Since April is Child Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month,
for the past three weeks, I’ve been trying to come up with something on the subject of child abuse to write
about in this blog, an important offering that might be the least bit
beneficial to abuse victims, their loved ones, and child advocates. Surely, I
thought, I’ve gleaned some wisdom since the publication
of Call Me Tuesday, a book about my
own experience as a victim of abuse, and Call Me Cockroach, in which I detail the damage sustained as a result of my
childhood trauma. But each time I sat down to my laptop to write, I came up
blank. The problem was, I wanted to write something uplifting and full of hope,
and I couldn’t think of anything. So here it is, nearing the end of April, and
this is what I have to say. I will warn you now that if you want to learn something
encouraging and motivating about child abuse, you should stop
reading right here, or skip to the last couple of paragraphs.
Because of my books, I get letters almost every day
from readers of all ages who suffered childhood abuse similar to mine. While I
appreciate the support of other abuse survivors, and it’s comforting to be
reminded that I’m not alone, it’s also depressing and heart wrenching to know
so many people have endured horrendous childhoods. Years ago, after I read Dave
Pelzer’s, A Child Called “It”, I
tried to get in touch with him because, naively and ignorantly, I thought he
and I were the only two people in the world who had been singled out by our
mothers for the type of extreme abuse that we both endured. I desperately
wanted to tell him it happened to me too, and to thank him for having the
courage to share his story. At the time I was angry that I couldn’t contact
him, but now I realize that if I get a few letters a day, he must receive
hundreds, if not thousands, and there’s no way he can answer them all.
To think there may be millions of us, all damaged,
searching for answers, seeking relief, scares the hell out of me...makes me
physically ill. Know what’s even more depressing? Each time a child abuse
survivor reaches out to me, I’m given the privileged opportunity to try to help
him or her. But I can’t; I can only offer comfort. I want to help them all, to say
what they need to hear, that the pain will eventually go away and one day they’ll
forget all about the terrible things that happened to them when they were
helpless children, but that would be a lie. In truth, trauma inflicted during our
vulnerable formative years runs too deep to ever just disappear. This degree of
damage, once branded into our souls, stays with us forever. Sure we can
function, and with the support of loved ones, even manage to live happy, close
to normal lives. Therapy can help, as well as medication, but the abuse is
always there, crouching in a dark place in our minds, waiting for the
opportunity to pounce.
Speaking for myself and the victims who have
contacted me, most of the damage comes from a fractured self-esteem, from years
of being humiliated and told we were worthless. Relationships are difficult at
best. Trust is iffy. Moodiness, bouts of depression, oversensitivity, and a tendency
toward isolation are some of the everyday challenges we face. What we’ve all
heard is true: abuse breeds abuse. But the harm is not always directed toward
others. It’s my belief that most survivors are aware of this well-known
stigma and fight extra hard to make sure they never mistreat another person.
Instead they turn the abuse inward, which, sadly, sometimes ends up hurting those
who love them, the very ones they are trying to protect. Either way it’s a
lose-lose situation for everyone involved. But time heals all wounds, right?
Not necessarily. Now, in my fifties, I’m still waiting for that one to play
out. The older I get, the more I find myself delving back into the darkness I
fought so hard to escape and revisiting my brutal childhood days.
For adult survivors of child abuse, the damage runs
deep and lasts a lifetime, but for current victims, and those at risk in the
future, there is hope. Our best weapon is awareness. In the past I made the
mistake of not talking about my abuse, because every time I told someone they
looked at me like I was either lying, or off in the head. When I was young,
abuse like mine was unheard of and therefore, unbelievable. Now I
realize that was the problem. The fact that there are so many adult survivors today is
unfortunate, but on a positive note we have a powerful weapon in our numbers to
heighten awareness just by telling our stories to as many people as we can. If
you were a victim of child abuse and you want to help children at risk, you
don’t have to write a book (although that would be helpful) but please consider
talking about it more, blog about it, make it in-your-face heard of in any way you can.
As I write this, I can’t help but be reminded of my two
year old step granddaughter, Marleigh, singing her favorite song, Let It Go, from the Disney movie, Frozen. Wide-eyed and waving her arms
like she’s releasing invisible butterflies into the air, she sings, let it go, let it goooo...if only it
were that easy...
