Hitch Up Your Gear and Keep on Moving

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

About 6 months ago, I collapsed through the doorway of a counselor's office. It felt like a last desperate act to hold on to what I hoped was left of me. She confirmed my hunches that the continuing struggles in my marriage may be directly related to my husband's sad, scary past. I wonder how we have made it this far especially when the journey has been arduous, confusing, and so often without visible reward. The hairy beast continues to haunt us. We daily fight to hold our ground. Rarely do we recover more of what was taken from us.

When you walk this road, there is so much about it that makes you feel isolated, alone, even a freak of nature. It is true that the media will go into a frenzy when some Hollywood star like McKenzie Phillips comes forward with a tale to tell. Today, there are hot lines, advocacy groups, and national networks which lend the feeling of a warm and fuzzy world where survivors can come in from the fraidy cat cold to seek help. Despite that aura of civility and safety, rare is the victim who finds the world warm and fuzzy when reaching out for help. Even rarer is the man who finds the mettle to speak the truth and let the chips fall where they may.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

While one may find safety and help in the net of counseling, no one discusses the realities of survival in polite social company except in careful whispers that choke off when anyone comes close. Even as I have begun to navigate the journey of a 'surviving spouse', I have been amazed at how difficult it is to say the words for fear of doubt and dismay on the part of the person to whom I'm speaking.There are a few people with whom I can speak openly. One is in academia. In one of our earliest discussions, her voice dropped into a lower, weary octave:

“Oh, my! It starts every year after fall break. I look up, and there is a face at my office door. Girl, after girl, after girl has finally experienced safety in the college dorm. They are here for 6 weeks and catch a glimpse that not everyone lived the life of intimate betrayal that they know. They go home and face the danger again. When they return to campus and to safety, the floodgates open. There is no unique demographic profile. The story and people come from every vocation, avocation, and economic level. Sometimes the victims are sib groups. Sometimes one twin will be a victim and the other have absolutely no clue. Sometimes one sib will not remember until the other brings the truth out into the open. The stories and their variations have no end, but come October, I know the line will form at the door.”

Other stories have begun to accumulate in my mind. During a recent gathering, I found that 3 of the 4 people in my group had experienced victimization as children. One of the 3 told the story of a young mother who had reached out to her in fear. This survivor of abuse feared acting inappropriately toward her infant son. She had battled a strong compulsion and wanted help before it was too late. In another situation, a wealthy, well respected member of the civic and religious community is under investigation. His own family went to authorities and revealed his crimes against another family member. How much courage did that take? I am amazed. They are my heroes.

More recently, I received correspondence from yet another victim. In the honesty of these words, one can understand the impossible strains brought to bear on victims of intimate abuse:

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

“As if the act of sexual abuse is not destructive enough, there's all that shame and blame piled on top of the victim – not the perpetrator! Victims of other types of crime don't carry the blame for their assailants' actions. Victims of theft don't feel ashamed; they get pity and commiseration. Then, their insurance replaces their stolen possessions. Whose insurance can a victim of childhood sexual abuse sue to get a replacement for purity and innocence? Victims of other types of crime don't suffer in silence to protect their attacker's identity lest he/she be publicly humiliated. Victims of other types of crime don't shoulder the burden of protecting family from finding out and being upset....and they are often the very adults who failed to protect the victim. Worst of all: victims of other assault aren't asked "Why didn't you make him stop? Why did you let it go on after you got to be such-and-such age?"

In those words, I see the common battle that sets our journey apart. It's a fraidy cat world, I tell you. One that simultaneously wears you down and wears you out. Tonight, I hitch up my gear and set my face toward the future. If tomorrow I manage to stay one step ahead of the monster that would forever rob us of all we could have been, that will be a victory. I look over the last year and know we have not won the war. Tho' weak and weary, we have won some battles and marked some territory. We have survived and lived to say, "Take that, fraidy cat!" one more day.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

If you or someone you know is a recovering victim, please feel free to share these resources when the time and place are appropriate. Love you long and strong, fraidy cat. Come back tomorrow. I'll miss you if you don't! Not sure where we are headed, but when we get there, I hope we will find that I've written my way back to God.  

 Click here: for wives of victims

For Adult Survivors

For Adult Survivors

Isaiah 54:4a (Bible in Basic English)

Have no fear; for you will not be shamed or without hope: you will not be put to shame, for the shame of your earlier days will go out of your memory,

Rip Tides of Life

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

The swells were mostly absent. Every few minutes the ocean would rise just a bit but not enough to create a trough. There were no white caps as far as the eye could see. The forecast storm clouds had yet to make their appearance. Ocean breezes were just enough to cool without tossing umbrellas across the sand. I felt as tho' I had dodged a bullet. Despite the forecast, the weather failed to rob me of the last few precious hours of my stay. I had squeezed in one more date with my love, the ocean. What a perfect day.

I didn't notice the absence of the school of dolphin that daily stood sentry just off shore nor of the ever present sea gulls that usually did aerial maneuvers just above our heads. I would think of their absence later and feel as if I should have known something was amiss. My eyes were too full to see the forest for the trees, I guess.

The 3 of us scampered toward the water and dove in expecting to frolic the way we had 48 hours before. We began the rituals of ocean play. I rolled from floating on my back to my belly expecting to stand only inches from where I had begun my float. As I turned, my eyes locked with a father seated where the waves made their final lapping brushes with the shore before heading back out to sea. The distance between us changed so rapidly that I knew I was moving much faster than I should have been. I was not being pushed toward the shore. My feet felt for the ocean floor. Nothing.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

I did not panic, but I looked at my husband and son knowing I needed to leverage their height to my advantage. “Grab me!” I yelled. “Grab! ME!” I repeatedly more urgently. Their eyes widened, and their smiles faltered. The father nearer the shore looked at me with more concern. I could see him deciding if he needed to join the fray on my behalf. I continued to move away from the shore as if I had been shot out of a cannon.

My 2 testosterone units started to close the gap and quickly realized it would take more work than they thought. Realization dawned as they felt the undertow grab them as well. I was swimming toward them without making any headway. I thought about those pools they advertise as drop in replacements for home spas. The ones where you can swim in place till you are a size 5 again. I wondered if a situation such as mine is what led some engineer to envision the set up. Funny the things you think when you are too afraid to feel the fear.

Two sets of larger hands grasped mine and pulled me toward the shore. I felt shifting sands beneath my feet and knew if I gave even an inch, the same tide would hurtle me away from land again. Our play became less frolic and more tentative posturing. We understood the power hidden below that lake-like facade. Safe tho' it had seemed, the tide was playing a game below the glassy surface of the water. For the uninitiated, the game would quickly become risky if not downright dangerous. I was a little more shaken than I let on. My love, the sea, had almost betrayed me.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Later, after the storms had broken loose in earnest, we made our way back to the mainland. The tide had come in. The tidal marshes were lush and green. Darkness was coming. The coastal pines stood in formation as if guarding the secrets of the estuary they inhabited. We commented on how spooky. If you believed in 'haints' these coastal byways were not where you wanted to troubleshoot a broken down car. Shivers tried to erupt along my spine.

I stared out into the growing darkness and thought how much my watery trap reminded me of the monster in the shadows and the havoc he has wrecked on our lives. I thought about the re-wedding. In those blissful days of reconciliation, I had frolicked while failing to realize the hidden power the monster still possessed below the surface of our lives. After all, the monster had been revealed. What could that shadowy presence do to us anymore? Ignorance is bliss till you are not ignorant anymore.

In the weeks following the ceremony, a nagging sense began to work at me. Call it an undertow in life if you will. I'd be lost in laughter and anticipation only to look up and see something I could not quite put my finger on. Distance. Wariness. An ill-at-ease look as if he was somehow feeling cornered. Not quite deer in the headlights but something close. Finally, I went to the counselor who had resided over the re-wedding trying to make sense out of the tensions below the surface. One set of tensions, it seemed, had been replaced with another.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

The reassurances were well intended but did nothing to quell the rising uneasiness. Some unknown tide, whose force I didn't understand, seemed determined to draw us apart as surely as the rip tide had tried to carry me out to sea. Again, I rearranged the puzzle pieces of our lives. I had them all. Of that I was sure. I just couldn't figure out how to make them fit. Our play became less carefree frolic and more tentative posturing.

It would take almost 5 years before I learned the term 'surrogate abuser' and learned what that hidden force had meant in our lives. I always felt its presence and had even pointed out its existence. My insistence that I was 'not the enemy' had always drawn puzzling responses. At last I knew why. No matter how my spouse intended to relate to me, the hidden force was the dictator of his heart. His heart whispered that no matter what I did to prove my devotion, I was really the enemy. I could not be trusted with his safety. Sadly, life dynamics being what they are, he was as puzzled by his reactions, and more clueless, than was I. Perhaps had that reality not been true, I might have endured the locust years with more resilience than I had. I'll never know.

I am sure that we were robbed of a foundation we deserved. It didn't matter how Christian we were nor how we structured our lives around those principles. You can't fight a battle if you don't know the enemy territory your foe inhabits. So, we were, in many ways, like Don Quixote slashing at imaginary foes dressed as windmills. It's no wonder that the 2^nd tidal wave that hit our lives left us shattered and unable to connect. It's no wonder that I began to ask myself who I really wanted to be when I grew up. Is it any wonder that I began to doubt my commitment to the good God whose cheerleader I had always delighted in being? Or rather, I began to doubt his commitment to me.

Does the God of the wind and waves have a good plan to repair the damage that was done to us before I even knew we existed? I hope so because I am trying to write my way back to him. Unexpectedly just this week, my eyes strayed over to that forbidden corner of our family room – my bookcase. For the 1^st time in over 3 years, I have been able to run my fingers along the spines. Wonder of wonders! I discovered a book by Elizabeth George along with companion study text that I have never opened. I must have purchased it just before I broke my leg. I picked it up and leafed thru the pages. Not quite ready to embrace it yet but able to envision doing so. I'm writing my way back to God. Maybe I've made some progress? 

 

Oh...there you are! I've been looking for you! What took you so long? Welcome home, fraidy cat. I'm so glad you are here. If you are looking for a dose of sanctimony, you've stopped at the wrong place. This corner of cyberspace is for hurting hearts who've lost their way. In this safe place, we have more questions than answers. We've learned it's ok not to offer the knee-jerk, well rehearsed answers that we've been fed since kindergarten Sunday School class. We know it is ok to wordlessly fall into step while you walk thru the sense of loss and mourning that you feel. Won't you come back again and bring a friend? Love you long and strong. 

Isaiah 54:4
Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed; Neither be disgraced, for you will not be put to shame; For you will forget the shame of your youth, And will not remember the reproach of your widowhood anymore.