Daughter of a Pedofile or Daughter of a King

Pedophile, that ugly word that means so much more than its three short syllables can begin to express.  In fact, words can't even begin to describe the disgust and repulsion I feel when I think of the horrible acts done by my Father.

A father is supposed to be your protector, someone who you can look up to, someone who takes care of the family.  My father was none of these.  Although, on the outside, he looked pretty fantastic.  For as long as I can remember he was in church leadership.  People saw him as a bible scholar, a man of tremendous wisdom and knowledge.  At church, he was calm, cool and put together.  Everyone respected him and thought he was fabulous.

They didn't know that he beat us before church. That I began to sing a worship song in the van on the way and he pulled over to belt me for being an annoyance to him.  They don't know the other horrors he did.  By the time I was four years old, he began coming into the room I shared with a foster sister.  She was about 12 years old.  She was on the bottom bunk and I was on the top.  He would lay with her and "teach her how to please her future husband as mandated by the bible".  I would make my breathing as silent as possible, trying to be invisible. I would lay as close to the wall as possible so he couldn't reach me and pretend to be asleep, all the while hearing every vile thing he said, and knowing every disgusting thing he was doing to her.

The terror that rose inside of me, on nights when my mother would get groceries was like none other.  After two years of him abusing my foster sister while I pretended to sleep. she suddenly left.  Another foster sister arrived. This time he built her a private bed in a closet, maybe because he hoped he could visit her alone.

By the time I was ten or eleven he began to notice me. I developed early.  I don't know if that was because I had endured sexual abuse by the foster kids during the previous years, but none the less I was a little girl who was well endowed.  He noticed. It seemed innocent enough at first, as he compliments the curve of my calf or the shape of my hips.  But soon my breasts became his daily focus.  I couldn't walk out of my room without him noticing and singing little jingles about them.  Every joke was about my breast and he looked at me in a way that was vile.   It like like he undressed me every time I walked into a room.

The first time I recall him grabbing me, and forcing himself on me was the day my parents had a date. I decided to surprise them by making the house extra spotless for when the came home.  I was trying so hard to earn love.  As soon as they arrived my mother walked down the hall into her bedroom and my father grabbed me, leaned me backward and stuck his tongue down my throat.  I fought to get away.

I can't remember the horrors that happened in those years because my brain has blocked out so much, but I do remember how my father looks naked. I do remember what his underwear looks like.  I do remember how his beard felt against my face. 

There were other girls in our home over the years and they have confirmed that they were his victims.   It feels so strange to admit that my father is a pedophile.  But he's more than that. He is a man who violently beat me. he is a man who was cruel to me. who locked me in the garbage bin with rotting garbage and maggots. He is a man who became a pastor and yet tried to force me to be his mistress.    i can't reconcile with the revolting truth.  My father calls himself a Christian pastor but does abominable things.

The last time he spoke to me was when I was 32. He was claiming me as property now that I was divorced and talking sexual to me.  He said I had no choice but to move in with him and I would be responsible for the cooking and cleaning. Then he talked about wanting to get his hands on me.  He said I had no choice...... it wasn't up for discussion. He said under Jewish law I was his property.   I did have a choice. I made sure he never found me and my children, that they were never exposed to his perversions.  That my daughter wasn't made to be one of his victims.

The hardest part of that story, however, is that he was pastoring a church. He was supposed to be a man of God yet he was a man of disgusting perversion.  I changed my name and disappeared to protect myself and have never seen him since.

So, am I the daughter of a pedophile?? Maybe not, maybe I broke that tie a long time ago when I said no more. Maybe when I broke that cycle and changed my name from his to Emmanuel I stopped being the daughter of a pedophile and instead chose to be the daughter of the King.  I chose the name Emmanuel because it means God with us. God is my father.... not Tom.  I choose to honor God.

Pieces to the puzzle being uncovered

 I sat across from my therapist as she challenged my thoughts.  She insisted that things didn't add up.  Pieces of my childhood story are missing, huge pieces that would make things make sense.  There are more questions than answers at times. For instance,

If my siblings saw me being physically abused, witnessed me being the object of my father's lust, know that I was sexually abused and have even read the horrific letter my mother sent me on my birthday to condemn me to death for getting counseling as a 32 yr old adult, then why on earth do they treat my parents like they are gold, and condemn me for setting boundaries and saying no to further abuse? 

I wrestled with the many questions that came out of the counseling session and wondered why awful things happened to me that didn't happen to my younger sisters.  Why was I singled out?  Then it dawned on me that there were five girls who lived in our home during my childhood, who were older than me.  While I couldn't remember some of them at all, I knew their names and that they had each lived with us for more than a year. 

I began searching on facebook to see If I could find any of them. Then I came across a name with no picture, it was the name of  a foster sister who had lived with us from about 1976 to 1978.  She was between the age of 11 and 13.

Now, as an adult, I was reaching out.  It had been forty years since we'd last seen or heard of each other.  I sent a text through a messenger saying.  "You stayed with my family for a while when you were young.  I am trying to put together some of the missing pieces from my childhood and am wondering if you are willing to let me ask a few questions." 

To my surprise, she answered quickly.  My first question was bold.  I asked, " Were you abused by my parents?" She responded with a question, " Where you one of Tom's victim's too?" 
I was suddenly stunned. It had never occurred to me that my father would have sexually abused anyone other than me. So with my heart racing, I answered simply " Yes". 

We began to talk over the next 24 hours and memories surfaced, tears flowed and healing began.  I was not alone.  I was not a magnet for my father's lust, he had an issue with pedophilia and I was simply next in line. 

Then she described the abuse and I fell apart.  She said that when my mother would go to get groceries one night per week, he would climb in her bed to sexually assault her.

He told her that he was teaching her how to please her husband like the bible mandates so she could be a good wife.  As he told me that, I froze and began weeping.  I remember hearing those words. I wasn't sure if they were spoken to me or someone else but I had heard them before.

As we talked it became clear.  The abuse she endured started with I was only four years old. We shared a room. I was on the top bunk.  I was there, for every moment of it.  I heard everything he did to her, everything he said to her.  I remember trying to pretend I was invisible, moving as far away from the edge of the bunk as possible so he couldn't reach me, and silencing my breathing so that it was like I wasn't there.  I remember trying to be still and silent with my heart pounding.  I remember grocery days.   

My foster sister stayed with us for only two years.  She was resilient and found a way out. She made it look like she had gotten into drugs.  It was the only way she could convince the social worker to remove her and place her back with her older sister.  She escaped before the assaults escalated to rape, the step the believed was next.

I was relieved to realize I wasn't the only one my father lusted after but mortified at the memories that surfaced.  Most of all I was afraid of what I still could not remember. Why did I need to be invisible, why did I need to disappear? Why did I hate grocery night? 

She remembered things I had forgotten, including the spiritual control that was used against us. It was as if, in order to please God we had to submit to the sexual abuse. It was honoring our father, and being obedient. It was learning to be a good wife since he said that is what the Bible teaches.  He twisted the bible and its teaching to manipulate us into submission for his own sick and twisted perverted desires.

The day after my conversation with Heather she contacted me again. This time with a tough question. She didn't mince words.  She asked if her brothers had sexually abused me.  I didn't want to answer, but she realized quickly that the answer in part was yes.  One of her brothers had sexually abused me starting two years after she left.

I was waiting for her to condemn me or attack me but instead, she affirmed me and validated my pain.  She told me that he also abused others in various ways.  Her own daughter had expressed that she didn't feel safe around him and there were red flags.

I wasn't alone. I wasn't alone....... Finally, for the first time in my life, I felt like I wasn't the only one carrying this heavy load of the disgusting things done to me. I had confirmation that two of the men who sexually abused me had patterns of doing this to others. Therefore it wasn't my fault, as my mother strongly insisted. I wasn't to blame, they are.  They are sick and disgusting vile filthy men who condemn themselves with their own hands and lustful hearts.

I felt guilty for what my family had done to these others.  I wondered if the other girls were abused too. I may never know. But at this moment I knew that my story was validated by the pain of another. My mother had said it was all in my head, that I imagined it but do two girls who haven't spoken about it ever, and who have been apart for 40 years have the same delusion and haunting memory?  It cant be....... it has to be true.  We both survived the cult that was my childhood home. We both endured the grooming and pedophilia that robbed us of our childhood. 

She even offered to testify before the courts and to verify my story to others. she insisted that when more than one person comes forward with the same horror story then people start to listen.  I am not alone and while my heart is aching, and painful memories are surfacing I am relieved to have someone by my side who can validate all I have been through.

For the first time in 46 years a family member is infuriated by the abuse. For the first time someone had decided to confront my abuser and refuse to let him near the little girls in the family. My pleas have been heard.

I am not alone.....

Battling worthlessness

Barely a moment passes when  a deep sense of worthlessness doesn't affect me. The reality is I was not deemed worth keeping as a baby. According to my  mother, I was not worth loving, protecting,  defending, spending time with, investing in, providing for.. and the list goes on. She deemed me worthless. She abused me as a child then cursed me to die for getting counseling as an adult and disowned me because I chose counseling instead of abuse.

I don't know why the value my mother places on me has so much power. I've been  told to rewrite the story with a new belief.  The problem is that it feels like a lie to deem myself as anything but worthless because it is the identity I was given from day one.  I don't know how to tell a different story. 

I've been given a challenge.  The challenge is that one day when that lie has been erased from my  heart I will do something to commemorate the new story.  I don't know if that day will ever come. 

Today I was reminded that my late Nana deemed me valuable from the moment I was born. My husband deems me worthy of love. The worth my mother has placed on me is not the only story that has been written for me. 

I can't just adopt a new belief because I've been told to.  I need to choose to rewrite my story moment by moment.  I also need  God to write his truth in my heart. So I'm asking God  to show me his heart towards me. 

I have chosen to be kind to myself. I will not speak the cruel words of my mother over myself. Instead I am going to start speaking the kind of affirmations I long to hear from my mother. The adult me needs to speak as a parent to the little girl inside of me and remind her that she a kind,  sweet,  loving little girl who had a pure and  tender heart of gold.

I will fight against the lies, one breath at a time.

Lessons learned from my mother (Happy Mother's Day)

From every person in our lives, we can learn lessons. Some are learned through love and encouragement, others through pain and still others are learned by see behaviors you do not want to emulate.

Here are some lessons my mother taught me that have shaped who I am.

1.  Always love.  No matter how difficult it is, love your child. In doing so you will emulate the love of Christ.  When they grow and seek God they will understand love because you did your best to teach it to them.

2. Forgive.  People will let you down and fail to meet your expectations. Forgiveness will go a long ways towards healing.

3. Set and maintain healthy boundaries.  No person should subject themselves to abuse.  It's ok to say no. It's essential to limit contact with individuals who are not repentant and who are not committed to changing their behavior.

4. Get help. We all need it. Whether its counseling, coaching, instruction, or mentorship, we all need help. It's ok to let people in and it's important to be teachable.  Without help, we tend to form our own unhealthy patterns. Letting people speak into your life is a gift to yourself.

5. Being a married wife doesn't mean being a doormat. It should mean that you are loved, and cherished. You are valued and have a voice.

6. Every child is precious.  No child is born worthless or unloveable. We shape our children's image of themselves by our words and actions. God loves each child and deems them precious and so should we.

7. Beauty comes from the inside. No matter what your genetic makeup, or your features you can radiate beauty.  It flows from the love you have inside and bubbles out of you, making your eyes sparkle and your heart beam.

8. Empathy is essential.  People everywhere are silently hiding the pain they carry.  A little empathy can break down the walls and bring healing.  God is empathetic to our plight and as such he hears our cries, he listens and he brings healing and restoration.

9. It's never too late. Its never ot late to say I'm sorry, to change, to make a difference or to reconcile. Its never too late as long as you are breathing.

10. God is a good God, of love and mercy. In fact, his Mercy is new every morning. He is not waiting to destroy or condemn us. He longs for real relationship and intimacy. He does not want anyone to perish, least of all me.  On judgment day he will not be standing there condemning me for that day I swore in high school. No, it was forgiven at the cross and he will welcome me with loving arms and declare me forgiven because of his great mercy at the cross.

I honor my mother in this, I will learn well. I will be the woman God desires me to be. I will not curse my birth or accept your curse of death on my life. Instead, I praise you mom for carrying me to term despite not wanting me.  I honor you by thanking you for teaching me these profound lessons, despite the methods.  I choose to forgive, love and pray for you, that you too will be forgiven one day.

Letting go and Letting God lead

We spend our lives, grasping for control. We want things in order, and if they aren’t, we feel out of control. We write lists and give detailed instructions. We try to convince others of our perspectives and defend our honor at all cost because to keep silent in opposition feels powerless. 

God seems to enjoy to placing us in positions where we need to give up all our control; When health fails and all we can do is pray for that miracle when finances are tight and there seems to be no way to survive the crisis. When people come against us and wrongfully accuse us when our children fall and make wrong choices. We can’t control any of these things.  

Oh, don’t get me wrong we can try but trying leads only to a deeper sense of helplessness, which in turn can make us try harder to control something...... anything in our lives. That's when we starting creating human messes. 

The reality is that God wants us to be completely dependent on him, LIKE A CHILD.  He wants us to stop focusing on our capabilities and successes, and start focusing on the fact that without God we can do Nothing!       (John 15:5)

We can not lead, or teach, or bring God glory, or serve effectively. We can not fix messes the mess our lives get into. In fact, without God, we don't even exist. God places us in situations to shape us. He places our leaders over us. He chooses the weather and decides whether or not a person is healed, or even lives. 

I have tried to control my workload, my health, my stress, and my kid's behavior, but God is teaching me a powerful lesson. He wants complete devotion and complete dependence! It's a lesson that could not come at a better time in my life, as I struggle by feeling overwhelmed with powerlessness. 

The only thing God wants me to control is my devotion to him. He wants me to saturate my life with scripture and walk in His truth, while I let him take complete control of my messy life so that new life can be breathed into it. 

I am so thankful to have a God who cares about ME......; one of the millions of ordinary people on this crazy planet. And not only does He care, but He desires deep intimacy enabling me to hear his voice as He leads me.  So this is my commitment. I will saturate my heart with God's word. I will devote my love to the One who gives me breath, and I will follow wherever He leads me next. 

This is my commitment! 

On my knees before God

As I sit in the dark, I listen for His voice. I hear the purring of my cat and the hum of the fridge yet the only sound I long to hear is the sound of my Father’s voice. My world is upside down. Not because of a mistake I made but because of the hurtful choices of another.

Lord, I pray that you will bring everything that is done in secret into the light. I pray that all the lies of the enemy will be revealed so that the truth will shine as bright as the sun at midday. I ask that you would move the mountain in front of me.

My enemies loathe me because I knew the truth. They tried to silence me but I chose integrity. The truth is seeping out. I pray that my enemies lies will fall upon deaf ears so they will not hear. I pray that those who have been deceived will gain discernment and be moved to integrity.

I pray Lord that you empower me with boldness. I pray that your voice in me will be heard so that all that is true and honorable will be exalted. I pray that all that is decietful will be cast down and removed. I pray that you will ignite a fire in me where there is passivity. I pray that your strength will be my portion. That I will walk in the calling you have put before me. I pray that you will lead me in word and deed so that nothing I do is out of wrong motives or self ambition.

I pray Lord that you raise up voices to stand in unison for what is good and holy. I pray that you will give ear to my prayer. I ask, as the daughter of the most High God for all that is good to proceed but for all that is evil to be cut off. As your daughter I weep upon your feet knowing that your love is free and undeserved yet overwhelmingly good.

I praise you for the miracle you are able to do. I praise you for the doors you will be opening I praise you for the appointments you are setting up for me. May I walk into the fullness of the destiny I am called to pursue.

Yours

Kirsten Emmanuel

Little Ewe- My story of healing in parable form

 There once was a shepherd with many, many sheep.  He loved each one so tenderly 
and knew their deepest thoughts.  There was one little lamb in his flock named Little Ewe. 
She was a gentle little lamb who loved the shepherd.  But Ewe was born to a mother sheep that had a deep wound which had never healed.   

The wound was so painful and searing that mother never let her lamb come close. Each time little Ewe tried to curl up close to mother, the mother would flinch in pain and angrily push little Ewe away.  Little Ewe couldn’t understand. She only wanted to love her mother, but instead of love she felt the intense stabbing pain of rejection.  Her heart cried out silently to mother lamb. “Won’t you just love me?”  But then she'd turn her eyes towards mother and see the angry tears that stung her mother's eyes.

Day after day, the loving shepherd watched little Ewe with immense sadness in his heart. 

He would call out to little Ewe, "You are mine, little Ewe, you are mine, I love you always, 
you are mine" 

 But little Ewe turned away and the shepherd's voice seemed to disappear into the meadow as if the words were never spoken. Little Ewe's heart began to long for a mother's love.  She would watch all the other mother sheep with their tender little lambs and secretly wish she could have
the same love of a mother. With each passing day, Little Ewe's heart grew heavier and heavier. 

Then one day Little Ewe met a large group of sheep. They spoke gently to her and encouraged her to trust them. They seemed to really care about her. It wasn’t long before she followed them everywhere they went.  But as time passed, she realized these sheep were not at all good. They often said cruel things to her and hurt her badly. One such morning the sheep began biting at her knees and kicking her from behind while jeering wildly. They were having great fun, at her expense.

The sheep pressed little Ewe towards the edge of the pasture near a jagged deep ravine. They continued to kick and bite little ewe until she stumbled backward. All at once she found herself falling. Jagged rocks jutted out from the sides of the ravine cutting into her flesh. Down, down she tumbled until she collapsed into some thick dark mud at the bottom. She lay there a long while, tears streaming down her face. She could still hear the cruel taunts of the sheep above her. Eventually, she managed to stand on her weary legs.  Frail and exhausted she limped 
over to a nearby creek at the edge of a lonely meadow.  She tried desperately to wash off the blood and caked on mud, but the mud had saturated deep into her thick wooly coat so all her efforts were in vain. 

The cruel sheep looked down at her again and laughed. They mercilessly taunted her for being so filthy. "It is your fault they jeered.  You are filth, and it’s your fault."  Little Ewe hung her head in shame. “I am filthy" she whispered to herself "its all my fault, I am filthy and nothing can make me clean." 

Little Ewe stumbled away, dejected and forlorn. The cuts on her legs and back stung as blood trickled out of the caked wounds.  Little Ewe found a soft grassy patch and then curled up tight into a mound that resembled a rock. She buried her face deep into the meadow grass and wept.  The Gentle shepherd saw his little lamb. He walked up to her and reached his arm out to gently stroke away her tears.  But little lamb pulled away.  Her heart cried out " Don’t hurt me, I am afraid"  The shepherd tried to lift up little lamb, but she wouldn’t let him carry her.

"Little Lamb, you are mine" Whispered the shepherd.  "I won't hurt you, I love you." His words were tender and sincere, but little lamb cowered away.  She kept her wounded legs pulled in tight under her so the shepherd couldn't touch the wounds. "Alright little lamb" said the shepherd, " I'll wait, and when it’s time, I will carry you, and tend your wounds."

Day after day little Ewe sat curled up tight.  She would cry to herself " Does nobody love me, does nobody care.?... I am alone and no one is there." Then gentle shepherd would hear her cry and call back, " I am here little Ewe, I love you always. I won’t leave you alone, I am waiting, little lamb. Let me carry you safely in my arms. Let me tend to your wounds" 

Little lamb listened to the shepherd's words, as they were sung sweetly over the meadow grasses. But then she would look at herself and say.  " I am no one's little lamb. I am too dirty. If you pick me up, the mud on my coat will go onto you. The blood on my skin is so ugly.  I am filthy. I am nothing; No one 
could really want me.  My mother didn’t want me, so neither could you.  Don’t carry me.... I'll bring shame to you! I am unworthy of the shepherd's love. ”The words of shame and pain rang through little Ewe's mind over and over, drowning out the shepherd's voice.

The shepherd's heart sank with grief. He loved his little lamb so very much and longed to hold her and tenderly tend to her wounds.  He watched as little lamb cried in vain.  She would sometimes try to stand up in the grass and look to see if anyone was near.  But the wounds on her legs were becoming filled 
with infection, making them weak and sickly.  She would collapse in agony, and hide once more in the long meadow grass.

Days passed by, and little Ewe grew bigger. But no matter how big she got, she’d whisper her words of shame again and again. Saying, "if a mother can’t love me, then nobody can. I am nothing, I am filthy, and I am unworthy of love" 

The shepherd listened to the sad song of her heart and decided that it was time to try something new. He called out to a warm wooly sheep in his pasture named Blessed.  Blessed was a gentle mother sheep.  She had two little lambs of her own that had grown into fine young rams. Blessed was a special sheep. She listened carefully each day to the shepherd’s voice and followed him wherever he led.  The loving shepherd led blessed deep into the lower pasture to the spot where little ewe lay curled up. 

Blessed looked tenderly down at little Ewe. Memories flooded Blessed’s mind of days gone by when she too had once lay hurting in the pasture. She remembered how afraid she had been and, how deep the wounds were that kept her from roaming freely through the meadow.  Just then the loving shepherd nudged her forward and said: "take my little Ewe, and let her know that I love her." Blessed sat down gingerly beside little Ewe.  "You are a precious lamb little Ewe. The shepherd loves you."

"How can that be?" wept little Ewe. “I am so filthy, if my mother can't love me, then nobody can, I am nothing I am unworthy of love." 

Blessed sighed a deep sigh, knowing all too well, that words were not enough.  "I'll be a mother lamb to you" she softly replied." I'll show you that you can be loved, I'll show you how much the gentle shepherd loves you. He has loved me, and I will love you"  she whispered placing a kiss on her tear stained cheek.

Day after day, Blessed sat with little Ewe. She would softly whisper in her ear. “You are loved little lamb”. Little ewe would cry and argue in her thoughts.“How could this be possible? If my own mother can’t love me, how can anyone else”?”

Little Ewe was becoming weaker by the day, as infection began to seep through her whole body.  Soon she was too weak to stand at all. Meanwhile, Blessed kept on telling little Ewe, that she was loved by the gentle shepherd.  Slowly those tender words began penetrating into her heart. One day, Little Ewe
 lay on the grass, frail and too weak to move. Her warm breath was shallow, and she felt as if she couldn’t go on any longer. 

“I am no-one, I am nothing, she softly cried, it would be better if I were never born” 

The gentle Shepherd heard her mournful cry and went to her once more.  “Little lamb”, he said softly “you have been badly hurt, and those wounds are making you sick, but I love you, and I have a plan for you. I want to carry you to safety and mend your wounds.” 

“ I am too broken”, sobbed little ewe, “no one can mend my wounds” she wept bitterly.

The gentle shepherd slowly reached down to pick little Ewe up. She flinched in pain and tried to resist him, but she was too frail. He tenderly pulled her in close to his chest. She could hear his heart beat softly close to hers. His strong warm arms embraced her affectionately as he carried her to safety.  
Blessed followed faithfully along behind, still assuring little Ewe “ He loves, you little Ewe, it's ok, He loves you”

The gentle shepherd carried her into an old wooden barn at the edge of the pasture.  Soft candlelight flickered from the lantern in the corner.  He carefully placed her onto a soft bed of fresh straw.  He took off his coat and placed it under her head.  He carefully washed away the blood and mud that was 
enmeshed deep into her wounds. 

Soft tears rolled swiftly down her cheeks as she looked into the shepherd's eyes.  “You do love me”, she thought.  She could hear the soft coo of doves in the rafters below, as she drifted off to sleep. 

The shepherd worked on through the night, washing and tending to little ewe’s wounds. Little Ewe, 
slept heavily, with fever racing through her frail frame.  Hour after hour, the gentle shepherd continued to tend to her. He wrapped her fragile legs in soft white linen and dabbed her hot forehead with a cool 
cloth, all the while singing over her “ you are my little ewe, whom I have always loved. When you are hurting, my heart breaks too.  If only you will come to me, and let me love you, I can heal your wounds and make you brand new.”  The words seemed to dance along the rafters and swirl about in their 
beautiful melody. 

Slowly, Little Ewe began to hear the shepherd words. “You are mine, you are mine”, he sang. Her eyes slowly opened and looked deeply into the gentle shepherd’s eyes.

“I am yours,” she softly whispered back.

At that moment, the lies that had gripped her heart for so long began to wash away, the shepherd would whisper words of truth into her heart, “yes you have been rejected but you are loveable.” “I can wash away even the most awful stain, to make you beautiful” And he did…. Day after daythe shepherd continued to tend to his little lamb, lovingly singing over her until she was strong 
enough to stand once more. 

Then one day the shepherd carried her out into the fresh air.  He laid her on a soft tuft of grass and gently stroked her soft white coat.  You are free little lamb, free to live. She gingerly took a few steps to a nearby pool of water.  She gazed down at her reflection.  She saw a beautiful lamb who
 was nearly full grown. Her tender wounds had healed and her wool was a vibrant pure white against her soft pink nose.

Blessed walked up behind her and nudged her gently, “You were beautiful underneath all the mud,” she said, “you were loveable underneath your wounds, and now you are whole again.”

A warm tear swept swiftly down Blessed's face, as she looked a this precious lamb she’d loved.  “You can always trust the gentle shepherd…. “she insisted tenderly. He will always be there for you.

Blessed stepped back as little Ewe leaped up into the gentle shepherd's arms. “Oh thank you” she wept… “thank you,”  “You were always there,” she cried “ I’ll love you forever” she whispered as she nuzzled in closely to his chest.

“Forever it is, my little lamb… forever it is………”

Bound

I woke up from another nightmare, terror coursing through me. My body shaking so violently that I could not stop. As I try to calm myself down and tell myself I am ok, the memory replays in my head of being bound and gagged by the teenager who on other occasions was sexually abusing me. 

I must only be six or seven. I had woken up in the morning to find that my mom was gone for the day. Rob (a teenage foster kid) and my brothers seemed to be scheming something.  I asked what they were doing.  

They took me and held me down to a chair, kicking and screaming. They tied my hands behind my back and wrapped ropes around my chest. My ankles were tied down with ropes too. A gag was put in my mouth and tied tightly around my head.  I couldn't move. then they left me there, completely alone. I felt hysterical.

 I tried to cry and scream despite the gag, but no one would come and rescue me. Robert said he didn't want me around bothering them and this would teach me a lesson. As I sat there imprisoned, hour after hour I felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness and rejection. I tried desperately to escape but it was futile. the ropes were too tight, they hurt. I couldn't use the bathroom, I could only wet myself. I couldn't escape. I was terrified. They locked me in the room until the evening when my parents came home. My mom made them untie me so I could go to bed. The only consequences for the torture I endured were that Rob had to read me a story. It is the only time I ever remember being read to. I felt guilty for enjoying the story.  

Denial that nearly killed me November 2004

Fraudster; This is the word that keeps swirling through my mind like debris caught in a churning wave upon the beach. I want to put it down and reject it. I don’t even understand why the thought is there.  It keeps bubbling to the surface making me wonder if others see me as a fraud. As a person pretending to be something when they are nothing, an artist when I am a broken person playing in the paint, as a singer when I am singing to give myself a voice, or as a mother when I feel like a failure for choosing an abuser to father my children.  

The truth is, deep down  I’m terrified of being known, of not being believed, or heard or protected. These feelings come from deep down, a reservoir of past unresolved thoughts that have yet to find a place to rest. One traumatic memory seemed to cement this belief. I can't get it out of my head.  I am  voicing it to stop the power over me. 

It was a cool Friday night,  November 9th.  I was planning a romantic date night with my then husband.   I arranged for all three kids to stay overnight with friends and family members.  We had just dropped the youngest off and we were going to make a quick pit stop at the church to pick up my sweater.  Bill was in a cheery mood and we both seemed to be looking forward to a romantic evening with no kids.   I hopped out of the vehicle and ran inside. Moments later I was leaving the church when a stranger held the door for me.  I turned and said, “Thank you”. That was a big mistake that forever changed my life. 

I climbed into the passenger side of the vehicle and immediately felt the tension building. The look in Bill’s eye told me I was in trouble. What had I done? I shouldn’t have made eye contact with the stranger, or maybe I shouldn’t have spoken?

He drove away with a rage consuming him.  Within seconds he was screaming at me. “How dare I speak to a man, how dare I….” His driving became more and more erratic. I clung to the side of the vehicle, as he repeatedly pretended that he would crash, swerving wildly as we drove. 

I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. If I answered his questions he’d use every word I said against me. If I was silent, he would accuse me of not answering. If I cried he’d get angrier.  The moment we reached the house.  I jumped out of the van and ran inside locking myself into the laundry room, afraid he'd hurt me like so many times before.. 

He was banging violently on the door, he wouldn’t stop. He kept crashing and crashing until the wood split and the door broke in.  He grabbed me but I fought to get away. I struggled and fought to escape. I ran around the baby grand piano as he grabbed me again.  I lay on the floor clinging to the leg of the piano, pleading for him to stop. He had my legs and was dragging me across the carpet.  I couldn’t hold on. My fingers slipped and I felt the carpet burning my skin as he dragged me across the floor. He yanked me to my feet and began pulling me up the stairs to our bedroom.

I didn’t know what would happen yet. Would he rape me again like in other moment's of rage? I was trying to do everything "right" to make sure he wouldn't.  I didn’t know and it didn’t matter because I couldn’t escape no matter how hard I tried.

As he pulled me up the stairs, His hands dug deep into my arms.  His yelling and taunting had not stopped for even a moment since we’d left the church. We reached the top the stairs and I tried to beg him once more to stop. He grabbed me and began smashing the back of my head repeatedly into the door frame of the bathroom. I felt like my head would explode, powerless to make him stop.

“You are doing this to yourself, he told me over and over. This is your fault. You are the one who made me so angry.” he screamed as my head became woozy, and damp with blood.

He swiftly shoved me into the bedroom.  I cowered on the head of the bed, trying to make myself as small as possible. I stayed in that spot for the next several hours as he continued to rage and scream.  He told me I was a bad wife that I make him angry, that I am a worthless piece of shit. No one else would love me but him.  He is the only one who would even consider loving me because I am so worthless. I felt ashamed. I loved him so fiercely and yet he told me this was the only measure of love I would ever deserve. 

At that moment, I didn’t understand what I had done. I wanted to be a good wife. I tried so hard to do all the right things, to be supportive and kind, to never show disrespect, to always keep things perfect. It was not enough at that moment because I realized even my best will be a failure in his eyes.

I wondered, is going to be the night I die as his taunts of killing me intensified?  The terror coursing through me was more than I could bear. I needed to escape, I needed to find a way to live.  He wouldn't stop trying to convince me of how worthless I am. 

“You are right", I pleaded with him. " You are completely right.  It’s all my fault. I am nothing, I agree.”  He heard me, for the first time. His fists were still shaking at me but he took a single step back. This was my chance, I told myself.  I thought, Keep agreeing with everything he says and if he takes one more step back I will be able to leap under his arm and run.

“ I’m so sorry,” I pleaded.  “I shouldn’t have made you so jealous and angry. You deserve a better wife”. I believed my own words. He kept yelling but took a second step back.  That moment plays in slow motion in my head but in reality, I lept off the bed as quick as I could and ducked beneath his arm, racing as a fast as I could. He ran after me screaming as I ran down the stairs towards the front door, telling me I will never get away alive.

I grabbed the van keys off the little table by the door and tried to slam the front door behind me. But his arm was reaching through, trying to grab me. I was hysterical!  I jumped into the van and locked the doors. My heart was pounding so hard that I felt like it would come out of my chest. I felt sheer terror inside of me as If the blood in my veins were on fire.

He continued raging, and told me, “You will have to kill me to escape.” He lay down under the back wheels of the van. “Go ahead,” he yelled, “kill me, I dare you!”  Laying there, he kept taunting. I lept into the back seat, to see where he was and cried with a cry that sounded more like a strangled animal. He was making me choose between killing him and letting myself be killed. 

 I begged, “please stop, please let me go.”I felt like an animal trapped in a cage with no escape.  It seemed like an eternity passed. Then I saw him get up. He began angrily banging on the driver side window with his fists.

Realizing he was no longer under the back tires, I scrambled through the van racing to get to the driver seat.  As I lunged for the seat, I saw him grab a blue metal baseball bat. I was terrified!  Fumbling, I started the ignition.  In horror, I watched as he drew back the bat and took aim. I imagined the windshield shattering in my face and then the bat smashing through my skull.  Somehow, I put the van in reverse, He swung at the windshield just as I hit the gas and lurched out of the carport. He missed, just....!

He chased after me with the bat in his hand as I drove away.  I was crying so hard that I couldn’t see the road. I couldn’t see anything except for the cruel look in his eyes as he drew that bat. I believed at that moment that if I hadn't gotten away I would have been killed.  I drove a few blocks away and parked.

The rain was coming down hard, and I realized I needed wipers on, it wasn’t just my tears that were blinding me. I couldn’t think. My mind was all a jumble.  I looked at the clock. It was half past 11 pm. We’d gotten home at 6:30.  Tonight’s rage had lasted five hours. I wept uncontrollably wondering how I had failed so badly.  I sat shivering in the van, which had no heater and I realized I couldn’t just stay on the side of the road.  Where I could go? I wondered.  Just then I remembered my friend, Michelle, writing on Facebook that she was so bored and lonely because her husband and boys were out of town.  Not knowing what else to do I drove to her house and collapsed on her doorstep.  I had nothing left in me, no fight, and no life. I was numb and cold and scared. 

I was horrified at the idea of telling anyone the secret I had kept for so long.  If they knew how angry I made him, they would know I was a fraud.  Now they would know what a failure I was, that I was nothing but a fraud, a woman who infuriated her husband by constantly breaching one of a million unspoken rules.

I tried to tell Michelle a little bit of why I was there.  I had no more tears. I was like a zombie talking, completely detached, completely numb.  She asked questions, too many questions. Then, she said the strangest and most horrifying thing to me.  She said, “This is abuse!” I felt my pulse quicken as my mind did summersaults.”  No, I couldn’t be abused!  When I got married I had promised myself that I would never be abused again.  I shook my head and argued in a whimper, “No, No no, no it can’t be.  I’m not abused, I just make him angry. I’m not a good enough wife.” There, I had admitted it to someone.

“Abuse” was the sexual acts committed against me as a child.  This couldn’t be "abuse".  I was angry inside and confused but not angry with him. I was angry with me.  How could I let this happen? How did it get so bad? Why didn’t I notice before? What’s wrong with me that makes him so angry?  Maybe if I could just be better, he wouldn’t get so angry.

Michelle made a bed for me to stay the night. In the morning I felt so foolish. It wasn’t a big deal.  My in-laws called me on my cell phone.  I answered. It was Bill’s dad.  He asked where I was. He said Bill was worried because I’d run off.  Then he asked the pivotal question.  “Did he hit you?”  I was confused for a moment as I replayed the night.  “No, I answered, he never hit me.” That was the truth. I wasn’t hit, so I wasn’t abused. Right? Maybe I was just being emotional and over sensitive.  “ Go home then,” he said.

Then I heard Michelle in the other room on the phone. She was speaking to the church pastor. She told him what had happened. He told me to go home and "make-up" with my husband. So, believing I was a failure as a wife, I did.  I went home and blocked it out as best as possible. I picked up the kids, cleaned the mess and tried to forget what a disaster I’d caused.

A few days later, the pastor met with me. He asked me to stand before the church and apologize. I stood in a blur, not understanding. I didn’t know what I had done. He said I hadn’t been honest with anyone including myself and I was wearing masks. I didn’t understand.  I didn’t feel I had a choice but to submit to the pastor after all that is what good Christian girls do right? Bill stood by my side as I said what the pastor had directed me to say. I was told to say how I was hurting my marriage and that I needed to repent.

I was telling everyone what a fraud I was, only it wasn’t me talking. I was an empty shadow on a stage with strange words coming out of my mouth.   

Now… Writing these words, shaking, sobbing, and then sinking into numbness…. I know now that this was abuse. I know its not as bad as many women who are victimized.  Physically, I only had some rugburn and a small wound in my hair attached to a swollen lump.  I'm sure lots of people would think this was no big deal, but it feels like a really big deal in my heart.  I know now that I am not responsible for what Bill did to me that night or all the painful nights before that one. (most of which I can't remember) I am also not responsible for the spiritual/ emotional abuse I experienced by that corrupt pastor who I believe God will judge one day.

  I look back and hate myself for going home the next day because I was blindly walking into more pain and terror.  I want to scream at myself to stop as if I could somehow change the memory but I can’t. I suppose it's true that I made the choices I was trained to make, to submit, to be forgiving, to obey. 

Yet despite knowing that I am not to blame for what he did to me that night, I still feel like the fraud. I know that I am truly loved by my husband, my children, and my friends, yet I feel worthless inside, and a part of me feels like they will eventually find out the truth of my worth.

I am trying to convince myself that it is a lie I’ve been told. I tell myself, I have lots of skills, I am smart and creative, and I’m a loving mother and wife, and friend. So why can’t I shake the feeling that I’ll be found out? 

A wise woman told me to counsel myself so here goes. If I counseled myself I'd probably say:

“Kirsten. You are not what you feel. It’s time to stop letting Bill and others choose your worth.  You are, who you truly are, and only you can decide each day who that is going to be. So who do you choose to be?  A fraud. No, you choose to be authentic, honest, loyal, kind…….You.”

hmmm. I guess that was good advice... 

Screaming on the Inside (bike)

I am battling overwhelming feelings of worthlessness while being treated with love.  I want to be whole. I long to be healthy and to break all the cycles that have ransacked my life.  Here is what is swirling around in my heart.

This week I wrote out a timeline of abuse I have experienced. The words written paper had a powerful impact.  I saw that in the 19 years of my childhood I was sexually abused for 16 of them by 11 different males.  My world was turned upside down by the selfish disgusting lust of vile men.

Meanwhile, I was abused by my parents for all 19 years, emotionally, spiritually, physically, verbally.  Their treatment of me wasn't just a trivial thing. They taught me that I was worthless. They taught me that I was not worth receiving gifts or kindness or love.  They taught me lies.

In the last few days, I have remembered another painful memory.  It is the memory of my mother seeing me being sexually assaulted by Robert, a teenage boy that lived with us.  She told me that I was now worthless. She told me that if I ever told, people would know how worthless I really was. They would never believe me and that they would see me as shameful and want nothing to do with me.

She wrote that painful lie so deeply on my heart then proved to me it was true. She and my dad did one cruel thing after another to prove to me how worthless they thought I was.  Then my parents told me they were adopting the young man who they knew had stolen my childhood. They rejected me as worthless and gave him the honor of sonship.

While I was treated as no more than a slave, he was treated with kindness. While I was neglected he was given gifts and kindness.  I recall being beaten for him when he should have been beaten. He was allowed to tie me up, torture me, to defile my body and to abuse me physically, sexually and psychologically.

One day, my parents bought my little sisters beautiful shiny strawberry shortcake bikes.  They were four and five years younger than me.  I had never been given a bike. I was nine years old. I didn't even know how to ride a bike.   I looked at those pretty pink bikes shining in the sunlight and for just a moment I imagined that I might be worthy of a beautiful gift.  I worked up the courage to ask.   I went to my dad who was in the back yard with Robert.

Feeling sheepish and afraid I asked my dad " Can I please have a bike?"  he laughed out loud, then looked at Robert with a look in his eye that was more like a sinister sparkle. He said, "Sure you can have a bike."  He and Robert went off together laughing at something, but I didn't know what.
About an hour later my dad returned home.  He had something in his arms.  He and Roberts grinned at me as they plunked it down in front of me. They had scoured the dump to find me the worst possible bike.  It was a rust-encrusted bicycle, that was so caked in rust that I could not see a speck of silver showing through. It had burgundy paint that was bubbled and covered in mud. The handlebars were twisted. The tires were so old they hung like droopy cracked skin from the rims. The seat was a faded gold banana seat that had deep tears so the rotten padding was gapped out across the seat creating a bumpy cavernous crater in the middle of the seat.

I looked at the ugly piece of trash they presented me, and several feet in front of me sat my little sister's beautiful shiny bikes.  I could easily see the difference.  My dad and Robert laughed and walked away from me.  I don't remember crying.  I accepted my lot.  I knew that this bike was a perfect picture of my worthlessness.  It was what was left of me.

I had just started my first babysitting job. So I spent the next few weeks getting supplies from the local hardware store. I used SOS pads to scrub the deep layers of the rust off the rims and handlebars.  In time I saved up enough to buy new tires and new tubes. I struggled and battled to get them on the bike but eventually, they were attached.  I wheeled the ugly bike down the road to a nearby gas station and filled the tires with air.

It didn't look pretty, and it would never be whole but the bike represented me.  It was tattered, broken and ugly, but I was going to get it to work somehow.  I was going to learn to ride if it was the last thing I did. I walked the bike several blocks away to where there was a hill.  I sat on the cavernous seat and was filled with fear.  The hill looked so big and I had no idea how to even balance.  I had taken the bike this far, I had to press through the incredible fear I felt.  I put my foot on one pedal and pushed off with my other foot. I found myself barreling down the hill so quickly that it took my breath away. I found my footing and began to petal. I soared on my ugly bike.  As a worthless girl, that ugly bike was all I was deemed worthy of, but I chose to make the best of it.

As the years passed by and the abuse continued and escalated the deep roots of worthlessness cemented themselves to my heart.  This week I have battled those feelings in such a fierce way.  In the past month was given the gift of a true friend. She treats me like some sort of precious valuable treasure.  I can not understand it and I am struggling to reconcile with it.

She has given me undeserved gifts.  I can not repay her if I wanted to because I do not have enough money to even buy groceries right now. I find myself screaming on the inside, wanting to tell her, you have to the wrong person.  Don't you see, I am so worthless. I deserve nothing, I shouldn't be treated with kindness. I shouldn't be given gifts, I shouldn't be cared about.

In my brokenness, I sometimes feel like running, on sabotaging on pushing away to protect my heart.  When I have been given good gifts before, those very people then abused me, used me and hurt me.  Years ago, My last best friend slept with my husband, stealing more than she ever knew.  Yet a month before she gave me a great gift by helping pay my airfare to New York so that we could have a girls week touring the Big Apple.  It was such a beautiful gift.  Then she lost her job and needed a place to stay for a few months.  I let her stay in our home while she looked for a new place. I embraced her as a true friend and she took advantage by having sex with my husband on my living room floor while I slept alone down the hall.

So now, I need to decide how to cope with all this pain.  I am crying from the heartache of my mother's words as she deemed me worthless while refusing to protect me from Robert and embracing him as a son.  I am broken from the cruelty they doled out to me.  I am afraid to trust because of the horrific betrayal I experienced at the hands of the two people who claimed to be my best friends.

So how can I receive a gift? How can I see myself as anything but worthless and undeserving to the kindness my sweet friend is offering. How can I respond in a healthy way?  Running isn't the answer. rejecting love is not going to help me heal.  Accepting the lies spoken over me, and enacted repeatedly will not help me to grow.

So, I stand at a turning point. I have to choose to trust. I have to choose to accept love. I have to choose to battle the whispers of my past that say I am unworthy of gifts, unworthy of goodness, unworthy of kindness and love.  I have to fight past the urge to run.  I have to speak a new truth over myself.  I may not believe that I am worth anything yet but despite my disbelief I need to somehow say "Kirsten, you are being treated the way God wants you to be treated so breathe in, and be the person you were designed to be."
Lord help me to accept love and reject lies.

Daughter's Song

You said I'm unworthy, I'd never be enough
You said I am ugly, embarrassed by my face
You said I'm not lovable, your arms were turned away
You said I am nothing, so abuse was ok.

But I'm precious, I declare my worth
I am radiant, full of light and love
I am loving, my heart bursts full each day
I am a blessing to those to come my way

You said I  was stupid, I'd never measure up
You said I was selfish for longing for your love
You said I was foolish, deserving of death
You said I was mental, it was all in my head

I grow each day in wisdom, I'm no fool
I am kind and giving, this is true
I am full of life, and I choose to live
I will speak the truth, you can't silence me

No matter what you say, no matter what you do
My value won't depreciate, I'm precious through and through
Your cruelty won't change who I'm meant to be
I'm a daughter of the King of King,
  I'm am precious, I am me.

Memories

I awoke to the memory of being a seven-year-old girl. I sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor crying. I wrote down every possible way to end my life. My ideas weren't very good but it was desperation that drove me. I had to make the pain stop.

The next memory that flooded my mind was from my first marriage. He grabbed me from behind. My mouth and nose were covered. I tried desperately to gasp for air. But his hands gripped my face. I could taste his grimy hands as I flailed about trying desperately to not die. I remember things going dark as I lost the battle. My life was literally in his hands.

It amazes me that the fight for my life took such an ironic turn. The shattered child learned to survive the terrors that plagued her days, only to enter into a new fight to live.

My life has been a continual battle. In spiritual terms, I believe the enemy wanted to destroy me from my first breath. He failed and I am still here today. Yet a small part of that broken little girl still struggles to come to grips with the pain that echos through each chapter of my life. I will not think of ways to die to stop the pain. 

Instead, I focus on healing, on letting the pain out of the little box I stuffed it into.  I think of overcoming the trauma and inspiring others. I am no longer a victim. I am a victor. My life has a purpose. The painful whispers of my past may always be remembered but they will no longer dictate my worth. That broken little girl deserved to live, to be loved and to protected from the violence and cruelty that were her reality.  That 32 yr old mother and wife deserved to be cherished. I was a good wife. I didn't deserve to be berated, suffocated, or traumatized. I declare worth over my younger self.

My life is not yet done. I do not know what today holds or where tomorrow will lead but I know that I will fight to the finish embracing victory. 

Friends are like ice cream

As the weather warms up, I begin to long for ice cream.  Truth be told, ice cream is my favorite food on the planet. It comes in more varieties than one would ever imagine. In fact, some countries sell ice-cream that is so spicy that very few can tolerate the heat. Today as I thought of ice cream it made me think of friendships. Sure, ice cream is great to share with your friends but there is more to this thought.

Some ice creams are seasonal, like the candy cane ice cream my Nana served each Christmas. It's great while it lasts but it disappears just as suddenly as I came. Some ice creams
are of poor quality. They lack that true creamy texture that makes it so good. There is nothing appetizing about gritty ice cream. Sometimes you look at the ingredients and realize that while it looks good, it's really fake. Some ice cream just doesn't leave a good taste in your mouth. I once bought a box of ice cream that tasted freezer burned and old.

In the same way, not all friendships are alike. Some friends are seasonal, disappearing just as quickly as they came. Some friends look good but leave a bitter after taste. Some friends aren't all they claim to be. They lack the character that makes them tried and true. And other friends are just poor quality. They don't really care about you, they just like the perks of knowing you or getting what you have to offer.

Over the years I have experienced all of these kinds of friendships. I have friends who may not be in the same city but would jump on a ferry or plane in moments nice if I needed them. They have stood the test of time, shown true character and depth.  I also have had my share of hurtful friends. Those who use, or abuse the friendship for their gain. But, if I need a friend they are nowhere to be found.

So the thought arose, what kind of friend am I?   I'm not the fancy friend like the espresso flake ice cream,  that looks perfect on the outside but is really a flaky friend. I am not like Oreo that just crumbles when tough times come. I want to become a person of good character. I have a long ways to go. I need to learn to deal with hurts and not attract the wrong kind of person in my life.

I'm not a seasonal friend. In fact, I ache fiercely at the loss of any friendship.   I'm not a fancy friend either. I keep things simple. I care, I listen, I pray, I am loyal. So if I were an ice cream flavor I'd probably be one of the three most basic flavors, vanilla, chocolate or strawberry., tried and true.

My prayer is the God will help me to be a good friend to all he puts in my path, that I will encourage others, be steady, faithful, tried and true.