My Secret

I’ve been meaning to spill about this secret since my post about Joanna.  I talked about it in the beginning of that post…you know the one that ate me up from the inside?  But this was not an easy post to write.  I find the topic terrifying.  I also didn’t want to take this post lightly…and so it has taken me a very long time to write. But here goes--my secret:

The only thing worse than something bad happening to you as a child is not talking about what happened to you as a child.  That’s my belief anyway. 

From the age of about three until eight I was molested by my best friends father.  I didn’t tell my parents, or anyone else for that matter. I didn’t tell anyone.  I don’t know why I didn’t tell anyone.  I just didn’t.  

I was determined that I would die with my secret.  I lay in bed at night planning how I would keep the secret.  I thought that perhaps I might need to leave a note, to be read after I died, explaining why I would never talk about my childhood.  The final reveal would come after I had grown old and died.  I suppose I was a planner…even back then :)

By the time I was 13 I was ready for the world to stop so I could get off.  I wasn’t ready to do anything to make it stop, I just wished that it would. 

I was 15 when I realized that if I continued on my current path I would end up in trouble.  

When I was 16 I was ready to talk, I just didn’t know how to start.  I wished that someone would notice that something was wrong with me and ask.  No one ever did. 

My friend Joanna said that the only reason we stop living the lie is when living with the lie is worse than stopping it.  At 17 I wanted to stop living the lie.

So I started to talk and I’ve never looked back. 

There’s something about shining a light in a dark place that makes what is there a whole lot less scary or powerful.  Every time I told someone what happened to me I grew stronger.   That is what truth can do.  Sometimes the thought of being truthful is scary and terrifying, but when we shine a light into those dark corners…whatever is in there suddenly loses it’s power.  

I don’t define myself by what happened to me, because it no longer controls me.  It is a piece of my history, along with many other things.  My secret has shaped me.   It has shaped me as a person and as a parent.  But it doesn’t control me.  I don’t think about it at night.  I don’t even think about it every day.  I can go weeks, even months without ever considering what happened to me as a child.  That is only possible because I stopped fearing it and started talking about it.  I exposed the wound, and by doing so I allowed it to heal.  

I cannot take credit for getting to this place.  I have no explanation for why I was not truly suicidal, or why I didn’t develop an eating disorder or become an alcoholic, or so many other things that are often associated with victims of child abuse.  I do know that somewhere, during those dark nights, I felt that God loved me.  I knew that He had a plan.  That plan involved me staying here, and growing up.  And so I have.  And somewhere along the way He healed my broken heart.  He made me feel loved and beloved and He has given me so much more than I ever imagined possible. 

And that truth isn’t scary at all.