Some people--particularly a few members of my family--have asked why I felt the need to write a book based on my childhood abuse. They can't fathom how I could possibly benefit from revealing such embarrassing family secrets. Was it cathartic? Was it to get even? To make money?
No, no and no.
You see, severe childhood trauma tends to get caught in the crevices of one's soul and therefore, it's not easily purged by something as simple as writing. At least that's been my experience. If it were that easy everyone who's ever been a victim would just write it down and be done with it. Healed. Happy. Normal.
As far as getting even goes, well, that's just impossible. There's no way to even the score of losing your childhood, your self esteem, your ability to trust, and part of your adult sanity. Besides, my blood relatives are so far-removed from my life, unless they wanted someone to know we're related, because our last names are different, it would be next to impossible to make the connection.
A money-making scheme? Hardly. As an independent author, I have no hopes of becoming rich, or famous from the meager proceeds of this book.
Then why on earth did I write such a disgusting, humiliating story based on my life? The main reason is really a pretty basic human need--I wrote it to tell.
For most of my childhood I was afraid to tell, forbidden to tell, and for a long time, I didn't tell. Then when I tried to tell no one believed me. And no one else in my family would tell, so for many years, my abuse was kept a secret, and of course, my family thinks it should continue to be a secret. But I'm no longer a child and no longer afraid. Now I can tell. And that's why I did tell.
Really, above all else, it's the key message of my book: It's okay to tell. By telling my own story I send my message to all abused children and adult survivors. But today, in honor of Child Abuse Prevention/Awareness Month, I send the message, not to abused children, but to their families. Because for almost every abused child out there today, there are family members who suspect something but are not telling. That's one reason, in my opinion, why child abuse is still so prevalent.
Every time you read an article, or hear on the news about another child dying from abuse, ask yourself this: why didn't anyone in the family tell? Surely a parent, stepmother, stepfather, brother, sister, grandmother, grandfather, an aunt or uncle suspected something. Unless the abuser was a single parent with an only child, who had cut off all contact with family and friends, believe me, someone knew something and didn't tell. I am convinced of this because after I became an adult, practically everyone in my extended family admitted to me they knew I was being mistreated but didn't tell.
Adult survivors, still keeping your secret, you now have a chance to have the tiny voice of the child within you to be heard. Tell. Or consider writing down what happened to you, like I did. You don't have to publish it (writing just happens to be my thing) but you can write about it and let someone you love read what you've written. No matter what anyone says, it did happen. And it's your turn to tell.
If by chance I'm fortunate enough to have a young person, who is in some way involved in abuse, happen upon this blog, or my book, I hope they get my message loud and clear: tell. If you are afraid, or if the words are too horrifying to utter, then write it down and slip it to someone. If you're not being abused yourself, but a sibling is, or you suspect one of your friends may be a victim--please, please tell.
