Remember to Forget

...I lived my life, grew up, studied, and got jobs. I was good at what I did. I was well-liked. I had times in my life when I almost forgot the burden. Things were working out for me. I always kept very busy with a full life. Then there was a sense that something was not right. A sense that I always had but denied. I held on tight to the story of a happy childhood, but in my most honest moments, I would admit there was something hidden, forgotten, and buried deep in me. Something that should never see the light of day. Something that would destroy me if I let it surface.

Now I let Aaron closer than anyone had ever been. I was more honest than I’d ever been. As I talked about how I felt about myself, Aaron said the word “defilement.” I claimed I didn’t know what the word meant. Though I might not have been completely sure, it resonated deep in me. I was defiled. I was a horrible person. I did unforgivable things, and I should suffer forever. I deserved the worst. I deserved punishment and pain. I wasn’t worthy of love or care. Not people’s love. Not God’s love!

...Denial was a beautiful thing. It enabled me to keep on going in spite of knowing the truth. I held to the fact that I still had no actual memories of abuse. But I knew that the story of my upbringing was a made up one. Yes, there were happy, beautiful, and photographic times. It wasn’t all bad. But in between those happy snapshots was agony. I had completely shut off a large part of me, as if it didn’t exist, but it still had power over my life and my choices. In me was a lost, little girl who had endured so much but who had no voice and no acceptance.

...Memories that began emerging at this point were too much to carry. It was overpowering. Although the first memories of my dad’s actions were horrific, there was a sense of normalcy about them. I grew up with it. As much as I hated what he did, abuse by my dad was just part of my life. The new memories had a whole new level of terror, pain and fear to them. My dad had given me away to other men. It all had happened at church. I told myself, surely, these movies were figments of my imagination. The problem was that they were so clear. I remembered hearing the men sing a particular song in the sanctuary. I remembered what I was thinking at the time. I remembered words they spoke to me. My body remembered. I remembered fighting for my life. I remembered thinking the man was going to kill me. I remembered giving up. I remembered the feelings of guilt and shame for betraying my dad and the special relationship only he and I had.

...I had no desire to live. I had come to the conclusion that ending my life wasn’t an option because of my kids. I was furious with God that he had let me live through the abuse of my childhood. I was angry He brought all this back now that I had kids to care for. I was out-of-control angry!

The memories were horrific and intrusive. There was no way around them. I was like a toddler throwing a tantrum, kicking and screaming; I knew what really happened, but I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to work through it. I wanted to deny it. I wanted to kick and scream and deny — anything to forget what I remembered. All of that and daily life, with four special needs kids and a strained relationship with Bruce, was going to take me down, if I didn’t do something. Yeah, not that bad, I’m just shutting down! At one point, I almost gave up. Actually, I did give up. I was too tired to make the decision to fight. Dahlia had told me that taking a break would be an option, so that’s what I told her. What I really meant was “I’m done!”

...What my dad did to me no longer defines me. It defines him. I get to define myself!

...I struggled with God. I didn’t know how to make peace with Him. It seemed like an ever-returning battle and not one that could be settled. I didn’t get it. I felt unable to relate to him in any way. The God who trusted me to my dad, who knew everything that went on, who could have let me die or not be born. The God who could have stopped my dad but didn’t. How could I trust this God?!

...Things were different. I was different. My marriage was in shambles. I had lost the connection with my parents. I still had questions. I battled myself. Battled God. I reacted too emotionally. But I had me. I had value. I had purpose and place in this world. I had choices! I never remembered but I always knew. For years I had made choices based upon my past. Big or small, all decisions had come from that place of no value, no importance, only worth in what I could do for others. I had been lost. I hadn’t had memories to connect to, living the symptoms of my childhood everyday as I made my way through life believing I deserved nothing good. I had survived.

Today I’m able to make choices based on who I am — my values, my beliefs. I am somebody! I’m important enough to the Maker of the Universe for Him to sit on the floor of my toddler bedroom. He shed tears for the pain I had to live. I matter that much to Him.