Suicide is Painless

When I was 18, one of my sisters, Tara, confronted my father about the sexual abuse she endured at his hands when she was a child.

He, of course, denied it. My mother defended him. She said it was impossible that he had ever done such a thing. Knowing that I hadn’t been sexually abused, I believed my mother. Tara had been seeing a counselor, so my mother accused the counselor of “planting the thoughts” in her head. When did it start occurring to me that maybe her allegations were true? Perhaps it was when I was taking a women’s studies class during my sophomore year of college. Our professor brought in a speaker to talk about the effects of childhood abuse on adults. I was captivated by the speaker. It was almost as if she was reading my own story. She knew the fear and intimidation I had grown up experiencing. Her words found a home deep in my soul. I realized that many of my mannerisms were a result of the abuse I personally had suffered. Then, she began describing the characteristics that are commonly displayed in children who have been sexually abused: promiscuity, drug use, oppositional behavior, self-harm, anger, depression. My sister had demonstrated all of those things. My parents said the abuse they heaped on her was because “she was a difficult child” and “they didn’t know how else to raise her.”  Maybe her difficult behavior was a result of incest and abuse? I waited until after all my classmates had left and quietly walked up to the speaker. I remember hesitantly asking her if it was common that a father would single out one child to sexually abuse and not the others. The  woman looked at me with kindness and asked me if the father was physically abusive. I nodded. She took my hand and said, “Sweetie, an abuser will single out the most vulnerable child. He will cast doubt on her credibility and tell everyone the child is difficult and not believable. So, yes, it is very common for an abuser to single out one child for assault.”  I looked down at my feet and willed myself to swallow my tears. She was still holding my hand. I was awash with shame and embarrassment that my family was so incredibly messed up. She smiled, hugged me, and gave me resources for abuse victims. I never called the hotline, and I never reached out for help. But I knew Tara was telling the truth.

I looked down at my feet and willed myself to swallow my tears. She was still holding my hand. I was awash with shame and embarrassment that my family was so incredibly messed up.

I once asked a friend what she thought. She said, “If you have to ask, you already know he did.” That woman’s words have stayed with me to this day. Because that’s what abusers do — they cast doubt on a victim. No one will believe a disrespectful and belligerent child when she tells others she was abused. And no one did believe Tara. So when she was an adult, she swallowed pills and alcohol — enough to make sure she didn’t survive. This was after two other attempts on her life in the weeks preceding her death. She was tired of no one believing her. I regret that I wasn’t brave enough to stand up for her. I regret that I didn’t speak up. And I regret that she never knew that I believed her. In fact, I hadn’t had much contact with Tara the last years of her life. She had turned away from all of us. Tara was buried in a very special spot in a cemetery where she often took walks. I think of her now and weep for the person she would have been had she not been born into this family. And then I wonder how many others there are like Tara — disbelieved, scorned, ignored, discredited. I like to imagine that Tara is finally free of the demons that haunted her sleep. She no longer cares about the abuse forced on her or the reactions of those around her. She doesn’t have to make excuses for her behavior that resulted from incredible trauma in her childhood. And now I carry the guilt for not helping her. But I know she forgives me. I just wish I could forgive myself.