Breaking The Silence

"Nothing is predestined:  The obstacles of your past can become the gateways that lead to new beginnings."  ~Ralph Blum~

"Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome."  ~Booker T. Washington~

"Forgiving does not erase the bitter past.  A healed memory is not a deleted memory.  Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember.  We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future."  ~Lewis B. Smedes~

"Your history is not your destiny."  ~Alan Cohen~

What you're about to read is unlike anything you've ever read on my blog.  It's raw.  It's genuine.  It's honest.  And it's courageous.  Some of you may find it uncomfortable.  Read it anyway.

Everyone has a path, don't they?  The real question is, "How do we tread the path we're on?"  And even more importantly, "Do we have the courage to change that path if it doesn't define who we are or feed our spirit?"

Linda is a woman that truly lives what she counsels.  She always seeks Peace.  She is the epitome of Love.  She lives in Joy and she strives to exist in Harmony with every living creature.  But it hasn't always been that way.  This is a true story of her selfless journey from what most would consider Hell, to the vibrant, amazing woman she is today; worthy of love and honor and goodness.  I believe her open and honest story is not just for her own healing, but for yours.  She isn't alone.  You shouldn't be either.
 

                               BREAKING THE SILENCE
                                         by Linda Faris

Everyone has a story to tell. Let me rephrase that…everyone has many stories to tell. I’d like to share my story with you today. I’m not sure why I chose today to share this with you, I guess I could wimp out and say, “It’s complicated.” Because, actually, it is complicated. In a way. In other ways, it seems extremely simple.

This is my story that I have carried with me all my life. It may not be a very pretty story to you, but again, I tell you, it is MY story. And even though it brings tears at times and other indescribable feelings of worthlessness…it is MY story.

I am almost 49 years young. I am at peace with myself and with all other people.

It has not always been so.

My earliest memories are of my father fondling me sexually while I was laying in my crib. I estimate that early memory to be between 2 and 3 years of age based on where my family was living at that time.

My next memories are of my father fondling me sexually while I lay in my bed at ages six to nine. He would come into my bedroom in his underwear and lean over me in my bed with heavy breathing. He would only be wearing his underwear. I played possum. I would pretend I was asleep and hope and pray that he would go away. Sometimes his visits were shorter and sometimes longer. His hands would go down into my panties and his fingers would go places that I was taught were off limits. Then his fingers and hands would pull my pajamas up and he would play with my breasts. It was awful. Just putting this to paper brings back the complete essence of those times. The darkness of my room. My sister laying sound asleep next to me blissfully unaware of what was happening. My dad’s heavy breathing, his smell….sometimes with alcohol, sometimes not. His tobacco breath. How his fingers felt. Ugh.

As I matured, my dad’s interest grew. I don’t remember how he actually “woke” me up, but eventually these interactions changed to my dad talking to me. First he would come into my room and begin to fondle me…he would pull my panties down and put his fingers in me, then somehow, I would be awake and he would begin to tell me all kinds of things, such as:

“I need to teach you about these things, so you know what to do.”

“Your mother won’t let me, so you have to.”

“Don’t tell your mother.”

“All I am is a meal ticket, no one loves me, if you loved me you would let me do this.”

“You are a hot number and you like this.”

“Someone popped your cherry, who did that? You are such a slut.”

“I won’t get you pregnant, I have had a vasectomy.”

These are just a few of the endless refrains I would hear throughout the night. I had very little sleep growing up.

There were daytime violations as well. For instance, the time I walked into the bathroom and my dad was in there with his erect penis out and at me. He forced me to touch it. Ugh. You had to be there to know how mind altering it was. There is not a room in our house where I was not violated in one way or another by my father.

The next day after his nightly visits, he would usually act like nothing happened. Sometimes, though, guilt would overtake him and he would apologize to me. What’s a girl supposed to say and do in these instances? There wasn’t a handbook on how to deal with a pedophilic father in those days. In fact, I don’t know if there is one now. Pedophiles, especially when they are your own father are a particularly wily group of men.

Back to the memories. Ick. Sorry, if this is hard for you to swallow…it is MY story. I am sure some of you reading this can relate to my story on some level. And for those of you that can relate…I want to extend my love and compassion to you. For if you have survived sexual abuse from someone who is supposed to be your protector, then you have true grit and I salute you.

The first time my dad actually “raped” me, I was 11 years old. He made me stay home one evening, while my mom and sister went to a school function of my brother’s.

He made me take off my clothes and basically did what rapists do. I’m not feeling like being overly descriptive here. But, this was the point of my loss of virginity. Not just my virginity, but my dignity and my self esteem and my self love and oodles and oodles of good feelings that should not have been robbed from me. It was indeed, extremely painful and traumatic. I did, indeed, afterwards, wipe up the blood and put my clothes back on and act like nothing had happened. I was a pretty good actress by this time.

My mom and sister came home and I was holed up in my room with a book. Sigh.

The next times of “rape” are intermixed with memories of him cajoling and begging me for sex thoughout the next 3 years. See me if you would like more details, otherwise I think I will spare you.

At age 14…as I continued to mature, I noticed my father was taking this same sexual interest in my 9 year old sister. This would not be. I would not allow my sister to be violated the way I had been. I love my sister more than you can imagine…I did then and I do now. This new behavior of his gave me the strength and energy to figure out what to do to prevent him from hurting my sis.

I went to the high school guidance counselor…which in 1975 was a joke. However, it did serve its purpose and within 2 weeks, a group of law enforcement personnel came to my school to “interrogate” me. Fun!!! I was taken out of my 9th grade geography class and taken to a small office where these people (who meant well) interviewed me for 6-7 hours straight with no breaks. I was a wreck. But, I did my best to report to them all that I could remember while they furiously recorded my life’s events.

At the same time, they clucked and grimaced over the details of my childhood. This was a very painful and confusing time.

At the end of this debilitating session, I was taken to the home of a nice church lady. My father apparently was met when he returned home from work by the state patrolmen who arrested him.

The story continues….but I feel like resting on the abuse portion for now and switching to some of my thoughts that I think are more appropriate for us now.

The first thought I would like to share with all of you is I did nothing wrong by being sexually abused by my father. I understand it makes you uncomfortable to know about this and to talk about it, but your silence has made me feel like I did something wrong. In fact, in 1974, the counselors advised me to NOT tell anyone about what had happened to me. I suppose they were considering the cruel things that people say and do to others who are in a less fortunate situation, but at that time, they made me feel like I had done something wrong because I was supposed to be quiet about it…as if I should be ashamed. And yes, I was ashamed. I was ashamed because my father convinced me that what he did to me was my fault. And I was ashamed because this wasn’t happening to my friends. Their fathers were nice. My father was scary. But I digress. Please, please understand that any child that has been sexually abused is not guilty and at least for me, your reluctance to talk about my abuse computes to my guilt. Irrational? Perhaps. It IS a complicated story.

Despite the horrific things Dad did to me, I still inexplicably loved him. I wished he was dead most of the time, but I knew that when he was dead, I would miss him in the way that he was my father. That’s a hard one to explain. For those of you that have lived this nightmare yourself, you know what I am talking about.

I completely “forgave” my father for his abuse of me just this year. It was a MAJOR breakthrough for me. By the way, my father died in 1988 at the age of 49. Even though he has been gone for over 20 years, his wounds on me left deep scars.

The scars now are so slight, you can hardly see them…they had diminished over time, but when I “forgave” my father, completely forgave him, my scars rapidly shriveled to being barely perceptible.

I do not take my joy in life for granted…it is a gift from the universe. Just as the lessons I learned in my childhood and adulthood are gifts from the universe.

I do not judge anyone. I love everyone. Each and everyone of us are all deserving of complete love, forgiveness, compassion and kindness. Including my father. And I love my father. I may not love what he did, but I love my father.