Back when I was in therapy, my therapist would correct me every time I minimized some part of my molestation. I agonized when I worked the timeline based on the house we lived in, and the season, and realized I was most likely 9 when I was molested at a public pool and raped at a subsequent sleepover. Not 8 as I had thought. I blamed my 9 year old self for not being old enough to know better. My therapist asked me if I would blame my 9 year old daughter if it happened to her.
When I recounted for her the time my youth leader slid his hand up my minor thigh under the covers on a bus trip, I told her that his second wife once asked me if he’d ever touched me, and that I, at first, denied it, then minimized it. Not just because I didn’t want to ruin her upcoming wedding, but because I loved him like a father and had let him walk me down the aisle at my wedding. My therapist nodded knowingly and without judgment, then patiently helped me separate his misconduct from our relationship. She helped me realize I had a long history of minimization and compartmentalization, and that I came from a long line of minimizers and compartmentalizers.
When a friend from my youth asked me about another priest we both knew who had molested me for about a year as a teen, I was, by then, the mother of a small child. I had locked those memories in a box in the back of my closet, so, naturally, I minimized it to her too. I told her it was no big deal. But after she left, I pulled that box of memories out, read the journal I had kept, and felt my whole body shake and my stomach sicken at what I had squashed down and minimized to the point of forgetting.
It’s amazing what we do to ourselves to survive.
Since therapy, I’ve talked with other survivors. Some who’ve had to be talked out of seeing their teenage or pre-teen selves as mistresses, as scarlet-letter-bearers, instead of as the victims they were. And here’s why they felt that way. When you recall your minister untying your swim suit and fondling your privates, when you recall your mother’s boyfriend raping you on the way home from school, when you recall that wonderful, respected, patriarch of the family molesting you, you are, at once, 14, 17, 12, 10, 9, and 30, 40, 50 years old. You may have dissociated in some ways, but it’s still a mental and emotional hodge-podge of who you are now and who you were then. When a therapist or an understanding friend has you swap out your child or a kid down the street for yourself in that same situation, who is the victim here becomes clearer, and that clearer understanding of the victimization can evoke more anger than it did when it was just ____ and just you.
So . . .
Dear woman who thinks your great-uncle grabbing your butt and saying nice things about your bottom was no big deal: Your great-uncle molested you. You have minimized it for yourself because that’s something we survivors tend to do. But I guarantee you would not minimize it if he or somebody else’s great-uncle did it to your pre-teen daughter or the neighbor kid down the street. Your *no big deal* would be a very big deal to them.
It would be their #MeToo.
Photo Credit: Eric Murray — Shower Head
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Well written, Laura!
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Thank you, Gloria. (((hugs)))
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Unfortunately there are many young boys who are also molested as children. It’s such a stigma for a man to admit such a thing, so many times it is repressed. Thousands are and have been victims of priests and it still goes on even though the “Church” denies it. Then, unlike for women, if a man does admit he was molested, he automatically is suspected of being a petifile himself. Not so for a female victim. He is also considered a possible danger around children in any way. Do you see the stigma? Why not a woman? What’s the difference? Let’s also look at young men who go to jail for just minimal drug possession. Yes they get gang raped, violently. Almost all men do in jail but society says they deserve it. Really??? We live in a very sick society then. NO ONE deserves rape!
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You are correct in all you say, C. Schreiner. Thank you for saying it.
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Laura,this was the “Joseph in My Woods”. In comprehending what minimizing really means to our #metoo. ..As young girls/women, strong as we may become, there is always the wonder and shame of what is it about me that caused this? The power of time as a defender, a suppressor, yet not so often a healer, carries with it the lurking…lying in wait of the trigger to revisit, revisit, revisit. If you haven’t read it, let me know and I will share. I have journaled much of my younger sheltered-seeming perfect life. I was quiet about some things that felt funny…I was a girl, after all.
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Yes. Those triggers are like tigers, aren’t they? It’s why I wrote Dearest Fellow Survivor Friend. You’ll have to pardon some of the language. But it is what it is. Thank you for commenting, Joy. I’m glad you what I wrote helpful. I hope many more do as well. (((hugs)))
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I’m sitting here in tears as I read this because it was my childhood life and now my adult life. Where does it end???? Something brought it back and I’ve been revisiting for several, hard, sleepless nights. Sad but helpful to know there are other mes out there. Thank you
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(((hugs)))
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Point. Point. Point! Bless you Laura — you are a gift to many.
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Thank you, Dorothy. (((hugs)))
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WOW! Powerful and so true. If we were to ask women who minimalized and compartmentalized to survive, there would be multitudes more “Me too”s. Keep the conversation going. If we are to help women out of the lies, we need to shine truth on it. Admitting the problem is the first step…
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I agree, Wilma. Thank you. Yes, let’s shine the light and share the encouragement these multitudes will need in order to take that first step and find healing.
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Your blog title is something my Dad did to me. I never thought of it as inappropriate or wrong even though it creeped me out. Thank you for clarifying and speaking on this all-too-common experience. Your story is important. Your voice is important. You are important.
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I’m sorry your Dad did that to you. It was wrong. It was inappropriate. And you were right to feel creeped out. (((hugs))) P.S. Yours is important too.
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Wow so poignant. I find myself doubting if maybe I read the situation wrongly, or I am remembering it wrong. I wonder what was and is wrong with me that it happened to me. But it did happen. And there is and was nothing wrong with me.
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Self-doubt is a soul-shredder. I believe you. (((hugs)))
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I was 5 when the baby sitter’s son molested me, I carried that for a long time because I thought I did something wrong. Years later after therapy for depression, I told my mom and her comment was “How could let him do that”.
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Ugh. I’m so sorry, Pat. ((((hugs)))) Those kinds of words do nothing but more damage. So so wrong. I hope you know that.
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I’ve been vocal about my molestation dating back to when it was happening. Recently (and ironically within the same time frame as #metoo) my cousin starting posting old family photos on social media and tagging me in them. These were shared over and over by family members. Many of these photos included the uncle that molested me. And each time these popped up in my feed I felt exactly as you describe, my body shook and my stomach sickened. In each instance I took the time to comment “Please either untag me from this photo or delete it completely. As everyone does or should know, Victor sexually molested and raped me repeatedly when I was a little girl and seeing these pictures triggers memories that are frightening and unpleasant for me.” Only my sister complied. All my other family members (including my mother) tried to compartmentalize (“oh, but this is a group shot of all of your uncles just don’t look at him”) or minimize (“it happened so long ago and he’s been dead for decades, why do you still talk about it”). It’s amazing really that that could be the response. I think you are right; I should have framed it with “place your self/daughter/granddaughter in that bed with him and I’m sure you’ll understand why I am writing this.” What happens to women (and men) that are sexually assaulted is ugly, is unpleasant. Hiding that helps no one.
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I feel you. I have friends who still attend the church I was abused in and still associate with my abusers. I hide the posts that have pics of people I can’t bear to see anymore and posts that promote a church that cared more for my abusers and protecting its own ample ass than it ever did for me. I hate that they tag you in those pics, Traci, and then spew that junk on you when you complain. So wrong. So wounding. (((hugs)))
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I had the same exact thing happen to me. Someone posted and tagged me in a photo with my “family” aka.. abusers. 🙁