We’ve Come a Long Way — or Have We?

Being a victim of abuse when you are young changes you.

I truly think the makeup of my brain is different than the brain of someone who didn’t experience abuse. I look for the best in others but expect the worst. I live with anxiety because I feel as if I’m never good enough. But I know that I am really just the product of a monster, and the world is not always a safe place. Most who know me would say I’m a “salt of the earth” kind-of woman. I’m educated. Have a nice husband. Two kids. Dogs, picket fence. You know. The Normal Rockwell image of a Midwestern woman. What they don’t see are the nightmares that still plague me. One of the most frequent nightmares I have is being in a car, strapped in, while it careens backward down a hill toward the ocean with no one at the wheel. The second most frequent nightmare is being trapped in a burning house. Although I know that others may have similar nightmares, I believe it is my loss of control of my own body that causes those terrors to visit me. My inability to feel control over my own body has made me a target for abusers throughout my life. I experienced sexual assault at 13, 14, and 17. I didn’t acknowledge that I was assaulted until recently. It was much more pleasant to chalk my experiences up to the “boys will be boys” mentality. But my teenage years were plagued by victimization. It’s actually strange that although I grew up in a very conservative and strict home, my teenage years were filled with harassment and assault in one way or another, but we just never talked about it. My first assault happened when my friend and I were riding our bicycles in the country. We had crossed a large trestle bridge that separated us from the road we needed to get home. Two older boys refused to let us cross the bridge. It was starting to get dark, and I was instantly terrified. I remember them taunting us saying, “If you’re old enough to bleed, you’re old enough to breed.” I also remember thinking that they were really going to hurt me. At that age, I was unaware of sex or rape, but I knew the danger, whatever that meant, was real. After one of the boys grabbed and fondled me, he tried to take my clothes off. My friend tried to help me, but the other boy grabbed her. I finally said that my dad would be looking for me. They immediately let us go. We took off as fast as we could.  Not long after this, one of my teachers groped my chest while taking attendance in my class. A year later, the same boy from the first incident, who had verbally harassed me multiple times on our school bus, grabbed me in the gym after school. We were alone. He came up behind me, pushed me behind the large mats on the gym wall, and pulled my breasts out of my bra. He was extremely rough. The only thing that saved me from further actions was that he heard a door slam as the janitor entered the building. At 17, I was working at night at the local grocery store. The night manager was two years older than me. I was in the back room, lifting my arms to unlock the door to the dumpsters. He came up behind me and put one hand up my shirt, and one hand down my pants. I was able to wrestle away from him. I never told my parents about any of these events. I didn’t think they would believe me, or I thought they might say I encouraged the behavior.

It was much more pleasant to chalk my experiences up to the “boys will be boys” mentality.

Several years ago, my mother made a confession to me. When she was 13, she was brutally raped by a teacher. She babysat for his children, and he raped her in his car when he drove her home. She never told anyone until she was in her 60s. My heart hurt for the little girl he had destroyed. I realized that monster had changed her future as well as mine. His abuse of her led her to believe she couldn’t do any better than my father, which kept her in an abusive marriage for 40+ years.  Somehow, I hated that man more than I hated my father. I wanted to hurt him in ways that had never occurred to me before. I realized his actions set in motion my own future of abuse.As I have gotten older, that angered has diminished. I don’t carry around the seething emotion that used to invade my dreams. Instead, I understand that some adults are products of their own childhood. But every once in awhile, when a certain story on the news captures my attention, I feel myself falling into the rabbit hole of despair. Will the world ever be rid of monsters? I always swore to my children that monsters didn’t exist. I gave them spray bottles and flashlights to keep the monsters away. How could I ever tell them that monsters are real? And that so many men I had known were monsters? And that the world wasn’t really safe?Now that my children are grown, I realize that the world is still rife with monsters. But I also see so many wonderful things in the world, and so many people who try to find good in this world.  And I start to believe that maybe monsters are a dying breed. I wish that was true. I’m not naïve. But believing that the world can be good is what gives me reason to get out of bed. Movements like the #MeToo remind me that although our society has come a long way in supporting survivors of abuse and assault, we still have so far to go. I dream that at some point in my daughter’s lifetime, she will see a day where no survivor is ignored or persecuted, but supported. I really hope the steps we’ve taken have made a future possible where assault and abuse don’t happen. But until that day, I’ll keep believing and supporting.