You are not alone.

First, before I go into what I wanted to say today, I would like to say that I love my family, my parents, my husband, and my friends very much. They aren't the bad guys, necessarily, but that doesn't mean I always agree with what they say. That is my right, and theirs.

Now, continuing on..

I got a couple facebook messages yesterday night/early this morning in response to my last post. One responder said I could publish what she said. Here is her message to me.

"Hey Mana,

I just wanted to tell you I've been reading your blog lately, and it's truly amazing how you're facing this. You give me hope. To see you work through this pain and to see you so determined to live your life makes me so happy for you and makes me feel like maybe I can too.

I can't begin to imagine what you've been through, but I can understand parts of it. I, too, was raped. When I was 17. At PG High. I've only ever told 3 people in my life - and one was my mother. Long story short, I was sent to higher religious authorities and told to repent of my sins and not ruin the boy's reputation. It was an awful situation and I have since become silent about the issue. I am dealing with it, better than I had before, but I wish I could become more vocal in the public's eye.

I think you're doing a wonderful thing by voicing your story and your journey and your insights. I think the public does try to downplay sexual abuse, and it sickens me. I hope by doing this it helps the people around you understand the victims better, and understand how horrific something like this is. I know there are others like me out there, who are silent and cannot share their stories for fear of more abuse and people not believing. I know you've helped me, and I know you'll continue to help others.

I hope that by doing this you will also find some peace. In talking to the few people who know my situation, it has helped me get through the harder days.

I wish you all the best."

Hers is yet another tragic story that is a common occurance, and is commonly silenced. Like this responder said "I know there are others like me out there, who are silent and cannot share their stories for fear of more abuse and people not believing."

Everyone has their own battles. As one reader said, "I am living with depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic anxiety and sometimes feel so... detatched from the world". The pain comes in many different forms, and doesn't necessarily stem from sexual violence. Anything traumatic can have a costly toll on your spirit and well-being.

Both of these readers commented on how the public always seems to downplay or just plain ignores the reality of what we victims, we survivors, go through, every day. One said "That's the thing that bothers me about issues like ours: nobody talks about it and the reality of living with it."

And, in response, I wrote back
"I like to think society has a color filter over their eyes. They see the colors that are socially acceptable, and all other colors are forgotten. Kind of like the book "The Giver". All they see is black, white, and shades of grey. Color evokes too much emotion, too much thinking. If society had that color filter lifted from their eyes, they would be exposed to all the true colors of the world, instead of the ones painted for them, and all of a sudden they will have to feel, think, and react for themselves. But that is just too much for society to handle. So, in consequence, those of us that actually see the true colors of the world are silenced, ambushed by the pressing masses of society."

Life is difficult. There is no doubt about that. Everyone has their own demons, and it would be unfair for me to say anyone has it worse than another. Everyone has pain, and everyone has something to feel grateful for, even if they refuse to see it. But that doesn't excuse the feelings and hurt victims of sexual violence feel. It's just as real as the pain one feels after losing a loved one, or finding out you have cancer, or divorce, or any other number of things. So why is sexual violence so hushed up in our society? Think about it.

There are many of you reading this, who are feeling real pain, trying to find ways to survive. My blog is open for anyone to read and share. If you don't want to write a comment, I will be setting up an email shortly that you are more than welcome to share with me comments and stories, experiences and insights that I can share either anonymously or with your name, like my readers who have let me share their stories and feelings today.

I want you to feel safe and secure. If you want a voice, you can find one here. Maybe finally being able to tell your story will help you get the strength you need to start your healing process.

Dear readers, you are not alone. Never think you are alone. There are many out there, afraid and suppressed. Don't let what happened to you rule your life. You are the difference between a happy life and a sad one. I believe in you.

Remember, you are strong. Remember, you are importatnt. And above all, remember, you are a survivor, and there is no shame in that.

Does any of it help?

Do you know what I hear all the time? Everyone hears it. All the time. Those words, "I'm always here for you, I will always listen." Always. Such a time encompassing word. And what does it mean? It means always, when it's on my time. Think about it. Think about the last time you heard those words. Now, do you actually ever go to that person to be heard, or do you start and then get cut off? Something else seems to always come up. Always is a lie. Always should be replaced with "When it's convenient, and if I feel like I have something to say, than I will interupt you. You won't actually be able to finish a thought. And whatever you say, you are actually wrong, and this is how it is, because I'm the person you are confiding in, and because I am, everything I say is right, and you have to take my advice. Now, what were you saying?" That's what always means.

A couple weeks ago I finally told my mom about all that happened. And the way it happened, is she wanted me to talk to Joyce, a therapist/counsellor. Fine, I thought. I guess it can't hurt any. So I skipped math and my mom, Joyce, and I found a room, and I talked. Kinda. I got a lot more than I usually do, but I felt like I needed to talk more, and I couldn't get the words out. Like Joyce and my mom put a hand over my mouth and told me it's time for the grown-ups to talk now.

So I started this blog to get some of it out, to see if it helps. And I froze. I posted for a couple days, and when I told my mom, she told me it wasn't a terrible idea, but it's not really theraputic. So I kinda stopped.

At my university, they had a couple days where they held "the clothesline project", where victims of any kind of abuse or violence can write on a t-shirt. White t-shirt was for people who died as a result of violence. Yellow- survivors of physical assault. Pink, Red, and Orange- survivors of rape or sexual assault. Blue and Green- survivors of incest or childhood sexual abuse. Lavender and Purple- survivors of attacks suffered due to perceived sexual orientation. Black- for those disabled as the result of an attack, or assaulted because of a disability. Grey and Brown- survivors of emotional, spiritual, or verbal abuse. The colors my life could fall under? Yellow, Pink, Red, Orange, Blue, Green, Grey, and Brown. I chose the color Pink. I wrote on the front. I filled it. And it wasn't enough. I could have covered twenty, thirty, forty shirts and still have not felt finished.

On the t-shirt, I named my abusers, all except my childhood one, because my mother won't tell me. She doesn't want to ruin his reputation. He is a good man. He's repented, it's behind him. It's not behind me though. I didn't even know until that day in the room with Joyce. I have the memories, all of which I have told my mother at least once, and have been told it's just my imagination. Come to find out, each one is real. It may have not traumatized me when I was little, it may have been a game created by my abuser, but that doesn't mean it wasn't abuse, and that doesn't mean I can just brush it off a couple weeks after finding out that all those memories are real, when I have been told continually they are just hauntings in my imagination.

I almost feel like my mother cares more for this man's reputation than my healing. You can't just tell someone they were being sexually abused at 5 years of age, and than say I can't tell you who he was, and expect the victim to just forget about it. They deserve to know. It's not my goal to go and slander anyone. But, seeing as I am the victim, I figure I have a right to know who it was. It's like saying I can't ever say the names of my other abusers, and I can't tell anyone who they were, because that would slander their name and their reputation. It's like saying that if I wanted to go to court, I can't, because that would mean the possibility of sending my abusers, those abusers who molested, raped, assaulted, beat, bruised, cut, demised, and slandered me among other things, sending them to prison for the crimes they commited. Their reputation is more important than being the victim of their villaney for several years and wanting some sort of justice, compensation, SOMETHING for all the hurt they have done.

I really need to talk to someone.

But who to? A crisis help-line? I don't like talking over the phone. I'm much more a over text where I can methodically think out my replies or in person having a real conversation. So, why not my husband? My husband likes having the t.v. or music on, all the time. I can't seem to get it quiet enough for him to listen unless it's right before bed, but than it's too late in the day. So, why not my friends? Most of them don't even know I've been through any of this, and those that do don't really know the full extent of what I'm feeling. They are having enough problems as it is, all of them being young adults trying to find their way in the world too, so I would feel guilty confiding in them. So go to therapy? They are detached, can look at it objectively, and are a great help, right? I can't afford them. My husband and I are living paycheck by paycheck. Literally counting our pennies. Even ten dollars a session is too much. So, the obvious answer is my family, right? No. I've tried. I get started, and I get told that what I have been through is not as great as so-and-so's, and I should be grateful for so many things. I get started and I get told not now, I'm busy. I get started and I get cut off mid-sentence and told about how my confidante's life is so much worse. I get started and than get chastised and lectured and told I'm a terrible, sinful person and I must go repent for my sins. And then I get told "I'm always here for you, I will always listen. You can always come talk to me."

I don't believe you.

My mom is even hiding some of what she found out the day with Joyce from my father, scared of what he would say or do if he found out. Doesn't matter what the circumstances were.

And I'm supposed to be open with you?

.... Yes.

At least, I can here, on this blog. I have a friend, Julie, who told me my blog is a great help for services trying to make people aware of what victims are actually going through, and how they can help.

So, reader, are you enlightened?

Do you understand what a victim feels?

Because I have to tell you, this is the tip of the universe that is what a victim goes through.

And it never ends.

The edited version of "The Truth Behind the Mask: Why Sexually Abused Victims Don't Speak Out"

So, my English 1010 teacher said my paper was excellent and very revealing, and the editing is much better than the one I shared before. So, here it is. Enjoy.

The Truth Behind the Mask: Why Sexually Abused Victims Don't Speak Out



My friends and I were sitting at a table, laughing and talking like we did every lunch hour. One friend came up to the table and sat down, a quizzical expression on her face.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask.

She replies, “In my last class we had a lecture on the psychological effects that can occur after being sexually abused or raped, and I just don’t get it.”

“What don’t you understand?”

She became a little flustered as she answers, “I understand that sexual abuse can be a fairly harmful thing, but why don’t the victims just go get help at the beginning, when it starts, instead of waiting for years or not reporting at all?”

The girl across the table from me pipes in; “It’s because most of them aren’t being sexually abused, it’s just they are too embarrassed to admit they like it.”

Standing at the end of the table was my best friend, and she jumps in the conversation, “Nah, it’s basically “crying wolf”, which is why so many quote-in-quote rape and sexual abuse cases go unreported, because they aren’t real.” Her boyfriend walks up behind her as she says this and sneaks a kiss on her cheek. She yelled, “Rape!” and the whole table bursts into laughter.

That is, everyone but me.

Because I am a victim of sexual abuse.

It perplexes people as to why victims don’t report their sexual abuse. They think it can’t be that hard to go into a police station and say those four words, “I am being abused.” They understand it’s a sensitive subject, but it’s just not something that happens often, and anyone who says they are being abused is just looking for attention. The truth? Victims don’t report their abuse for many reasons and the most common one: fear. They fear their abuser. They fear that they won‘t be believed. But most of all, they fear the truth; the truth that they were abused.

Fear. It is an emotion that can control ones actions. It can be manipulated for any use. One strong fear victims of sexual abuse feel is fear of their abuser, a tool used by many abusers to keep their victims quiet. If you were in a situation where you were threatened physically and verbally every day with the end of your life or social standing, would you go tell every one what was going on? Or would that fear keep you from speaking? It’s why I didn’t speak out.

While I was growing up, I was sexually abused by my best friend for five years. Why so long? Because the verbal and physical abuse and threats on my life and reputation kept me from speaking out. If I fought back, rumors would go around the school about me. These rumors would get worse and worse, going from “I kissed so and so” to “I slept with this person” to “I will do anything for pay.” The circulating gossip kept me from getting a lab partner in my physics class and being left out of group sessions in English. If I told my abuser no, that I didn’t want to today, he would use physical force until I complied. Sometimes it was just a slap across the face, sometimes it was a punch to the jaw. Sometimes it was a baseball bat rammed against my back, and sometimes it was worse. I began to wear long sleeved and heavy clothing to hide the bruises and cuts. If I told my abuser I’m done, I’m leaving, I am never coming back, he would whisper in my ear, “Who will believe you? You, a whining little nobody, against me, one of the most popular guys at school? I know where you live, I know where you sleep, and I know how to get into your house. Your parents would never believe you, not if I tell them how much of a whore you are first. So, who will believe you?”

Fear of the abuser is a powerful thing.

Another fear that drives victims to stay quiet is they fear they won’t be believed. Everyone likes being believed. When you tell your best friend how your coffee spilt on you this morning and it ruined your favorite shirt, you want them to believe you, because it’s true. A victim wants to tell their story about being sexually abused; they want to be believed, because it’s true. You then ask why, if these victims really want to tell their story, don’t they speak out and get help. Like my abuser said to me, “Who will believe you?”. No one seriously talks about sexual abuse; it’s tabooed, it’s sensitive, it’s a touchy subject. You normally don’t hear a conversation about it when you are walking down the street. It’s just not something we talk about openly in our society. Sexual abuse is one of those things that isn’t real unless it happens to you. It happens on TV., it happens in another town, another state, but never at home.

For example, a few years ago one of my older sisters got married. She would always say she was happy, tell these stories about how awesome her new life is, a big smile on her face. We all saw the white elephant in the room; she wasn’t telling us something. She would have bruises on her arms or legs and say she tripped down a flight of stairs. Her smile was always fake, and when she thought we weren’t looking she would wipe a tear from her eye. For a long time she never said anything about it, and we never brought it up. When she eventually told us what was happening, there was a lot of damage done to her physically and emotionally. Later she told me that she felt like she couldn’t speak out because she was scared she wouldn’t be believed, that she would be blamed, that our family would judge her and treat her differently. She never believed her ex would be like that because he was the polar opposite when they were dating; he was nice, popular, kind and gentle, especially around friends. She thought that no one would believer her, and who would when he acted like such a nice guy all the time.

Fear of not being believed is a very powerful thing.

One last fear that can overtake anyone is fear of the truth. We see it every day, everywhere. Victims of sexual abuse feel that fear every day, even after the abuse is over. They live a lie, because facing the truth is much more terrifying than pretending it’s not there. They become reserved, a shell of the person they could be. Some become work-aholics, absorbed in working their life away. Some become so reserved they become hermits and loners, self enclosed and sad. All victims are acting on life’s stage, burying the pain and shame they feel behind the mask they put on every morning.

I remember that mask. I wore it for years. I never wanted to admit to myself what my friend was doing. So I ignored it. I had other friends I would spend time with at school, I couldn’t let them know what was really happening. My parents had a picture perfect future for me; I couldn’t let them see how imperfect it was becoming. I always thought about what would happen if I told the truth. Would my friends leave me? Would my parents be angry? What would happen to me at school? So I put my mask on. It always felt like I was covering my eyes; if I couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there. If I couldn’t face it, I knew no one else could. So I kept my mask on, my eyes closed, and my mouth shut. The rest of my life was much easier that way, even when I knew the nightmare wouldn’t stop until I removed the mask.

Fear of admitting the truth is a powerful thing.

They weren’t lying when they said fear was power, and fear is a ruler in the life of a survivor of sexual abuse. Half a million victims go without reporting their abuse and getting help every year because of this ruling emotion. So the next time you pass someone down the street, check out at the local grocery store, or wave at your friends, look into their eyes.

Can you see behind the mask?