Beech Tree News Network

For years, I’ve hesitated to tell my full story.  I’ve shared much of my background with you in this column.  My readers provide a safe space for me, and I appreciate each of you.  There comes one of those times, though, when you think you’ve made peace with a trauma in your life, then something comes out of left field to trigger the event you thought you put behind you, and you find yourself walking down your town’s sidewalk to your car with tears running down your face, wondering when this thing will ever lose its grip on you.  That happened to me last week.  This is my story.

When I was seven years old, I was molested by my stepmother’s brother.  It happened when the rest of my family had gone to the store, but I was left behind because I was sick—I suffered a lot of Strep as a child.  My stepmother’s brother volunteered to stay with me till the rest of the family returned.  He was in his mid-twenties at the time, and he worked for my dad at the sawmill.  That day must have been a rain-out or he wouldn’t have been available to stay with me.  After my family left for the store, he took me down the stairs to the basement, where he sexually molested me.

It’s strange what a child’s mind focuses on during traumatic events.  I had an oatmeal cookie in my hand, and I kept taking tiny bites, hoping it would last until the ordeal was over.  I can’t remember if it did.  As bad as the attack itself, was what the man told me before he took me to the basement.  He knelt down in front of me and said, “Cheryl, you know I love you, and I would never do anything to hurt you.”  Do you know the confusion that a statement of that kind, by a person like that, instills into the mind of a seven-year-old?  It is not something that is easily reconciled.

I don’t remember if the man threatened me or told me not to tell.  He needn’t have worried.  Who would I tell who would believe me?  I lived with a stepmother who didn’t want me and a father who was so wrapped up in her that he could see little else.  I was too embarrassed to tell my older sisters, so I told no one.

As an adult, the shame and embarrassment became eclipsed by the anger.  Anger at the man, anger at my dad for not protecting me, anger at God for allowing me to be put in that position.  Recently, I was talking to my half-brother about our childhoods.  He said Dad told him that the reason he fought for custody of my biological sisters and me was because when he visited us at our mother’s house, she always had men over, and he was afraid one of them would molest us.  Irony of ironies, don’t you think?

I’ve started to tell this story many times, but I’ve always questioned my motives.  Was I doing it for pity or attention or revenge?  Trauma does that to you.  It makes you question yourself.  The man involved is long dead, my father has passed, my stepmom can’t remember her own name, but I’m still here.  I have learned coping mechanisms that help me not to spiral out of control.  I no longer have flashbacks.  I’ve finally stopped asking myself, “What’s wrong with me?”  I know what’s wrong with me.  It’s the same thing that’s wrong with some of you who have been molested or abused or both.  You are hurting through no fault of your own.

I can’t tell you there is one solution to help you get to the other side of this.  I have found my way one step at a time through counseling, medication, and support of friends and family.  I’ve made my peace with God, and this is the most important thing I want you to remember and never forget.  When this awful thing happened to you, God cried, then he started making a plan for your healing.  The plan is there for the asking.  The journey is grueling.  There will be missteps and restarts, but if you will keep going, your life can be better, and on this side of Heaven, “better” is a noble goal.  

(I have a fb page.  If you need someone to listen to your story, send me a private message.)