Living A Secret A Resource for Survivors of Incest and Sexual Abuse

To All My Faithful Readers and Supporters,

My immediate family was raised in a way to talk about everything and anything.  I remember embarrassing many friends and boyfriends when I was younger about the subjects we would discuss at the dinner table.  I have scared off many people with my ability to be so open and honest of my views on pretty much any subject.  However, even with all the openness, I grew up in a family that were masters at sweeping feelings and personal events under the rug.

As a child and young teenager, I appeared completely normal, even with my outspoken vocal ability. However, there were years of pent up secrets that were killing me from the inside out. It was when the deep secret was finally out that the healing process began for me, and I began to stop living a secret.  It hasn’t been easy, and quite frankly the work has totally sucked.  But I am much a happier, healthier person for it.
 
The abuse began when I was only twelve years old. To be honest, there were boundaries crossed before then but the first time his hand ever touched my breast or went inside my underwear was when I was twelve. I cannot tell you the exact date, only my age, and that it was sometime during the summer.  The first time it happened, I was sleeping in my sister’s bed; something I would do often as her bed was very firm  and I had an achy back. He always offered to massage my back with baby oil.  Oh, how I hate the smell of that!   The massage lasted longer than usual and before I knew it his hands were in my shirt and down my pants. It was a feeling I had never felt before. It was weird. It was enjoyable. But either way, it was not right.

As I was young, I had never experienced an orgasm. At the time I couldn’t have defined that it was happening to me. I immediately showered in the hottest water I could stand. Afterwards, I scrubbed my stomach till it was raw and went to sleep in my own bed. My father washed the baby oil stained sheets the next day and never said a word to me about it.
 
The above situation was pretty much how the abuse happened each and every time, and when it wasn’t happening I felt like I was doing something wrong.  I knew deep down it was wrong, but again I was raised in a family that just shut everything up and didn’t dare talk about any kind of abuse (though as an adult I have learned most of the women in my extended family were abused at some point in their lives).  I taught myself about daily survival.  I learned how to appear happy, and yes I am still waiting for my Oscar on that one.  I wore a happy mask that told the world I was very healthy and content with who I was. 

At the other extreme, I did not care about my physical appearance.  I wore pajamas to school.  I rarely took time to do my hair or put make up on.  I dated guys who were older than me, much too old for my youthful age.  Although I listened to everyone’s story, as I  belonged to a few small groups where teen counseling was offered, I never shared my own.  In that setting, no one asked the right questions while many people simply ignored all the signs of abuse.

When I finally turned the case in, I remembered I had saved all the letters my dad had written me. For some reason my father thought it was appropriate to write letters and tell me how he felt.  Till this day, I have never read a letter beyond the beginnings of the first.  I must have started reading the first letter, but I don’t recall finishing it and I am certain I didn’t read the rest, but I did save them. My sister and mother read them and later described them as love letters, which is where I got the idea of what they contained.   It was those letters, a few journal entries from my early teen years, and a friend of mine remembering what I had told her had happened when we were children was the glue that held my case together.  

The justice process was very long.  I had to tell complete strangers my story, when in truth, I had no idea what the story was due to the years of abuse meshing and blurring together.   They wanted to know how often, how, why, what was I wearing.  Those were details I forced myself to ignore for 7 years, so why would I want to bring them up now?  Nevertheless, telling that story was the first step in my healing process. I met with counselors from SafePlace within a few days of speaking to detectives. Again I had to share my story. 

To this day, those first few weeks of turning my father in were the hardest days of my life.   It is amazing how quick the details will surface, and yet I am equally amazed I am here today to tell my story.

Coping methods:

There are various ways to survive sexual abuse of all kinds. Many people resort to the extreme of not having any sexual contact for years, if not for most of their life.  Other survivors can turn the other way and have more sexual partners than they can count.  Some survivors cut, while some attempt suicide purposely doing something that won’t actually kill them.  Sadly, many do commit suicide but more often than not, they simply shut the world off around them out.   It’s a common theme for survivors to need anti-depressants and therapy in order to achieve happy life goals. I am one of those. I am also a survivor who turned to having sex on a constant basis with complete strangers as a way to control my life.

In hindsight, I slept with many strangers because it was something my father could no longer control.  For years, I was his sexual puppet and this was a time in my life that was all mine.  He had no choice in the matter.  He couldn’t say who or when, or how.  It was MINE! 

I also turned to showering many times a day to feel “clean”.  No matter how many baths I sat through, I never felt I was clean or good enough.  The most I would take in one day was five.  I would scrub and scrub, and soak until there was nothing but wrinkled skinned.  I did this for many years.  Even while having flash backs I still shower. Thankfully, I currently have the tools to realize what I am doing and stop the behavior.  Instead of showering/bathing I will listen to music, talk to a friend, or journal.

Journaling has been an important key as well.  I have a separate book just for dealing with the abuse. I felt that separating it, made the other memories in various journals more important. I didn’t want entries about my children in the same journal as my horrible childhood. A pen is often my best friend when getting my thoughts out and feeling relief.

I am lucky to say that today I live a life without an STD, or having had to deal with any unwanted pregnancies, as I was not safe in my decisions. However, that is not the typical case.  I am happy to have found a man who does understand the past and why there are more sexual partners than I can recall, but there were many who didn’t want the “experienced” woman and that was just part of what I had to deal with while dating.

The goal is to find what works for you.   There are  survivors who need a long hug or to take a walk with a friend. Whatever works for you is what works and do not belittle what you are doing.   Healing from sexual abuse takes time and takes baby steps. No one expects you to feel normal or even remotely human while going through the process.  It is hard work.  It will be the hardest job you have ever had; but who said working on yourself was going to be easy? Take the time to do it, it will change your life forever.  I promise that one day you will wake up feeling as though the world has been lifted off your shoulders. It may take months, years, or even a decade, but it will give you the reason to live and to see the world in a different light.

The best of luck in your healing process.

Hugs

Tiffani Wampler