INNOCENCE TURNS TO SHAME

I walked slowly toward the house. My heart was broken and the world had become a fearful place in the blinking of an eye. Tentatively, I placed my right foot on the bottom step leading up to the porch. When it held my weight, I was surprised. I had expected to it dissolve beneath me the way life as I had known it had. My mind was whirling as I tried to grasp what had been done to me by someone I loved and trusted. Why had he so betrayed that love and trust? Approximately 30 minutes ago,I had been awakened from a deep and peaceful sleep as I lay on a quilt in the yard to escape the suffocating July heat that made the house unbearable. We didn't have air conditiioning. As I slowly awakened, I felt hands groping my body. I opened my eyes to protest and was filled with horror and unbllief as the bright moonight identified the person who was violating both my body and soul. Filled with shame and fear, I closed my eyes and pretended to stil be sleeping. I was too ashamed to even let him know that I was aware of what he was doing to me. Eventually, he quit and went on his way. I was left feeling dirty, used, and, most of all, confused. It was in this state of confusion that I made my way into the house and to bed. When I awoke the next morning, I lay there with a vague feeling of uneasines until the experience of the night before once again filled me with a pervadng shame. I didn't realize it then, but shame was to become so ingrained in my heart that it would be my constant companion for the next 45 years. I became so flled with it that it affected every aspect of my personality. And it was shame that made me keep that vile secret to myself. Sadly, the same silences many children today and has done so through the years. It was the knowledge of my silence that gave my abuser the opportunity to continue violating me. He knew his vile acts were "safe" with me. I learned to be on constant alert for his presence and tried to avoid ever being alone with him -- without success. But, living in a state of hypervigilence took its toll on my emotional stability. After a year, I began having long, uncontrollable crying spells. Mom tried for weeks to find out what was wrong and finally took me to our gruff family doctor of whom I was afrad. After Mom told him what was happening, he demanded to know what was going on. The only response he got from his questioning was my pesistant "Nothing,". He finally became angry with me and left his office. I was never able to share with my mother that I was living a life of hopeless desperation. The human mind can only stand so much until it must find an outlet for the torment, shame, fear, and guilt that filled every tense moment of my concious thoughts. At age 15, my brain found that outlet in the form of grand mal seizures. My seizures were uncontrolled for the next twenty years. In 1975, I entered the hospital for a hysterectomy. I asked the nurses if they would tell Dr. Segarbarth I would like to see him while I was in the hospital. He was the doctor who had diagnosed me as being an epeleptic twenty years earlier. It was surely God Who had led me to ask to see him, for after an EEG he told me there was no reason for me to ever have another seizure if he got my medication regulated. In tbe 40 plus years since then, I have suffered one seizure. The doctor had put me on a s strong antidepressant when I was hospitalized in 1988 for severe depressiion. It caused the seizure. I had always believed my seizures were the result of the sexual abuse, but because I took so long to confide in my doctor, my belief wasn't confirmed until last year on the day I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. I told Dr. Cox, a neurologist I'd known for many years and who knew of my history of sexual abuse, that I had read in a book several years ago that when a teenage girl started having seizures and no physical cause could be found, that her family dyamics should be checkd. He repled quietly, " We're taught that in medical school." For a few days, I was saddened that I had spent so many years on medication and suffered numerous seizures, yet no doctor had ever asked about my family dynamics. Then it dawned on me that even if they had, they would have probably concluded that we were the "perfect family" that I'd often heard my mother say we were, for I realized that I could never have overcome my shame to let them know the truth. Gradually, I figured out a way to make my abuser leave me alone. I would go into a violent rage and he was afraid of my anger. This helped to solve an immediate problem, but eventually became a problem itself, for i used anger as a tool to solve most of my problems. Anger can become an addiction of its own, and that's just wnat nappened to me. And it affected every relationship in my adult life. I began dating a boy my Sophomore year in High School. He was fun to be with, and I was not above pulling an occasional trick on him. One Sunday we stopped at the restaurant in the small town about three miles from my home. We each ordered a Coke. Before they arrived, my date had turned around and was talking with the couple in the booth behind us. I started drinking my coke and waited for him to turn his attention back to me. I waited......and waited.......and waited. Finally, I thought he needed some punishment for ignoring me, so I carefully emptied quite a bit of the salt shaker in his coke,wiped it clean and waited. After a few more minutes of being so neglected, I picked up the pepper shaker and did as I has with the salt shaker.... and waited. At last my patience was rewarded when he turned around and took a big drink from his coke. I'm not sure which bulged the most--his eyes or his cheeks. But, his eyes told me I was in trouble, so I grabbed his keys, ran to the car, and locked the doors. I wouldn't open them until he promised not to hurt me. I was sick the next day and he sent a note home by my sister. At the bottom was a picture he'd drawn of my childish prank entitled, "The Peppering Princess". We dated for a couple of years and I began to realize that his family was a bit higher on the social ladder than ours. Besides, I felt dirty and beneatb him. I sabotaged our relatiionship and began dating a boy I felt was more on my level. I was too hard-headed to listen to the warnings from teachers and others that it was a mistake. I had to learn that lesson for myself.

Going Back in Order to Move Forward

Finally, I am able to access the blog page again. I aologize to those who miight have  thought I'd started something I didn't intend to finish. Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm just not a very technically-minded person, and when a problem arises with the computer, I'm at a loss to know what to do.

I'd like to clarify something before proceeding.When a person has been sexually abused, there is damage to her whole being--deep, deep damage. And it doesn't diminish with time. Dr. Dan Allender, therapist, psychhologist, and author, states in his book, entitled The Wounded Heart, that time seems only to intesnsify the pain. Dr. Allender speaks from experience, for he, too, was a victim of sexual abuse.

The reason I wanted to explain that is because, in the Christian community, a person who seeks help for the wounds that time and all of the Bible reading in the world don't help is often viewed as being weak in faith. How many times I've heard the words, "Just forgive and forget." And how I strugggled to do that very thing for many years, only to fail. I knew in my heart that I'd forgiven, but that didn't heal the pain any more than a bandaid will heal a skin cancer. When I told my family that I was going to get help, I heard the words, "A Christian shouldn't have to go for help." Thankfully, that person's opinion changed with time and she became a strong support for me.

To live with denial in our hearts is to live a lie. Living a lie does not honor God for He desires truth in our inner being--our heart and mind. Salvation secures our soul for Him, but we must also allow Him to purify our heart and mind. When we've lived with a dark secret, that is sometimes a long process. But it is a process that is necessary for us to live lives free of guilt, shame, and pain. It is a process well worth the effort, and we are not alone in it. For  Jesus has promised to never leave us nor forsake us.

------

Most of us have experienced getting lost while driving by being so preoccupied we forget to make a necessary turn. When that happens, we must go back to where the mistake was made. Although it makes us feel foolish to have been so absent-minded, we know we must return there if we are to get to our destination.

1/3 of all girls are sexually abused by age eighteen. Sexual abuse is a perverted act against the  very soul of the victim, and, but by the grace of God, it would kill that soul. Although she continues growing mentally and physically, she is often frozen emotionally  at the age she is victimized. For her own emotional maturity, and for those she loves, it is necessary to go back to the place where the damage was done if she is to find healing  that will break the grip the past holds on her present life.

For 35 years, I had lived in denial that I had been affected in any way by the sexual abuse I'd experienced. In 19988, in order to move on with my life, I had to make a choice. No woman ever wants to revisit the place in her life where she was helpless to prevent the loss of her innocent childhood. But, because I knew I couldn't continue my life as I had, I was desperate for change.

The psychiatrist to whom my medical doctor referred me when I confided in him knew this and asked if I would be willing to go to another state for 2 and1/2 wees and enter a program especially designed for women who had been sexually abused. It was hard to leave my family and it frightened me to face something I knew nothing  about. But, I chose to go.

There were five of us in the group with two young facilitators. My first thought, when I saw the youngest one, was, "That little twerp won't be able to help me!" I couldn't have been more wrong. That young girl ended up sitting in the floor and holding and rocking me for some time as I sobbed uncontrollably in relating years of shame, fear, pain, and guilt. She and the rest of the group cried and walked with me each step of the  painful story that poured from "the basement of my soul". I did the same for each of them as they told their heartbreaking stories. I learned a lot about the reasons for my behavior. I had lived a life of defense lest I ever be hurt so devastatingly again.

I'm going to lay a short background before  getting to the painful part of this story. Also, I have chosen not to identify my abuser. It isn't for him, but for others that I've made the decision to keep all names confidential. And as unbelievable as it may seem at this stage of the story, I know he would be proud that I  am sharing it.

On March 22, 1940, in Breckeridge County, Kentucky, my mother delivered an  eleven and one-half pound baby girl at home--me. My dad was in the hospital in Louisville because of a hand that he had mashed working on the railroad. It was one of the WPA projects that President Rosevelt had created to provide jobs for people as the country was still suffering from the depression of the late 1920's. I was the second of four children that mom would have in a five-year period. I have a sister thirteen months older than I, a brother fifteen months younger, and our baby brother  who was born 21 months after him. Not long after delivering her last child, Mom learned she had uterine cancer and had to have a hysterectomy. Before she reached her 30th birthday, her doctor discovered colon cancer and she underwent another surgery. My    mother was an exceptionally strong woman, but those surgeries and four children in such  a short span of time left her with lilttle strength.  My major caregiver in those early years was my dad. It isn't surprising that my bond with him was stronger than it ever was with  my mother.


Dad was a sharecropper, which meant we lived on a farm owned by somene else, raised their crops, and shared the profit with them. We moved to Daviess County when I was three then to McLean County the year I started scool. I have   few memories of my own before starting school. We  all worked in the filelds alongside Mom and Dad as  we grew. I hated housework with a passion but loved being out in the fields, even though the work was hard and tiring.

Our social life consisted of church on Sunday, the grocery store on Saturday night for groceries while visiting with the other farm families in town for the same reason, and playing with the many cousins that often came with their parents for Sunday dinner. Although we could play dominoes and Monopoly, card games were prohbited along with parties, movies, and above all, dancing. It may seem as if that was a restricted way to live, but on a farm there are too many things for a girl to do to ever become bored with her life.

One of the things  I loved to do when I didn't have to be in the fields was to escape to my secret place with a favorite book. I would run to the creek, wade in the cool water, then climb throgh the woods to a meadow. A home had once stood there and someone had planted an orchard of various fruit trees.   I  would fill the lap of my skirt with plumbs, apples, and peaches then go to the middle of the orchard, lie down on my back to watch the white puffy clouds scoot across the sky as I ate the fruit I'd gathered. Most of the time the warm sun would lull me to sleep and the book I'd brought would lay neglected.

I was telling a friend about this one day and she remarked, "Betty, you must have felt safe to lie in an open field and sleep!"  I'd never considered  it before, but as I did, I realzed that nothing in the first twelve years   of my life had ever given me reason to doubt that the worlld was a safe place.

I'm so grateful to have had those twelve years of security, for at the age of thirteen I was about to learn that the world  is not always safe, that evil existed in it. Worse, I was about to experience that evil as it existed in the hearts of people I trusted.  

But, God, in His great mercy drew me to Himself one Sunday morning at the end of our white-haired pastor's sermon and sealed my soul for Himself. I went to the altar and gave my life to Jesus Christ. Mom had not come to church with us that Sunday, so as soon as Dad stopped the car, I jumped out and ran into the house shouting. "Mom, I've been saved, I've been saved!"

Some time later that year, I began to be sexually abused. Shame permeated my life and I would be nearly sixty years old before I would experience the peace and joy of that moment.

BROKEN

(I want to correct an error in my first post. The material we use in our sexual abuse recovery groups is entitled "In the Wildflowers" not "In the Wilderness". Thank you, Sidekick, for keeping me straight.)

----

"Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come." (Psalm 71:18)

"...You are my witnesses", declares the Lord, "that I am God." (Isaiah 43:12b)

------



In the fall of 1976, I sat at my desk checking my students' papers while they were at PE.

It was something I never tired of doing as it gave me insight into their progress and provided an opportunity to  write encouraging notes to them. I glanced at the clock and noticed they would be returning in about ten minutes--just enough time to finish the last two papers and take a quick bathroom break.

As I started to check the next paper, I suddenly burst out sobbing uncontrollably. It frightened me, and as soon as I felt I was under control, I hurried  to the teachers' lounge to wash my face. I was relieved when I found the lounge empty. My face was red from crying, but there was nothing I could do about that. The students' faces would be red from running, so maybe they wouldn't notice.

If they did, they didn't mention it as we began our Science lesson. The tears were gone along  with an odd desperation that I had experienced while sobbing. I was able to maintain my composure for the rest of the school day. But it was a tenuous composure at best.

That night we had a PTA meeting scheduled. I really didn't feel up to attending but knew we were expected to be there. As I entered the lunchroom and  looked at the packed crowd, I was overwhelmed with fear. I took a seat beside my friend and determined to fight whatever this was. But, the longer I sat there, the stronger the panic became. Finally, I literally got to my feet and ran out of the room and called my husband to come and get me. I was in no shape to drive.

When we got home, my husband asked what was wrong. I felt silly, for  I had no answer for him. I didn't know what was wrong. I only knew  that when the panic came, I had to run--get away. I didn't know that what was happening had a name. But, I was experiencing panic attacks. My doctor told me a few years later that when I began  to have a panic attack I should just say to myself, "Now, this is all in my head." I tried that only to find that a person experiencing a panic attack doesn't listen to reason. It's just sheer terror. If you've experienced them, you know what I mean. If you haven't experienced them, be very grateful.

For the next eleven years, I held myself together enough to continue teaching and living a "normal" life at home. I still had occasional panic attacks and various illnesses that the doctors could never pinpoint. I felt odd and often wondered why I was different from everyone else. And, finally the strain became too much.

In the fall of 1987, I was hospitalized for severe depression. In February of 1988, I broke emotionally. The doctor said I was suffering a "near nervous breakdown". I think he was being kind. For  the first time in my life I was truly helpless. I couldn't even stand in church and hold a songbook.

I had reached the end of my own strength  in trying to hold my life together. I was broken emotionally  and physically--unable to continue teaching or even fulfill my duties as a wife and mother. Brokenness is a horrible feeling, but in reality it was just where I needed to be.

 For years I had denied the truth that a childhood trauma of sexual abuse had affected me in any way. Actually, it affected every area of my life--physically, emotionally, spiritually, and above all, relationally. Every person I loved had also been affected by my decision to live in denial.

I confided in my doctor. He looked at me and said, "Now I understand you." He said I needed help he couldn't give me and made an appointment  with a psychiatrist. She was a very understanding and compassionate woman to whom I owe an awful lot of gratitude.

The Bible tells us that God desires truth in the inward being. I knew I had not lived by His desire. But, now I wanted that above all things. The time had come for me to face that truth and allow God to teach me how to live with it.

I was about to begin what I call a terribly/wonderful journey to emotional healing. It was a long and often painful journey, and many times I just wanted to quit and go back to living in denial. But, the spark of hope that had been ignited kept me from giving up. And the thought of going back to living a life of what, to me, amounted to a lie, was not something I could any longer do.

My best friend had looked at me one day and said, "Betty, you are the falsest person I've ever known." I was hurt, but more than that, I was clueless as to what she meant. It would be several years before  I could see in myself what she saw that day.

Set Free and Given a Purpose for Life

As I re-read my first  post, I realize if you don't know me, you may have thought it rather egotistical of me to feel driven to get my story out. As I've had to accept the reality that this is the last year I will be able to co-facilitate a group for sexually abused women, I've been saddened. A precious friend recommended a blog. I had to ask what that was and she was gracious enough to set it up for me. I am so grateful for this new outlet.

In this post. I will attempt to explain why I feel driven to get the complete story out.

In the late 1990's, I had been on a healing journey for about ten years. But, although God had done a mighty work in me through those years, I carried shame like a heavy cloak. God is faithful and what He begins He will complete.

Our church, Island United Methodist, had a lay revival that lasted three months. It was a powerful move of God and drew people from surrounding towns and even another state. Three experiences during this revival set me free and gave me a passion and purpose that time has only intensified.

The first was when a friend came up to me and said laughingly, "Betty, I had a dream about you last night." I laughed, too, and asked her to tell me about it. In her dream, she had come to my home for a visit. I was dressed and just leaving, so I invited her to come along. She did, and we drove until we reached a rather large church. "What are we doing here?" my friend asked. I assured her that she would soon see. We walked into the church and it was packed with women. "Betty, you walked to the podium. You were there to speak with them." I had laughed with her until she spoke that last sentence. But,  I began to cry as I realized in my spirit that this was no ordinary dream. My heart hurt with the conviction that God was letting me know that He had a message He wanted to speak through me. But, I had no idea what I had to say to anyone. I was puzzled.

The next night, I sat listening as the young man behind me stood and told of how God had delivered him from a life of alcohol and drugs and of how He was now using his testimony to deliver others. As had happened with my friend's dream, a sharp pain tore through my heart. I could only bow my head as the  tears flowed. But, my heart cried out silently, "Oh, God! I wish I had a testimony that would help others, but mine is too full of shame." I didn't think of that as a prayer, but God hears the cry of our heart.

A few days later, I sat down in the recliner at home. As I rested, I heard a voice that I recognized immediately, though I'd never heard it before. I can only describe it as one of gentle authority. He spoke the following words that are seared in my heart and mind:  "Your testimony is not a testimony of shame. It's a  testimony of praise; because it's not about you, it's about Me and what I've done in your life and I want you to tell it."

I jumped out of that recliner clapping my hands and praising our God. And, as I did, that ugly robe of shame dropped from me never to be worn again.

Now I was free, and I knew the message He wanted me to get out for women who hurt as I did for many years.

Some of you will question the reality of what I've just written. But, others of you will be able to relate as you, too, have heard the voice of the God who created the universe. The cross has made Him accessible to us.

Now that I have set the stage, I will begin next time, with the help of the Holy Spirit, to tell the story of what God has done in my life. Although I've lived the story it is not about me. To the extent I make it that, I will have failed. To the extent I make it His story, I will be obedient and it will be a story He can use in the lives of his precious daughters.

Introducing Myself

Hello!
My name is Elizabeth (Betty) Jones Barber. I am 73 years old, a wife, and the mother of three precious daughters. I was blessed to be an elementary school-teacher most of my adult life. It was a dream come true and I  passionately loved the children with whom I was entrusted.
When my health resulted in having to give up teaching, I was lost for a couple of years. I hadn't realized how much I'd allowed my profession to define who I was.

But, I finally realized that my identity lay in being a child of the Most High God. I am His daughter, loved by Him, kept by Him, and deeply indebted to Him. That is all the identity I need.

Last year, in early 2012, I was diagnosed with the progressive brain disease of Parkinson's. It has progressed so rapidly in this short time that I'm losing much of my mobility. I have a strange peace with this disease that has robbed my body of the ability to turn over, get out of bed, or even dress myself alone. I am fortunate to be loved deeply by my family and they have sacrificed much for me.

But, I have a deep urgency to get my story out for those to whom I've been asked to give it. For several years, my friend, Martha Stevenson, and I have led sexual abuse recovery groups with varying degrees of success. Five years ago we began using material entitled "In The Wildflowers" produced by the American Association of Christian Counselors. We've seen such healing take place in the lives of the precious women whom God has allowed us to get to know and love. It is for them and the one of every three women who are sexually abused before the age of 18 that this story is written. It is them that I've been asked (commanded really) to tell it and let  them know of the power of our Heavenly Father to take what we thought would kill us and turn it into a gift to us and others. I am going to share a poem God gave me in 2010 for His precious daughters who are hurting.

But, first, I want to let anyone reading this to know that I will safeguard the identity of anyone who might have been a part of this  story. I respect your privacy and realize that your story is not mine to tell.

    Tell My Daughters

My Child,

Tell My daughters

I know they are hurting...

I see their tears and feel their fears.

I understand the rage beneath the smile

that's ravaged them since they were a child.

I know those who are crying and inwardly dying,

Even as the past they try denying.

They really don't believe the effects were so bad,

so, can't understand why they are sad.

They feel they are covered with a robe of shame.

Tell them I know about their pain,

Tell them I saw...

  When they were afraid and so confused

 As they were used and terribly abused;

When they wanted to die for lack of hope

and felt they wouldn't be able to cope;

as they tried to tell and no one believed.

Tell them I saw,  that I'm never deceived.

Tell them I understand...

why they decided I wasn't there,

that I didn't protect them and must not care;

that they must keep themselves safe from pain--

not let anyone close enough to hurt them again;

why they turned to other things instead of Me;

too frightened of Me and intimacy.

Tell them I understand---and I wait.

Oh. but tell my daughters

what I've done for you;

tell them all of the ways I've brought you through--

from the depths of despair and loneliness

to heights of pure joy and happiness'

from the anger and fear that filled your every night

to My perfect peace that took away that deep fright

from shame and disgrace to restoration and redemption

with a heart that's now free of all condemnation.

Tell them how I took your greatest pain

and turned it into your greatest gain--

a heart of passion for them.

Tell them I want nothing less for them.

My gift to you, Child,

is to tell my daughters for Me.

-Betty Barber

June 2010

Co-facilitator of "Understanding & Healing Hidden Hurts" Ministry