I am 73 years old and was diagnosed last year with Parkinson's Disease. It is a disease in which the brain doesn't make enough of the chemical that controls the muscles. It is progressive and has very quickly limited my ability to move. The story I've been relating in former posts is one that I have an urgency to get to as many women who have been sexually abused as I possibly can. I don't tell it as an ego trip. It is a passion I have to let these women know how very much our God wants us to be healed completely of the shame, fear, and protective habits we have developed to keep ourselves safe. Healing is a journey. This is an account of my journey with the wonderful and life-changing ending that I want to share. It is an account of what God has done in my life as I've made this journey with Him. It is to tell you that He desires the same for you as He has done for me.
I have shared the part of my journey that I made mostly on my own. I made many mistakes in doing that--choosing two incompatible husbands, keeping the secret of the abuse locked deep in my soul for many years, living a life of denial, attempting suicide, and finally reaching the end of my own strength by having what the doctor diagnosed as "a near nervous breakdown". It was at this point, broken and helpless, that I finally admitted that I had been damaged and needed help--help that God was waiting to give. And, I began to allow him to guide and walk with me on the journey toward healing. It was not an easy journey and it would test the strength of my wonderful marriage and me as an individual.
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When I returned from the 2 1/2 weeks in the program for sexually abused women, I felt I had done all I needed to do to complete my healing. But, it didn't take me long to realize that I still needed help. I joined a secular support group led by a trained counselor. They all seemed to be stuck at the anger stage and soon I followed their example. My anger didn't stay within the group setting, though. I brought it home with me and my family suffered the brunt of it. After several weeks of this, my husband told me he thought I was getting worse instead of better. He was right. I quit that group and waited to see what I should do next.
As I waited, I realized that my husband was getting tired of hearing about my past. He wanted me to quit "feeling sorry for myself", put it behind me and become the wife he'd married twelve years earlier. But, I had tried that too long and failed. The woman he had married no longer existed, for I could never go back to living the lie of denial. Whatever it took or no matter the cost, I wanted to be real and honest in my inner being as the Bible tells us God desires.
Our relationship became very strained and we could barely speak to one another.One night I told him I was leaving but that I would be back. He asked where I was going and I answered honestly that I didn't know. I just knew that I had to get away from the strain long enough to think clearly. I ended up in a motel room a few miles from home. Unable to sleep, I sat and wrote all night long about my past. When I returned home the next morning, I handed what I had written to my husband. He sat down and began reading it. When he had finished, he looked up with compassion in his eyes and asked, "How can I help?" I asked him to just let me heal. I thought I coulld go through the healing process and he wouldn't have to be involved. But, what affects one marriage partner affects the other, so we finally decided to face this together.
A few days later, a friend and fellow teacher called. She was having a terrible reaction to some medication her doctor had prescribed. Knowing that I had had several such reactions, she thought I might be able to help. Brenda (not her real name) was not making much sense as she talked, so I advised her to call her doctor. She was about to hang up when with as much clarity of mind as ever, she told me she had seen a friend of hers in Madisonville by the name of Martha Stevenson that day. "She's about to start a group that I think you should be a part of." She gave me Martha's telephone number and, without further explanation, hung up.
I called Martha the next day. She was very friendly and invited me to attend a Christ-centered sexual abuse recovery group that she and her pastor's wife would be co-facilitating beginning the following week. Although I was for some reason terrified, I decided to check it out. Martha greeted me with open arms and calmed my fears.
It was a large group. As it began, we were invited to tell our stories. They began on the other side of the room and as I listened, all I could think was that, except for the specifics, each of them was telling my life's story. Many of them had attempted suicide, all of them had physical ailments that the doctor couldn't diagnose, all of them had problems with relationships and several had been married more than once, and all of them struggled in their Christian walk. I knew I was in the right place and that God had brought me there through a friend who was out of her mind with medication.
As the group progressed, the rage that I had suppressed for so long surfaced--along with the pain, guilt, and shame with which I had lived for better than 35 years. (Martha laughs as she tells me how much my anger scared her when I would explode in the group.) Fortunately for me, she didn't let me know that. I would have shut down and slowed the progress of healing.
There were many times I wanted to just quit the group and slide back down into the hole of denial. But, that spark of hope and the encouragement of my fellow "travelers" kept me on the journey I had begun. I kept a journal during that time and want to share a few words from it.
Feb. 15, 1992
"The Monster rears its head again today! ....I feel drained and deserted as I awaken--numb almost. I lie there until feeling comes. and what comes is a deep desire (fantasy really) for a hospital somewhere that could open up abused persons' heads and cut away all of the pain, the memories, the denial--and I could come back to my family, my friends, and everyone my " old sellf'. Only, this time it would be real and not pretense. The black wouldn't be flauntingly pointing out the falseness within and I wouldn't be silently screaming for someone to recognize how much I'm really hurting. For I feel that the only time I'm not pretending is when I'm facing the reality of the pain....I'm so heavy! 'Lord, it seems so much easier to kill my soul again--at least temporarily. But, You, in Your all-encompassing wisdom, refuse to allow that. ... I realize that my only source of healing is from you, and that this struggle is mine to face. I cannot force it on my family--even when it seems that the pain is the only reality that there is. So, I ask You not to take the pain away (though my human frame longs secretly for a miraculous instantaneous "cure) until my soul is bared and I see myself in all the ugliness --not only of what someone else has done to me, but the even greater pain I've caused myself by not having the courage to really live, and thus aborting the reason for which You created me. Thank You for Your love, understanding, and strength that You alone can provide. And Father thank You for a place where I can be real for a couple of hours each week among others who understand as no one else can."
My purpose in sharing a little of the pain of my journey is to let those of you who may be at various stages of your own healing journey know that I understand your pain and have been there, and I never want to forget that struggle. For if I do, I will not have the compassion to be willing to hurt with you on your own journey. And if I forget the pain, I will forget to honor the One who brought me through it by obeying Him and telling it.
I shared in an earlier post that I called this a terribly/wonderful journey. When we have surgery to cut away cancer from our bodies, we suffer physical pain before we are healed. The same applies to emotional healing. As God cuts away that which is making us "sick", there is deep emotional pain. But, just as we entrust our bodies to a surgeon for physical healing, we can entrust our pain-filled emotions to the Great Physician. I've begun by describing and sharing some of the terrible part of this terribly/wonderful journey. I think understanding the terrible part helps each of us to better appreciate and be grateful for God's wonderful healing grace.
As I had done following the group I had participated in during the 2 1/2 week hospital stay, I felt when this group was finished that my healing journey was complete, but it wasn't. Two years later, I attended another group led by Martha. This time we used Dan Allender's The Wounded Heart with an accompanying workbook. It had much more depth than the book we'd used the first time and helped us to see and take responsibility for how our ways of protecting ourselves had hurt everyone we loved. I began reading every book I could find that I felt would help me to reach my goal of being whole. And I found a wealth of them that helped me to continue learning about sexual abuse, it's prevalence, and the very real and damaging after effects that haunted those who had suffered at the hands of a perpetrator. The more I learned, the more compassion I felt for these women and the need to do something to help them.
When I would go to seminars and prayer was offered, I would always go up. Two of those times stand out as evidence that God was continuing his healing work in my life. One was in Goodletsville, Tennessee. Martha and I were becoming trusted friends and had decided to attend this conference together. As the man leading the conference was praying with me,he asked me to visualize the one who had abused me kneeling at the altar behind us. I am not a visual person, so I was surprised when I did envision him kneeling there crying. But, God did more than allow me to see my abuser repenting. Behind the altar was a black robed person with arms folded across the chest. I could not see a face, but I knew in my heart that it was me and that I was standing in self-righteous judgement of my abuser. When the man who was praying with me asked what I would like to say to my abuser, I answered, "I think I need to join him at the altar."
The second prayer that affected me deeply was at the altar of a large Methodist Church in Pensacola, Florida. As I walked toward him, he said, "I see that you are in need of some healing." I didn't have to tell him why I was there, for God's Holy Spirit revealed it to him. I was amazed as I listened to his prayer and it was like oil to my soul. Then he asked me to open my eyes and look at him. I looked into a pair of the most compassionate and loving eyes I had ever seen. All I could think of was, "This is what it must have felt like looking into Jesus' eyes."
"Will you forgive me?" he asked. I was completely taken back. But, as I continued to look into those compelling eyes, there was only one answer I could give. "Yes", I whispered. And I felt a tight band snap from around my heart. Another man had been praying with Dick, and suddenly I heard a heartbroken sob as he threw his arms around me saying, "I'm so sorry for what happened to you." God allowed him a glimpse into the horror of sexual abuse and it broke his heart.
As God poured more of his compassion into my healing heart, I began to look for ways to reach out to others in similar pain. For two years, I volunteered at Rape Victim Services in Owensboro, Kentucky. While there, my heart ached with several girls and women. But, one child I will never forget. I went to the police station to stay with her while the police went to get the stepfather who raped her on a regular basis. As I sat on the couch with her head in my lap, she said, "Now my mama will believe me." I fought back the tears as her mother stood on the other side of the door where the police had locked us for our safety and screamed to her daughter, "You're a dirty little liar. He never touched you." When the police finally took her mother away, that child's hopelessness was too heartbreaking to watch. She lay her exhausted little body down with her head in my lap and slept.
The midnight calls and making the nearly thirty mile drive became too much and I quit volunteering at RVS. Martha and I were becoming closer to each other as we walked with one another through some rough times in each of our lives. We became transparently true with one another as we learned to trust each other's hearts. Neither of us dreamed that God was uniting our hearts that we might serve him together one day. I was just content to have a friend who knew me so well and loved me in spite of it. All of the years I had lived with a dark secret, I had not allowed another friend into my heart.
I took the training to volunteer at Door of Hope Pregnancy Care Center in Madisonville and was there about four years. Each experience broadened my understanding and acceptance of people whose experiences in life were so different from mine. And each time I grew, God was preparing my heart for His purpose for my life.
Our relationship became very strained and we could barely speak to one another.One night I told him I was leaving but that I would be back. He asked where I was going and I answered honestly that I didn't know. I just knew that I had to get away from the strain long enough to think clearly. I ended up in a motel room a few miles from home. Unable to sleep, I sat and wrote all night long about my past. When I returned home the next morning, I handed what I had written to my husband. He sat down and began reading it. When he had finished, he looked up with compassion in his eyes and asked, "How can I help?" I asked him to just let me heal. I thought I coulld go through the healing process and he wouldn't have to be involved. But, what affects one marriage partner affects the other, so we finally decided to face this together.
A few days later, a friend and fellow teacher called. She was having a terrible reaction to some medication her doctor had prescribed. Knowing that I had had several such reactions, she thought I might be able to help. Brenda (not her real name) was not making much sense as she talked, so I advised her to call her doctor. She was about to hang up when with as much clarity of mind as ever, she told me she had seen a friend of hers in Madisonville by the name of Martha Stevenson that day. "She's about to start a group that I think you should be a part of." She gave me Martha's telephone number and, without further explanation, hung up.
I called Martha the next day. She was very friendly and invited me to attend a Christ-centered sexual abuse recovery group that she and her pastor's wife would be co-facilitating beginning the following week. Although I was for some reason terrified, I decided to check it out. Martha greeted me with open arms and calmed my fears.
It was a large group. As it began, we were invited to tell our stories. They began on the other side of the room and as I listened, all I could think was that, except for the specifics, each of them was telling my life's story. Many of them had attempted suicide, all of them had physical ailments that the doctor couldn't diagnose, all of them had problems with relationships and several had been married more than once, and all of them struggled in their Christian walk. I knew I was in the right place and that God had brought me there through a friend who was out of her mind with medication.
As the group progressed, the rage that I had suppressed for so long surfaced--along with the pain, guilt, and shame with which I had lived for better than 35 years. (Martha laughs as she tells me how much my anger scared her when I would explode in the group.) Fortunately for me, she didn't let me know that. I would have shut down and slowed the progress of healing.
There were many times I wanted to just quit the group and slide back down into the hole of denial. But, that spark of hope and the encouragement of my fellow "travelers" kept me on the journey I had begun. I kept a journal during that time and want to share a few words from it.
Feb. 15, 1992
"The Monster rears its head again today! ....I feel drained and deserted as I awaken--numb almost. I lie there until feeling comes. and what comes is a deep desire (fantasy really) for a hospital somewhere that could open up abused persons' heads and cut away all of the pain, the memories, the denial--and I could come back to my family, my friends, and everyone my " old sellf'. Only, this time it would be real and not pretense. The black wouldn't be flauntingly pointing out the falseness within and I wouldn't be silently screaming for someone to recognize how much I'm really hurting. For I feel that the only time I'm not pretending is when I'm facing the reality of the pain....I'm so heavy! 'Lord, it seems so much easier to kill my soul again--at least temporarily. But, You, in Your all-encompassing wisdom, refuse to allow that. ... I realize that my only source of healing is from you, and that this struggle is mine to face. I cannot force it on my family--even when it seems that the pain is the only reality that there is. So, I ask You not to take the pain away (though my human frame longs secretly for a miraculous instantaneous "cure) until my soul is bared and I see myself in all the ugliness --not only of what someone else has done to me, but the even greater pain I've caused myself by not having the courage to really live, and thus aborting the reason for which You created me. Thank You for Your love, understanding, and strength that You alone can provide. And Father thank You for a place where I can be real for a couple of hours each week among others who understand as no one else can."
My purpose in sharing a little of the pain of my journey is to let those of you who may be at various stages of your own healing journey know that I understand your pain and have been there, and I never want to forget that struggle. For if I do, I will not have the compassion to be willing to hurt with you on your own journey. And if I forget the pain, I will forget to honor the One who brought me through it by obeying Him and telling it.
I shared in an earlier post that I called this a terribly/wonderful journey. When we have surgery to cut away cancer from our bodies, we suffer physical pain before we are healed. The same applies to emotional healing. As God cuts away that which is making us "sick", there is deep emotional pain. But, just as we entrust our bodies to a surgeon for physical healing, we can entrust our pain-filled emotions to the Great Physician. I've begun by describing and sharing some of the terrible part of this terribly/wonderful journey. I think understanding the terrible part helps each of us to better appreciate and be grateful for God's wonderful healing grace.
As I had done following the group I had participated in during the 2 1/2 week hospital stay, I felt when this group was finished that my healing journey was complete, but it wasn't. Two years later, I attended another group led by Martha. This time we used Dan Allender's The Wounded Heart with an accompanying workbook. It had much more depth than the book we'd used the first time and helped us to see and take responsibility for how our ways of protecting ourselves had hurt everyone we loved. I began reading every book I could find that I felt would help me to reach my goal of being whole. And I found a wealth of them that helped me to continue learning about sexual abuse, it's prevalence, and the very real and damaging after effects that haunted those who had suffered at the hands of a perpetrator. The more I learned, the more compassion I felt for these women and the need to do something to help them.
When I would go to seminars and prayer was offered, I would always go up. Two of those times stand out as evidence that God was continuing his healing work in my life. One was in Goodletsville, Tennessee. Martha and I were becoming trusted friends and had decided to attend this conference together. As the man leading the conference was praying with me,he asked me to visualize the one who had abused me kneeling at the altar behind us. I am not a visual person, so I was surprised when I did envision him kneeling there crying. But, God did more than allow me to see my abuser repenting. Behind the altar was a black robed person with arms folded across the chest. I could not see a face, but I knew in my heart that it was me and that I was standing in self-righteous judgement of my abuser. When the man who was praying with me asked what I would like to say to my abuser, I answered, "I think I need to join him at the altar."
The second prayer that affected me deeply was at the altar of a large Methodist Church in Pensacola, Florida. As I walked toward him, he said, "I see that you are in need of some healing." I didn't have to tell him why I was there, for God's Holy Spirit revealed it to him. I was amazed as I listened to his prayer and it was like oil to my soul. Then he asked me to open my eyes and look at him. I looked into a pair of the most compassionate and loving eyes I had ever seen. All I could think of was, "This is what it must have felt like looking into Jesus' eyes."
"Will you forgive me?" he asked. I was completely taken back. But, as I continued to look into those compelling eyes, there was only one answer I could give. "Yes", I whispered. And I felt a tight band snap from around my heart. Another man had been praying with Dick, and suddenly I heard a heartbroken sob as he threw his arms around me saying, "I'm so sorry for what happened to you." God allowed him a glimpse into the horror of sexual abuse and it broke his heart.
As God poured more of his compassion into my healing heart, I began to look for ways to reach out to others in similar pain. For two years, I volunteered at Rape Victim Services in Owensboro, Kentucky. While there, my heart ached with several girls and women. But, one child I will never forget. I went to the police station to stay with her while the police went to get the stepfather who raped her on a regular basis. As I sat on the couch with her head in my lap, she said, "Now my mama will believe me." I fought back the tears as her mother stood on the other side of the door where the police had locked us for our safety and screamed to her daughter, "You're a dirty little liar. He never touched you." When the police finally took her mother away, that child's hopelessness was too heartbreaking to watch. She lay her exhausted little body down with her head in my lap and slept.
The midnight calls and making the nearly thirty mile drive became too much and I quit volunteering at RVS. Martha and I were becoming closer to each other as we walked with one another through some rough times in each of our lives. We became transparently true with one another as we learned to trust each other's hearts. Neither of us dreamed that God was uniting our hearts that we might serve him together one day. I was just content to have a friend who knew me so well and loved me in spite of it. All of the years I had lived with a dark secret, I had not allowed another friend into my heart.
I took the training to volunteer at Door of Hope Pregnancy Care Center in Madisonville and was there about four years. Each experience broadened my understanding and acceptance of people whose experiences in life were so different from mine. And each time I grew, God was preparing my heart for His purpose for my life.
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