Me Too

We all sat in the pews staring at the altar.  The morning sun was shining through the beautiful stained glass. Colors danced on the floor as if they were children chasing each other. The conversations were light. The laughter echoed throughout cathedral. It seemed like the perfect Sunday.

He went into the confessional as everyone waited for their turn to tell this week’s “bad deeds”. . . clueless. My heart pounded. “They” waited in lighthearted giggles and antidotes. I waited in fear.  I wondered if today was going to be the day I would tell. I wondered if today was going to be the day he confessed and the priest turned him in.  I wondered if I would say the words, “he molested me”.  Did he tell that pastor that he touched a young unwilling girl while she slept in his house?  Did he tell him that his daughter was sleeping right next to me?  Did he tell him I was flat and un-developed?  Did he tell him that he got off to it afterward. .  .that that moment was just enough to make him undone?  I’ll never know.

But I stared at him as he entered.  And I stared at him as he left.  And he, like a coward, looked down. He, knowingly returned to his seat and said 10 “Our Fathers” and 5 “Hail Marys” and his sins were “forgiven”.

It was my turn.

“I’d like my confession in English.”  I, said.  As if speaking English wasn’t evidence enough.  I took a deep breath.  My voice began to shake.  My insides crumbled.  “I fought with my sister this week…”  I said. “I didn’t listen to my mom”.

I walked out that confession hanging my head lower than he had.  My prayer punishment was the same, however.   It’s funny how that works isn’t it?  Tradition tells us to repent.  Fear keeps it all inside. But logic. . . logic tells us to scream on the bloody hill tops that you were wronged.  Logic tells us no way in hell am I going to kneel next to this bastard and say I sinned the same way he did.  And the timidity. . .  the childishness. . .  just tells us to just obey.  Timidity says to kneel.  Timidity says at least pretend to repent.  Intelligence says to pray for him instead.  A single tear rolled down my cheek that day.  Anger.  Anger comes in strange disguises.  Anger tells us – this isn’t the end.  You will have your day.  I didn’t brush the tear away.  I needed the anger to last – I needed it to balance out any fearful bone I had.  Just like today. I need anger to last, to help balance out any fearful bone anyone else has.

I was 15 years old and in Drivers-Ed.  It had been about two years after I finally told my secret to someone and the court trials had been finished.  Two girls I went to elementary school with sat behind me.  These were girls that I considered to be my friends.   I hadn’t shared my experience with anyone else except those involved and the authorities.  However, other people involved seemed to delight in sharing false information.  Someone accused me of lying.  Lying.  And these two girls in drivers-ed, who’s opinions were nothing but a product of fabricated and overheard rumors – snickered behind my back and asked me why I lied.  They teased me about being sexual assaulted by a grown man.  By a father.  By a husband.  The pain in that moment was overwhelming. I tried to overshadow my numbness by concentrating on not breaking down.  The immense composure I showed during that hour renders me beyond proud today.  But, I was hurting immeasurably then.   That is the day - the moment -  I shoved my feelings deep into the pit of my soul.

Sexual abuse is not a joke.  Being molested, is not a joke – and it is not something to be taken lightly.  It is absolutely something that needs full credit of the full truth.  No one was there, awake with me, in the moments it was happening, no one felt the debilitating fear my TEN-year-old, ELEVEN-year-old and TWELVE-year-old body felt.  No one saw.  No one held my hand after he left.  Therefore, I found, it was absolutely imperative and necessary that the account of what happened was the truth.   So, truth, is the only thing I spoke.

I am not writing this today to make sure everyone knows I was telling the truth.  No.  I am writing this because I know, that there are many victims who are still in this boat.   And I wanted to say – I believe you.   The amount of bravery and courage it took for me to finally speak the words “I was molested” overwhelms me to this day.  And I was thirteen years old when I finally spoke them.  I had to tell strangers details that I still haven’t even shared with my mom. So, I KNOW, the pain, the embarrassment, the vulnerability that goes into these moments.  I know the hardship.   However, I know that it took me time and healing to understand these words -

Do not be afraid to speak because of the repercussions of your words.  You are not guilty.  Your words only describe a perpetrators actions.  Actions that you did not ask for.   The horrible repercussions will not destroy you - they will bring down the asshole who put you in this position.  WHO put YOU – in this position.  You might get hit by some shrapnel – but know that compared to what you went through -SPEAKING of it is only a fraction of the pain.  A fraction.  And now, you have hands to hold in these dark hours to help you through.

No one should be allowed to tell you what happened. Do not let bullies stop you from saying your truth.  Do not let bullies stop you from healing.  And above all else do not let bullies stop you from protecting yourself.   Do not be embarrassed, although it is hard.  Your body is only yours. TALKING only takes away their power and TALKING gives it back to you.

In the end, I finally told because it was happening to more and more girls.  I thought – “If I would have told sooner, this wouldn’t have happened”.  My body was already scarred – I wanted to protect other people.  Bottom line, I wanted to make sure there wasn’t another victim.  Part of me, then, wished I would have told for justice for myself.  Today, I realize that, deep down inside - I did.

Moments that seemed to make me feel weak and small then, I realize, are my greatest triumphs today.  You will make it through – and be stronger on the other side.

 If you would like to talk to someone about sexual abuse, please refer to this website

https://www.rainn.org/about-national-sexual-assault-telephone-hotline

or call 800.656.HOPE (4673)

It is confidential and they can help you through.

You can also comment on this blog, I will not share anything that anyone wants to keep private.   Make sure you let me know you want it to stay private or public.

Sunday

It's a normal Sunday.  My dad comes to pick us up from my mom's house.  He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running, walks up the front stairs and rings the doorbell.  He doesn't have to though; I've been looking out the window for the past hour. . . anticipating. . .waiting.   We walk to his car.  Its December. It's cold.  I can see the white exhaust billowing from the gas pipe - matching the snow. His heat doesn't work, but that's okay.  I snuggle with a pillow I found in the back seat.  I can smell the cold but I don’t feel it. I laugh at his jokes.  I draw smiley faces on the steamed up windows. I’m 10.  I'm happy.

Ten minutes later we pull up to my grandma's house.  We run inside. Warmth.  My cheeks start to turn red as my body thaws out.  I walk into the kitchen and make myself a hot ham sandwich. I grab myself a Jolly Time Pina Coloda soda that my grandpa bought just for us. Sometimes, you can't count on much - but on Sundays in Wisconsin these are the things I counted on.  My dad.  My grandma's house. Hot ham sandwiches.  A cold drink.  And, of course, The Green Bay Packers.  I can still smell it, only instead of encircling my nose, those smells now swirl around in my brain - in my memories.

My dad goes downstairs and grabs a Miller Lite. He sits on an old plastic dark green recliner.  The top pops. He takes a sip.  "Ahhhh", he’d say.  Kind of like a Coke commercial.  I look around.  I see my uncle’s collection of dusty records - Blonde, "Call Me" was the one on top today.  His 8 track tapes line the shelves that the TV is sitting on. I count them - I dust them. We wait, and finally, it’s kick off time.

Brett Favre comes on the field.  Green and gold fills the stands - excitement fills the stale musty air in the basement on the opposite end of the TV. We all will be holding our breath for the next three and a half hours. Hearts racing.  Favre is playing like a twelve-year-old - laughing, smiling - he throws the ball. . . It's up. It's long. It's a rocket.  Freeman in the end zone.  TOUCHDOWN GREENBAY PACKERS.  Brett Favre throws his arms in the air and runs to the end zone - jumping-  cheering - smiling.  My dad grabs my knee and screams.  I double over in laughter. Magic. He opens another Miller Lite.

The Packers win.  Celebration.  We stay the rest of the day and jump back in his cold car.  I snuggle with the pillow.  Relief.  A win.  There’s not a lot of things you can count on when you are 10. I could count on the Packers playing.  I could count on Brett Favre throwing Hail Marys down the field.  I could count on them being caught. The Packers aren't just football to me.  The Packers are my childhood.  They take up a part of me deep deep down.  They are that musty basement.  They are cold car seats.  They are ham sandwiches on Sunday. They are Brett Farve.  They are my first beer. They are Aaron Rodgers. They are anticipation, the edge of my seat, jumping up and down excitement. When they win. When they lose.

Just stop for a second - can you feel it?

Go Pack Go.