Thursday, November 28, 2013

What do you have to confess of....

"What do you have to confess of Jean?  With what happened with your father?"  I  had anticipated this day for a long time...

The day I told my dad to stop or I would tell, bought me my first bit of reprieve from sexual abuse.  I had almost grown comfortable again.  Then my father came to me, about two weeks later and asked me if I had told my mother yet.  I was panicked at the question.  The only peace I have had, came from the threat I would tell.  If I somehow let on that I did not tell, that I did not intend to tell, because I knew mom was a puppet, then the abuse would start again.  I had to find a way to keep that protection around me still.

"I have not told mom yet, because I was trying to figure out what to say.  But I will go tell her now."  I said as I walked towards the laundry room.

"No," my perpetrator father said "don't tell your mother.  I should be the one to do that.  You should not tell her."  I looked at him  in defiance and disbelief.  If he was going to tell me not to tell her then that just might be the thing I would do. "I will tell her" he reassured me, and I believed him.

Everything became deathly silent, imoveably silent.  Everyone was on edge and no one talked to each other.  But I could tell allot of things were happening under the surface.  Finally I got my oldest sister to tell me that Dad was in a church court, but she shut off and would tell me no more.  What I knew of court was that witness would be called to testify.  I believed I would be called to testify.  In spite of the pain I went over my witness again and again preparing to testify.

But no one ever asked me what happened.  Mom and dad came and went to meetings with the Steak President, looking grave and upset.  No one asked me.  I wanted my mother to put her arms around me and tell me it would be ok, but she just looked mad, and I was sure she was mad at me.  So in the silence I prepared my witness in my head.  I went over the details over and over and over, though they hurt greatly...

Then my dad came to me and said "I am sorry but... You should not...."  It does not matter what he told me I should not do.  It matters that he blamed the abuse on me, on my actions.  And just like that I was accused.  My dad blamed his evilness on me.  My mom blamed me. My sisters blamed me. The church blamed me.  The church members who knew blamed me.  No wonder why it was so silent around me.  No wonder why no one was speaking to me.  Did they even know?  Did they know that as my dad "confessed" and put on his fake humble repentant look, that the only reason he was confessing was because I threatened to tell?  Did they know that I am the only reason he is talking at all?  No they did not.  Of course they did not.  Because my dad controlled the conversation.  They never asked me what happened. Not even my mother. And they all blamed me.

I no longer prepared my witness, I now prepared my defense.  Day and night I went over my defense, praying that someone, anyone would believe me.

It was after the blow of my father's accusation that I got my first chance to speak out.  I lived in a constant prayer of "please Lord let me defend myself."  And one day I found myself walking to the church with my two older sisters to meet with the steak president.  I was very afraid and prayed all the way there.  My oldest sister assured me it would be ok, so I chanted to myself over and over "it will be ok, it will be ok."

Sister #1 is in the Steak President's office for hours while I wait in terror and my Sister #2 looks antsy and like she feels cooped up inside here waiting.  Sister #1 comes out and she looks broken and guilt ridden, her eyes are red from tears.  I am in horror, what did he say to her, to break her?  But I would soon find out.  Sister #2 skips in seemingly unaffected, she is in there for a short time, and skips out, still seeming antsy to go outside.  Now it is my turn, and I am more afraid than ever.  Would I be able to defend myself?

I sit opposite the Steak President at his desk and look at his photos of his family. He looks tired, it is late, and he is anxious to go home.  Without wasting much time he jumps right into ""What do you have to confess of Jean?  With what happened with your father?"  And just like that, I was accused.  The room started to spin, I barely could keep my mind focused on the moment.  I managed to fight back with the last of my remaining teenage fight and say something like. "Confess of, me?  You should be asking HIM that question!"  I folded my arms, and closed my mind, and no longer even tried to pay attention to what he was saying.  He could tell the interview was done.  He stood up and started to escort me out of his room.

Inside I panicked.  This was my last hope of rescue.  This was my last hope of protecting myself.  I glanced at objects in the room, desperate to find something to save me, but they were all useless objects.  I wanted to brace myself against the doorway, to stop him for walking me back to my world of abuse, to stay in this last oasis of hope, that maybe I could find a way to protect myself.  But the interview was over, and I walked out of the room a changed person.  It was at this moment that my strong will was broken.  It was at this moment that I had given in, stopped resisting, believed I was evil, I was wrong, my dad was great.  At this moment I was crushed, and stopped fighting.  If dad had known how devastating that blow was, maybe the sexual abuse would have started up again.  But I still suffered a lifetime of continued mental and spiritual abuse.

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