Cracked but Not Broken

** TRIGGER WARNING**

As I sit here and think about writing this article, my heart thuds loudly and my mind begins to retreat into my “fight or flight” mode. To this day, this event still has that effect on me. It has been over 25 years, but it still has a grip on me and my decisions with people, places, and situations. I’m not super open about this. I have told people and of those only 2 or 3 people know the offender’s identity. But it has been 25 years and this challenge is giving me the opportunity to be open and I’m ready to share how this has affected me throughout high school and most of my life. If you are willing to listen I am finally ready to share this with whoever would like to listen.

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse…

**Long exhale**

That sentence took me about 30 minutes to type. Sad, yes. I’m going to write this article as though I’m talking to you one on one. It’s easier that way. To imagine that I’m talking to an old friend because it helps keep the “stigma anxiety” in check.

This happened to me between my 7th and 8th grade years. To say that I was a “vulnerable” child isn’t entirely true. My mother worked a lot and she left early for work since we lived about 50 miles away from where her job was. I had just started staying home to catch the bus in the morning on my own instead of being dropped off at my grandmother’s house. I think the most vulnerable thing about me was the run of the mill “self-conscious” attitude that hits every preteen girl at that age. I had been a heavy/husky girl all the way up to my 7th grade year when I had shed all of my baby fat. So whenever he started telling me that I was “beautiful”, was “blossoming”, or that “You’re a swan among ducklings.” I ate that stuff up. Every girl wants to hear that she is beautiful or special and I craved his attention and praise more than anybody else’s.

Looking back now there were a dozen red flags. Hugs that lingered too long, “accidentally” walking in on me while showering, wanting me to sit on his lap when there were chairs available. Those occurrences can be easily shrugged off and were. I’m not going to go into detail but the first time it happened was in September of ’97. I remember that because it was homecoming week and I had asked him for a ride to school to allow me more time for my “bulldog pride week” outfit for that day. Needless to say, I was late for school and when I checked myself in I was wearing the biggest baggiest pair of jeans and hoody that I could find, “bulldog pride week” outfit be damned. I remember what it felt like to walk into my classroom that day. I walked in half way through 2nd hour and like all students do when the classroom door opens they all looked up at me.

I felt like they knew. I felt dirty, embarrassed, as fragile as glass, and THEY KNEW.

Of course they didn’t. How could they? But looking into their eyes I knew that I was no longer one of “them”. My innocence was gone. My bright eyed light snuffed out. I felt as though a part of me had been ripped away, leaving a hollow void in its place.

Now, I know that it isn’t uncommon to feel unattached to your classmates. So, I feel like I should explain somethings about where I’m from. I grew up in a town of about 1,200 people in rural America. I graduated in the year 2003 with a class of 52 and most of those I’d known since we were in diapers. We had all been around each other since we were in day care. We played and supported each other throughout all of our school years. So for me to suddenly feel that I was no longer “one of them”. Well, that is a major thing. It was a major social shift for me.

These “occurrences” continued to happen every couple of months when he could corner me alone in the house. I did my best to avoid those situations, but sometimes it just couldn’t be avoided. They eventually ended when I finally worked up the courage to confront him with a threat to tell. I should have and I know that now. What stopped me is the same thing that I still deal with today.

“Stigma anxiety”

Nobody wants to be “that” girl or person and I sure didn’t want that stigma to affect my family or siblings. Small towns are wonderful and awful all at the same time. So I covered up that wound with bravado, attitude, and a confident smile. I attempted to fit in again and pretend that things were like they use to be, but it didn’t really work. I felt like I was damaged and while I have always been really sociable, I stopped allowing people to get too close because my trust for people was gone. It is a hard thing to process when you want to be loved for your all of your cracks while also keeping people at arm’s length to keep them from seeing the cracks.

The duplicity is maddening and it has had a lasting effect on my life because I refused to deal with the issue for a very long time. I got real good at surrounding myself with the “I’m fine” band aid. My perception of myself as “damaged” has led to some very bad decisions in during high school and my adulthood. Honestly, I count myself lucky to be alive, healthy, and where I’m at now in life. I stated above that “I am a survivor.” I purposely refer to myself as a survivor because I refuse to be labeled as a “victim”. I refuse to be pitied for this. It happened, I have dealt with it, and I am stronger now because I finally faced it.

My advice for anybody who is going through this now or has been through a similar situation is to reach out. Don’t stay silent like I did for so long. I thought and felt at the time that I was alone. That this didn’t happen to anybody else. Now I know that childhood sexual abuse unfortunately isn’t as uncommon as we would like to think that it is. This “stigma anxiety” that I am writing about, it is a self-imposed remnant in my head from years of denial. Placed there by a man, who knew how to play on a preteen’s self-doubts and the urge to “fit in” or “to not be different”. Nobody is going to judge you for something that you couldn’t control. Reach out for help. Don’t wrap yourself in the “I’m fine” band aid, because I know that you’re not ‘fine’.

I can empathize with how you feel and take comfort in knowing that you are not alone. I hope that this message reaches somebody who needs it. Who needs to hear that they’re not alone in this and that they have my support.