Spaces Of Grace

MY DARK SECRET

(Which I am thankful I can finally tell)

I didn’t even recognize it for what it was until I was over thirty years old. Repressed memories have to be pulled up from the toenails. Denial doesn’t mean things didn’t happen. It just means you’ve chosen at some level to pretend they didn’t. When you start having to block things out as a child, it is harder to come face to face with them again as an adult. I had pushed the dark memories back so far into the corner of my soul that I had even convinced myself that it all hadn’t happened. It just couldn’t have.

                  I probably never would have truly faced the sexual abuse I endured as a child, if it had not been for two patients I had when I worked in a small hospital 22 years ago. I am so thankful I met them, because they changed my life.

      Vivian Harvest (pen name) was dying of cancer. She was struggling to get a book she had written ready to go to a publisher. It was entitled “Vivian, Growing Up Abused.” When I came into her room, she said, “You are the one who is suppose to read this. I have been waiting for you.” When she handed me the manuscript, she said, “I didn’t face it until I was about your age either. You are lucky, though. You have learned to hide your pain with your smile.” It would have been futile to try and act like I didn’t know what she was talking about. I knew exactly what she meant. I also knew why she had chosen me to read it first. Some things happen how and when they are meant to in life. It’s about timing.

      I read the manuscript, and I sat and cried. I wept for the little girl sitting in the dark, shadowy corner of my heart. I very literally mourned the loss of my childhood. Reading that book started an avalanche of emotions within me. When I returned the book the next day, Vivian was in a coma. She went in and out of them until her death.

But during the days she was conscious, she and I had some heart-to-heart talks. In the short time we were given to know each other, I learned a lot from her. I deeply admired her. She had guts. She gave me some of her poems, and said I had her permission to use them in my book. It didn’t exist at that time, but she impressed upon my heart that it was necessary that I put my writings into book form. They were a jumbled mess in a cardboard box then. I have included some of her poems. (Thank you, Vivian. I am sorry it has taken me so long.)

Shortly after I met Vivian, I took care of a ninety-year old woman .She was dying, too. The nursing staff was amazed she had hung on to life as long as she had. She gripped my hand, and asked,”Are you the one I can tell?” From the look in her eyes, I knew she had a dark secret to shed some light on, so she could die in peace. I assured her I was the one. She burst into tears, and made me promise that if I had a secret like hers that I would tell someone before I was on my deathbed. It was the most important week of my 36-year nursing career, meeting Vivian, and then her, in the same building. She tearfully told me how one of her brothers had raped her and forced her into other sexual acts throughout her childhood. She had been threatened by him her whole life. He vowed to kill her if she told anyone. Even after he died, she remained silent, unable to be free of the pain and shame his actions had inflicted upon her. We cried together, and held each other, as she poured out the pain in her heart and soul. I was only given a few hours with her. Once she let go of the guilt, and learned that none of what she went through was her fault, and that God understood, she was able to forgive her brother. I think there was a fear inside her that she might see him again in heaven. He had been an up-standing Christian later in his life, a father and grandfather. He had never acknowledged his actions, or ever even remotely come close to asking for her forgiveness before he died. Most people believe that as long as you ask God for forgiveness before you die, you are heaven bound. Personally, I know of several people I hope are sent to a different heaven than I am. My patient died peacefully; ready to face her brother if it was required. She had hugged the little girl who lived in the corner of her heart. We both learned a lot about life, and death, and forgiveness and love in those precious hours. I sang a couple hymns she requested just before her hand slipped from mine.

            When I first began to face the reality of my own sexual abuse, I was filled with overwhelming quilt and shame. It was a very confusing time for me. Counseling would have been a wise choice, but I couldn’t afford it. I was afraid of what a counselor would say to me, and what it would require of me. I was only able to face things one memory at a time. I had no idea I was headed into a tornado. I was angry with the people who had abused me and warped my mind. I was angry with myself for not being strong enough and smart enough to know what to do or say during the years of abuse. I regretted I had never told anyone about it. Threats by abusers tend to have a lasting effect in the minds of their victims. I was angry when I realized people I loved had trampled on my love for them, and had destroyed my love for myself in the process. I was consumed with sadness for the little girl within me who was never allowed to be a child. The abusive pattern in my life began when I was born. I was the youngest of seven children born within ten years to my parents. Their battles with alcoholism caused us to all get taken away from them. I don’t have many memories of my early childhood, but there are vague flashes of drunken brawls, delinquent behavior by my older brothers, mingled with poverty and frequent moves by the family. I know that I was taken from my parents at least two times before I was four. My brothers and sisters went back and forth from foster homes to home to