancing allowed them to be free and in connection with their bodies.  She kept apologizing to me because she was having fun and I was sitting on the sidelines.

I wasn’t having fun necessarily, but I was having a moment.  I was getting a reminder of something that was taken from me.  I was reminding myself that even though I don’t dance, doesn’t mean I don’t know what freedom feels like.  I just have to remember.

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It Isn’t Always Easy to Hope

Posted on August 8, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

I had to get a tire changed on my car today.  I also had to get the car jumped last night.  It’s a new to me car and I believe it sat for a while, so it has some issues.

Those seem like simple things, but for me, because of my abuse, it is not always easy.

My father was a diesel mechanic.  I guess he still is, but it is hard to talk about him in present tense because then I have to wonder about the safety of any child with whom he may have contact.

It sounds silly, but it is hard for me to get anything done with my car.  I can do it, but it sometimes takes some convincing.  The memories are close to the surface when I see the shop, but especially when I smell the grease.  My father always had grease on his hands.  It did not matter how much he washed his hands or what he washed them with, the stain of the grease and the smell never went away.

When I go to get my car fixed, I have to do a little deep breathing before I go in.  I have to focus.  My father is not going to be in the shop where I am getting my car fixed.  I will not have to go to the bathroom with all the pornographic pictures hanging around.  I will not have to wonder what will happen while I am there, or on the way home.  I will not have to feel the pain and disgust of what happened on the way.

An oil change is a simple thing, but it can be a lot more complicated.  That is one struggle that survivors have.  A simple thing that others do with ease or without thought is anything but simple for a survivor.  Because there are so many sick people in the world, the list of things survivors have endured is endless.  A food can be a trigger.  A phrase, a glance, the name of a place, a piece of clothing, a picture.

Our minds, bodies and spirits have endured so much.  It is unimaginable, and for some of us, unendurable.  For the survivors who might read this, I’m going to skip the list of things that come to mind that trigger some of us.  The things that we have lived through would astound you.

And I hope appall you.   I think we are often desensitized to the pain and violence that surrounds us.  We have to shut part of it out, so that we can continue to survive.  We have to be able to believe that there is good left in the world.  If we take in all the pain people actually experience, and all that we see on television, our hope is doomed.

Hope is a fragile, yet durable thing.  I have often tried to give up hope.  I have wanted to give it up, but still it burns within me.  Sometimes, it is as small and fragile as a freshly kindled flame.  It could easily be blown out.  It is usually not.  Hope keeps me going.  It allows me to do the simple things like get the oil changed in my car.  It allows me to do the hard thinks, like live through the abuse in the first place.  Hope allows me to make it through the flashback and anxiety.  And more importantly, it allows me to speak, loudly and as often as I can.

I may not have all the answers, but I have the tools to keep going.  It helps me write, breathe and live.  I am grateful for hope, and know I couldn’t go on with out it.

I hope for you hope.  Wherever you find it, hold onto it.  Be gentle with it, as I hope you can be with yourself.

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Survivor Archives Project Posted!

Posted on August 7, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

My contribution to The Survivor Archives Project is complete.  It was a wonderful, rewarding and daunting experience.  The letter to my father’s other victims was by far the hardest piece of the Project to write.  Even though I write about sexual abuse and my experience regularly, writing to the others I know exist gave it a startling new reality.  I cannot tell their stories, yet I have to treat them with infinite care and discretion.  Some have spoken out, and some have chosen to keep silent.  I know there are others about whom I do not yet know.  It will be another blow when I I learn of their pain, but it will also steel my determination to keep speaking.  We have walked through searing pain, and come out on the other side.

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The Survivor Archives Project

Posted on July 25, 2011 by Jackie Shaw

I have learned another secret.  It is another one which I can not share because it is not my story to tell.  But it does impinge on my story and I wonder how it changes me.  It knocked me out when I first heard.  I could not stop crying.  When the voice started, I knew what it would say.  I knew the fear, the pain, the anxiety, the disgust it would disclose.

I was angry and sad.  Actually I was furious.  Not at the person speaking but at the person who caused the pain, and the others who stood by, turning their heads and pretending they did not see.

I have put this off too long.  Almost a year ago, I agreed to be part of the Survivor Archive Project.  It is another telling of survivor’s stories.  I got all the paperwork in except this last piece.  I did not want to write them all a letter as I said I would.  It was too hard.  I did not know what to say.  I did not want to put a torch to their pain unnecessarily.  I did not want to touch my own pain.  I have learned that it is easier to tout my strength than to remember to pain and what it was like before I felt like I was a survivor.

So here goes.

Dear other survivors in my family,

I am so proud to know all of you and to know that in a huge way, you have all battled a monster masquerading as a man.

You battled, and you survived.  It was not your fault.  You did not ask for it.  You did not deserve it.  You deserved to be treated with love and care, but all that was taken from you.

You are not alone in your pain and your struggle.  There are many of us.  I am actually not sure of the exact number but I do know it is far too high.  One child that endures abuse is too much.  We are many.  None of us asked to be in this family of violence and pain.  We were all initiated into a group in which we did not wish to belong.

We had good times too, but it is hard for me to remember any of them.  They feel tainted and I remember them as I do the abuse – as if it was happening to someone else.

We were different ages when the abuse began.  We are different genders.  We all thought it was our fault and we did something wrong for which we had to be punished.  That is one of the lies we were told.  We were told to be quiet and not tell.  It was like being fed poison, but we had no choice.

I remind survivors who are having a hard time and having lots of flashbacks not to hurt themselves and remember that the pain is in the past.  Writing this letter feels a little bit like it is still in the present.  When I revisit the pain, knowing that there is more bound up in each of you.  The tentacles of abuse are long and strong.  Sometimes it feels like they are wrapping around my neck.

But I am no longer in that little town.  I am no longer a child forced into silence.  In our own ways, we have all spoken out, even if i was only a small, strangled “yes.”  Yes, it happened to me too.

I love you all and am honored to have you in my family.  I am glad you have found lives and loves and were able to say yes, me too.

I wish I could put your pictures here to show people the faces of other survivors.  I know some of you do not wish to be named and I would never betray your trust.  We have all been betrayed enough.

Be well and namaste.

Jackie Lawrence Shaw

Wilson Philips \”Hold On\”

 

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