I am Lauren’s cousin. I have never told my story. Not because I was ashamed. But because, up until the last few years, I didn’t believe that my abuser, or the abuse he wielded over me as a child, affected who I am today. I thought I was one of the lucky ones who was strong enough to “deal” with it, without scars. I was wrong. So wrong.
I was 9 years old. An awkward, overweight, people-pleasing elementary school student. Academic overachiever. Socially inadequate. He was the older brother of my best friend. He was also our babysitter. What started off as an “innocent” game of hide and seek became the way he made time to be alone with me. To hide in dark closets and bathtubs and behind locked doors. At the same time I was innocently learning “where babies come from”, I was walking around school, convinced I had “made a baby” and too ashamed to tell anyone.
These are the lessons my abuser taught me~ that people (especially men) are not to be trusted, that the most valuable thing I had to offer was my body (which I hated, anyway), that no one and nowhere constituted a “safe place”, and that I am helpless and unlovable. To this day, there are triggers that take me right back…my mother’s hairbrush, the smell of Elmer’s glue…all elements much too graphic to speak about.
I have spent a lifetime in therapy, for this and other issues that shaped my life. I have come a very long way in healing. But, I have discovered that my scars are not only real, but at times, not very well hidden. While I am a very mild mannered person, not easily angered, if I pass by someone who resembles my abuser (even though I know he in no longer alive), I shake, and feel a rage that is both unfamiliar and terrifying. When I hear stories in the media about children being abused, in ANY way, I can feel the fury in my blood. The anger and hurt is palpable. I have never thought myself capable of inflicting harm on another person. In fact, I am a nurse. A hand-holder. A healer. But, show me a child who has been physically harmed by anyone, and well…there is a reason why I would never own a firearm.
Why tell my story now, at 46 years old? Because, every time I see Lauren’s name, her book, a sign or a media event, I am reminded that we are related, not just by blood, but by a bond no one should share. I wish that someone would have told me that it was “Okay to Tell”. That I wouldn’t have been judged, but protected. I want people to know that the victims of abuse come from all walks of life, all kinds of families, and no one is immune. There are only a handful of people who know what happened to me as a child. Those who don’t know will, most likely, be shocked. I am the face that gives comfort, hugs, support, encouragement, advice, love. I AM THE FACE OF SEXUAL ABUSE.
