I just came home from the second of four RAD classes being offered at the local police department. RAD stands for “Rape, Aggression, Defense”-a basic self-defense course for women. It’s free and instructed by police officers. They run us through various scenarios, teach us some basic moves…how to block, kick, punch etc. Most of us felt a little awkward tonight. The first night was just classroom stuff. Tonight we actually punched and kicked, which are things most of us haven’t done before. The awkwardness wore off after a bit of practice. It really doesn’t take long for muscle memory to kick in. After this first night of action, I can say I feel fairly confident in my physical skills, all things considered. My arm is probably going to hurt tomorrow, though. I’ll be whining at work “I punched a freaking BAG last night, you know”.
Honestly, the most challenging part of the night wasn’t even the physical parts. It was the shouting. Each time we punched or set up in a defensive stance, we had to aggressively shout, “NO!”. Every single time I was up, I would forget to say it. Even in my head, as my turn neared, I would repeat to myself “Say no. Say no. Say no.” I’d get up in front of the instructor, square off, and go through the motions…silently. “Sorry” I’d sheepishly say, and then I was able to do it correctly, yelling “NO!” I’d walk back to the end of the line, feeling a weird mix of empowerment and shame. Empowered because my throat chakra was open and protecting me. Ashamed because I had never in my life yelled the word “no” at a man. It’s foreign to me. Damn.
I mentioned to my ex-husband that I was taking this class. He replied, “Youcould have used this 40 years ago“. He was spot on. I almost thought, “whybother now?” I wonder how differently my life would have turned out had I learned how to say the word “no”? What if I wasn’t raised to be quiet and obedient, and instead learned to speak up? Imagine if I actually grew up believing I mattered? I’ll never know for sure, but I feel safe assuming something would be different.
I think it’s great they offer this class to women for free. There was only 15 of us there. I looked around the room, wondering who else might be like me. Statistics tell me I’m not the only one in that group, but it’s such an invisible scar, there’s no way of knowing. As we learned more and more, the narrative in my head kept talking, “we’ve already been sexually assaulted, you’re too late”.
Maybe I can put this on my ever-growing to-do list. You know, the one I have that lists the ways I’m going to change the world. #3: teach our girls to say “no”. And then teach them to kick some ass.
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When it’s easier to hide, I step into the light. Bravely.
Pain can be comfortable, if it’s familiar. One can spend an entire lifetime choosing to live in pain, in that dark and familiar place, thinking they are avoiding it. Going about life, unconsciously playing whichever role has been assigned. Perpetuating cycles built on faulty programming, sleep-walking in a constant state of survival mode. We stay in this unconscious state because of fear. Fear truly is powerful enough to keep a soul from living. Waking up is hard work. Choosing to stay awake is brave. They say brave is the new beautiful, you know.
I stay awake by stepping right into the uncomfortable parts of fear. Head on, and scared like hell. Like jumping out of an airplane for the first time. Reprogramming faulty thought patterns, developing new coping skills, trusting myself, finding my voice, speaking my truth… even if my voice shakes. Falling down, getting hurt and picking myself up. I will not sleepwalk again. I will forever choose to step back into the arena, battle scars and all…and I will do so, bravely.
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday. Check out the link below.
Don’t you wish life came with manuals? I mean, your car, your refrigerator and your television come with one. Why don’t life challenges have them?
I think when we are 12, we should be handed one about how to survive middle school. Those years can be pretty tough. Wouldn’t it have been helpful to read the section about how to handle being bullied? Or even more importantly, for the BULLY to read about how to not be a jerk. I would have benefited from both. Or, at the very least, “how to eat at the lunch table alone without feeling like a total loser”.
When we apply for a marriage license, they shouldn’t issue it without having us read the manual on communication, respect, sharing household chores, dealing with a snoring spouse, how to discuss finances, equally sharing child rearing duties…I bet some of us might decide against tying the knot if we really knew what we were in for.
There should be a manual for aging. No one ever tells you what to really expect once you get old. I suppose if they did fill you in on congestive heart failure, dementia and diabetic foot wounds, you’d spend the prime years of your life worrying about what’s ahead. How can you enjoy your youth when you know you won’t be able to afford home health care and will likely need to live in a facility? Maybe ignorance is bliss, sometimes.
I met a man this summer dealing with the shock of his teenage daughter’s sexual assault. I spent an evening helping him navigate through the roller coaster of emotions which is the result of this kind of trauma. He shared a conversation he had with her, where he was raising his voice, asking why she hadn’t fought back, or yelled or did something to stop it. He reminded her how he told her she shouldn’t be hanging around with older boys. In the same breath, he told me how he couldn’t understand why she now thinks he doesn’t want her living with him. I shook my head. “Your daughter is already beating herself up for these same exact things. Having her dad tell her she’s right is only adding to her shame”. I went on to tell him my own, very similar story, and the ramifications of having family members just not know how to respond. He looked at me, deflated, and said “I feel awful. I just didn’t know”. I responded, “Of course you didn’t know.Whywould you? There’s no manual on this subject”. We sat in silence for a bit, just sort of absorbing the gravity of it all. I remember sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, looking at him as he gripped that steering wheel so tightly. I was the adult version of his daughter, and he was the younger version of my dad. God, I wonder how differently things might have turned out for me if this conversation took place in my own life. I thought to myself, “There should be a manual”.
There should be a manual.
Stay tuned…
This post was written in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
I read a blog post last week, a little list about the roles we play in life, and it’s been stuck in my mind ever since. It’s caused me to repeatedly ask myself, “Who am I?”. It’s quite a list…some easier to digest than others. Am I brave enough to write ALL of them?
Inspired by Linda G. Hill…
I am a mother.
I am a nurse.
I am a healer.
I am a writer.
I am a woman.
I am a mother. A single mother. A mother who grew up believing she would never be blessed with children, simply because it wasn’t her lot in life…almost like she knew she didn’t deserve them. A mother who would do anything in the world to not have her children feel like she did growing up, determined for them to not ever feel a lack of love. A mother who almost messed all of it up by not figuring out where she was broken and where she needed to heal. Don’t worry, she figured it out. And they feel loved. So very loved.
I am a nurse. A nurse who has her codependency needs satisfied by having people need her. A nurse who prefers caring for the marginalized and least tempting patients. A nurse who believes everyone is worthy…everyone. A nurse who almost seems to be working out her penance in life by servicing others, as if she just might redeem herself through these acts. Maybe she will.
I am a healer, yet I am broken. I believe those who are broken never truly heal to the perfect version of what they would have been, they heal enough to become who they are now supposed to be. Like that story of the ancient Japanese custom to add gold to the glue when fixing broken dishes. Seeing the gold along the cracks celebrates the beauty of the brokenness. Perfectly flawed. Healing never ends. I am healing myself every day. Some days I can’t see it at all, like I’m sliding backwards and there’s not enough strength to get back to where I was. Then I wonder if I really ever made any progress at all. But then, I learn that sliding backwards is part of the learning process, and if I’m lucky enough, I notice this and it works. If I’m not, I keep climbing then sliding then climbing then sliding, as many times as it takes me to notice why it’s happening. Then I stop sliding. I am a healer because I share my brokenness with the world. I share my climb. I share the sliding. Every once in a while, someone connects with my struggles, and they use it as a helping hand to start their own climb. Every once in a while.
I am a writer. Fiction is impossible. Authenticity is my niche. I uncovered the story which was buried in my soul and I release it by using the written word. Sharing my story is how the climb is possible, and I will not ever stop.
I am a woman. I am a child and a crone. A daughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a cousin, a friend. A woman who carries her inner child along with the burdens which come with her. A woman who has been violated, unloved, abandoned, abused, scapegoated, outcast…shunned. A woman who can feel alone while surrounded by a hundred friends. A woman who can feel unloved while immersed in it. A woman who cries, often. A woman who craves intimacy yet never quite allows it in. A woman who still feels broken, in places. I am also a woman who has started to heal her inner child. A woman who has turned into a warrior, overcoming the shadows of her past, shedding the heavy weight of shame and insecurity, and replacing them with vulnerability and authenticity. A woman who has slowly learned that she is outcast and shunned because of the brokenness of others, not hers. A woman who has gratitude for so many authentic friends who choose her. They choose her. A woman who rejoices in her tears, as she knows emotions were meant to be felt, experienced… and then released. Not stuffed. Life is sad, and being violated, unloved, abandoned, abused, scapegoated, outcast and shunned are cry-worthy things. There is no shame in feeling sad about these things. A woman who is slowly understanding why she craves intimacy, and how no man will ever fill that void until she fills it herself. How abandonment issues run into every facet of her life, and no one can make her feel worthy, except for herself. I am a woman who has realized that love should never be painful, or have to be earned or worked for. There should not be conditions or one-sided sacrifices. I am a woman who is so very slowly learning to not take it personally when people don’t love her. Some climbs take longer than others.
I am vulnerable, authentic, full of love and light. I am a woman who is strong in the broken places. I am perfectly flawed. My cracks are filled with gold.
Linda asked us to write about our favorite word today. That’s a tough one, as there’s just SO many good ones out there. I suppose it all depends on my mood. Lately though, I’ve been enjoying the meaning of this certain word quite a bit. Vulnerability. I know, at first glance it reads like a bad word. Like describing someone who isn’t safe, or scared, maybe. It’s uncomfortable. I suppose that’s kind of true. When you are vulnerable, you are at risk. Sometimes, you get hurt. Or sad. Or scared. But those things are exactly what I like about vulnerability. I purposefully place myself in the position of being vulnerable as often as I can. It’s where I’m real. No walls up, no defensive coping mechanisms, no pretending. Just raw, honest, real…me.
When you step into the uncomfortable arena of vulnerability, it’s like being a seed which has been buried for weeks, germinating in the cold dirt, and finally the shell cracks open. It feels like total destruction, but really…that is the moment when you begin to grow. It really is quite beautiful to experience.
I’ve been published again. I’m in this month’s issue of Nursing 2018. This is my second article published in a nursing journal, but this one doesn’t seem to be getting quite the accolades from my friends as the first one. This one shines a light on uneasiness and vulnerability and shame…and that’s exactly what I love about it…
So far, I’m okay. It’s been over a year and a half since I told them about all the things that happened to me when I was a kid, and subsequently, an adult. Most difficult words I ever had to say. I knew the risk I was taking when I made that decision. But really, it wasn’t a decision. God lays out a plan for you and you can fight it or follow it. I spent most of my life ignoring it, and then I started fighting it for a bit, and finally I woke up, and eventually started following it. His plan was for me to tell my story, no matter what the outcome. I knew this in my soul to be true. I was warned by others that the outcome could be horrible… that I could potentially lose them. I was afraid of that scenario for sure. I love my family intensely. Losing them was not something I wanted to face. Still, I told.
Turns out, that outcome is exactly what happened. I’ll save the details of why for another day…they’re your typical dynamics of a co-dependent family combined with common responses to people reporting abuse. It’s funny, because at first, they were all so shocked at what I had to say, that I actually received genuine caring responses from them. For a week or so, I thought my decision to tell was actually bringing us all closer…what a great surprise! But, as all families like mine do, they quickly realized they did not have the capability to deal with it, and went back to easier ways of denial, avoidance, gas lighting, lying, shaming…you name it. Whatever it took to make the family “function” again, in it’s co-dependant dysfunctional way. I became the scapegoat. Let me tell you, that is the worst role in this type of family. Trust me. When this happened, I had a hard time. Hell, I still do. But it’s getting easier each day. The more I learn about how textbook we are, the less I cry. Knowledge is power. I actually feel sorry for them, most of the time. I’m not angry any more. I do still wish for things, though I know they are useless wishes. The fairy tale I’ve been dreaming of my entire life, I know in my head, and mostly in my heart, that it’s not reality. I’m actually finding that I’m starting to outgrow my family a bit. I miss them, but when I imagine seeing them, with them still stuck in this dynamic, it feels dark, and it doesn’t feel good. Still, I wish…and so far, I’m still okay.
This free-flowing, organic post was in response to Linda G Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday
“I’m fine”. Wow. Crazy how those two words can mean such different things, depending on where you’re at in life. “Hey, your mom and I are getting divorced, and she’s moving across the country…OK?” “I’m fine”, replied the little 9-year-old girl. Except she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t sure what she was, but it definitely was not “fine”. She just said that because she knew it was the expected answer. She knew better than to say otherwise. She knew her role, without even being instructed, or handed a script. Her role was to be “fine”, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t play that role with perfection. She rarely even had to say the words…as long as she acted fine, that was all that counted. Acting fine kind of comes easy, after a while. Even when things couldn’t be more opposite of “fine”. She acted just fine during that period of time when that hormone fueled teenager effectively ended her childhood. No one had a clue. She acted just fine when she was treated like Cinderella…that is, Cinderella before the ball. You know, when she was the despised step-child and made to do all the work and was unloved, while the golden children lived a life of adoration? Yeah, that Cinderella. She acted just fine when no one blinked an eye at her being that Cinderella step-child. Just fine. Not one person blinked a damn eye. I suppose she acted that way because it’s all she knew. If it’s just fine to everyone else, then it must be just fine, right?
She played that role right through high school and into adulthood. Boys and men doing things…it’s just fine, right? I mean, it was just fine when she was a kid, so…
She played it to Golden Globe status as an adult. She was sleep walking by this time. Just sleep walking through life, through that script written out for her. No improv. All script. At this point, it wasn’t even her anymore. Just some typecast actress, playing the same old role, over and over and over, until one day…she woke up. When you wake up while sleep walking, it can be pretty jarring. You most definitely are NOT fine. Everything you thought was real turns out to not be real, and you realize there’s some real shit in your life you pretended didn’t exist. Or you didn’t understand, because you were never taught to think otherwise. She absolutely became not fine. She started to speak about how not fine she really was, and all the people who expected her to play that fine role became nervous. They were playing roles, too…and now they didn’t know how to act. God, NO ONE ever steps out of character! Who did she think she was??? They tried to force her to say the lines that narcissistic director demanded, but she just didn’t have it in her anymore. She realized she just might love her new role a bit more than she needed that conditional love from her co-stars. She asked if she could just play her new role, and let them continue to play their roles, and still be in the same movie…because she did love them, regardless of the conditions. But those character actors are sticklers for routine, you know? So, they kicked her out of the movie. Just like that. No getting together for coffee, no catching up. No “it’s not you, it’s me”. Just out. She found herself alone, sad… and not fine. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not, I swear…
Even though she loved her co-stars more than anything, she really hated the endless movie they were all acting in. Seriously, it was a movie with NO ending. Who would sit through a movie like that? No one. It’s exhausting. Her sadness eased as she realized that them kicking her out of the movie was not a reflection of her, but a reflection of them. It was actually textbook behavior of a co-dependent family. Textbook. She began to feel sad for that 9-year-old girl, and the teenager she became, and learned how to nurture that inner child. She learned how to nurture herself, as an adult. I mean, God…SOMEONE had to do it, right? She learned how to nurture others, in a healthy way. She learned so much, and continues the learning process to this day. Definitely not perfect at any of it, but at least she’s wide awake now, and is following her own script. And though she misses her old co-stars more than anything, she can sleep at night with her decision. She’ll always be waiting, with open arms, for them to wake up and join her. She can do this because she’s been touched with grace for traveling the path of the awakened. She experiences everyday miracles. Who do you know that you can say that about? Not too many, I think. It really is quite magnificent. Healing is quite magnificent. Now, for the first time in her life, she means it when she says, “I’m fine”.
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Social Consciousness Saturday. Check out her page at the link below. Anyone can join…
I’ve spent the past two months helping my mom take care of her dying husband. Being a nurse, it wasn’t hard. I’ve done it a hundred times. I kept him comfortable…keeping his lips moist, re-positioning him, administering medications, talking, listening…and getting to know him. You can’t help but bond with someone during this process. It’s intimate.
The other day, as I was brushing his hair, I thought of a dear, old friend of mine. We have a lot of parallels in our lives. The details are different, but similar themes. We both were sexually abused as children by family members, and we both ended up telling our families, once we got older. She told hers a long time ago. I told mine last summer. I can remember talking to her when I was thinking about telling. Well, I honestly wasn’t just thinking about telling. I knew I was going to tell, and was just figuring out how to get up the courage to do so. It’s hard to put into words, but it’s almost like the universe had its own plans for my journey, and I just had to figure out how to let it all unfold. Anyway, she filled me in on the fallout she endured after telling her family. She wasn’t trying to talk me out of it, but wanted me to know of all the possibilities. Telling her story resulted in a divide in her family. It sounds crazy, but really…many families just can not handle hearing this kind of thing, and end up putting it back on the victim, as they don’t have the tools to deal with such subject matter. That’s what happened to my friend. So, when the time came for her father to near the end of his journey, she was basically excluded. God, it was so sad to hear her tell this story. My heart ached for her, and I felt uncomfortable imagining it happening to me. Yet still…I told. I told because even though she felt pain from the backlash, she was free of her story. I won’t explain it more than that, because if you haven’t been there, you just won’t get it. There’s always a price for freedom.
At first, my family was extremely supportive. Well, most of my family. You see, I too have people in my life who just don’t have the tools required to process this heavy information. I get it. Hell, even I didn’t have the tools up until last year. It’s some heavy shit. Anyway, as time passed, and I finally started caring about myself and not letting the people in my life who cause me pain be involved with me anymore, the shift started. Because, some of those people just happen to be my family members. And just like my dear, old friend… I felt the distance start to grow between me and my dad. I can’t say it’s intentional. I think it’s just a byproduct of familial abuse, unfortunately. He loves me, but his tool box is empty. I think in order for him to truly process this story, he would crumble. As my dad, he was supposed to be my protector. I can’t even imagine how it must feel to find out this kind of thing happened to your daughter in your own home. Don’t get me wrong…just because I get it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
So, as I’m nurturing my stepfather, I’m thinking of my friend and her father, and then of me and my father. Our stories run back and forth through my mind, intertwined, as I wipe his face and rub lotion on his lips. I think of her, wishing she could have done this for her father, and I start doing it for her. I picture her running the comb though her father’s hair as he lies in bed, talking softly and smiling…enjoying the last intimate moments together. I turned into her, and my stepfather into her father. Then I think of me, and how I’ll most likely be right where my friend was, and I looked down and saw my own dad. I channeled all of us as I cared for him…all three men blending in and out of my dreams and wishes. It was sad, yet beautiful. I let my mind run with the imagination and for a few moments, it seemed real. I truly felt as though I was caring for my own dad, and that came as a comfort to me, knowing that this may very well be as close as I ever get to actually doing that.
My stepfather died last night. I was right with him as he took his last breath, and I cried. I cried for him. I cried for my mom. I cried for my friend and for her dad, and I cried for me and my dad. I mourned the loss of my dad, just in case I’m not there to do it when the time comes… and it felt real, I think. It hurt. I wondered if I would choose to tell, had I the chance for a do-over. Would it be worth it to not risk losing him? The pain I felt mourning a father who is still here was palpable, but yes.. I know things would go the same way in my do-over. Like I said, the universe has its plan and it’s my job to let it unfold. Plus, I have to keep reminding myself…it hasn’t finished unfolding yet…
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I’m giving this post as a belated birthday gift to my blogging soul-sister, Bethany. I hope this condensed, off the cuff version of my relationship with deer is successful. I’m sure it will be long, so I won’t hold it against everyone else for not reading it…
When I was a kid, my parents had a small painting of a deer in their bedroom. It was on the wall, just after you walked in the room. I never paid too much attention to it, but knew it was there. Their room was a place of comfort to me…a place I would sneak into at night to feel loved, snuggled against my mom, being quiet so I wouldn’t wake Dad.
One night, I had a dream. I’m not sure how old I was, but it had to be younger than nine, because nine is the age I was when my mom moved away, and I know she was living with me when I had it. Anyway, it was one of those dreams where you’re dreaming you’re in your own house and everything is the same as real life, so you aren’t sure it’s a dream, you know? So, in this dream, I’m sleeping in my parent’s bed. I wake up and I’m alone in the bed. I sit up, and see the deer from the painting is alive and in the room. I walk over to it and it bites me. There was no pain…I can’t say I was even aware of the bite as it happened. However, I was completely aware that the bite was going to kill me. I sat alone in the room, looking at the deer as it looked at me. We were both calm, and we both knew I was dying. I wasn’t scared, which looking back seems strange, for a little kid. I knew I was dying because I could feel my body being filled up with some sort of heavy sensation and I could taste it. I won’t try to describe it with words, but I can still remember that taste, and the sensation, to this day…and I’m 45 years old now. That dream has stuck with me this whole time.
Fast forward through life: My parents split and my mom moves half way across the country when I’m 9. My dad remarries when I’m 12 and I endure some pretty decent trauma…emotional neglect, sexual/emotional/physical abuse. I survive and go about what I think is my normal life…except there’s no such thing as a normal life after going through those kinds of things. I was just so good at stuffing things down and pretending I was normal, even I didn’t realize I was hiding anything.
So, I hit the age of 44 and it all bubbles to the surface. Like a volcano. A volcano that’s been simmering mostly unnoticed for almost 35 years. I started peeling off layers and it got real ugly around here. I was in a state of depression, to say the least. I spent so much time in therapy, I think I funded my therapist’s new car. Long story short, we kind of figured out that the way out of that dark hole was for me to find a way to forgive my inner child. The nine-year old me was pretty easy to forgive. She was just an innocent little bystander. It was the thirteen year old me that I was having a hard time forgiving. I hated her. The things that girl did…ugh. She was a gross, dirty loser who did bad, bad things. Of course, we all know children who suffer sexual abuse are not doing bad things. But when you grow up as one of those kids, you really do think that way. Even at 44 years old. It’s crazy, but that’s how the brain works. So, I sat under that black cloud for months, feeling hopeless. I just could not shake that heavy weight of guilt and shame, no matter how hard I tried. I intellectually understood it, but getting your soul to match up to your brain is not as easy as you think.
My therapist told me talking about it is how I would heal. I really could not imagine telling anyone other than her. What would people think of me? I knew if they knew, they would see I wasn’t the person I had been pretending to be, all of these years. They would know I was a fraud. But, as much as I didn’t want them to know, I knew I was going to tell. I finally mustered up the strength to tell one of my closest friends. I drove to her house one morning, last February. I was sweating as I neared her road and almost chickened out and turned around. As I approached her driveway, I thought I was imagining things…four deer walked out of her back yard and slowly crossed in front of my car. I couldn’t believe it. I’d seen deer before, maybe one a year…always late at night. I’d never seen one in the daytime before, and certainly not four of them, casually strolling in front of my car. They all looked my way as they passed.
I went in my friend’s house and spent the next few hours nervously pouring the contents of my damaged soul out on her counter. I shook and cried and felt things so uncomfortable, I still can’t believe I did it. I couldn’t look her in the eye. When I was done, I waited for her to judge me. Of course, she didn’t. She was great, like friends are. I ended up telling that story the same emotional way, over and over again, to different friends, until it gradually became less and less painful to tell. Just like my therapist told me would happen.
So, I go home that day and look up the spiritual meaning of the deer. Of course, there’s many opinions out there, and it all depends on what you believe in, but the first one I looked at was the ringer: “If a deer visits you, it symbolizes the innocence of your inner child”. Whoa! I felt something stir inside me, like when you are watching a scary movie and you get a suspenseful glimpse of some sort of clue. What are the chances that FOUR FREAKING DEER would happen to walk in front of me at ten in the morning, symbolizing the innocence of my inner child, as I’m about to tell the story of losing my childhood innocence? Meaningful? Yes. Enough to shake my depression? No.
I told my therapist about the deer and she gave me a book on spirit animals. I read that the deer attacking me in my dream was a test. It makes sense. I was about to go through some serious shit, and my spirit guide wanted to make sure I was going to survive. Nothing like a deer bite to toughen a kid up.
So, another few weeks of living under the dark cloud go by. I’m still fascinated by the encounter with the deer, but it’s not making me feel any better. At this point, the dark cloud has become my new normal. I remember thinking, “So, this is how people with depression live”…just matter of fact-like, as this was how things were going to be from now on. I was lying on the couch one afternoon, staring mindlessly at the television. My husband and youngest son came home. It was a few days shy of my son’s birthday. I sat up, because even though I was going through hell, I couldn’t let my kids see it. It was a full-time job acting normal for them, but I pulled it off. Anyway, they come in the door and I hear my husband say, “Did you tell Mom about what you saw this morning?” I sat up and looked at my son. His face was glowing with excitement. “I was getting ready for school this morning, and as I was looking in the mirror, I saw a deer in the reflection! It was standing in our back yard, right outside the window!” My eyes opened, real wide. Like I had been in a dream, and suddenly woke up. “You saw a deer?!”I’m sitting there, incredulously staring at my almost thirteen year old son, as he excitedly tells me about seeing a deer… an animal I’d been researching and relating to my life for weeks. An animal neither of us hardly ever see. And he’s really excited about it. He’s so young and innocent. The deer is young and innocent. My son…the deer…it clicks. He’s turning thirteen. I was thirteen when I was abused. If someone molested him right now, would he be dirty and gross and full of shame? No! He’s just a kid. It wouldn’t be his fault at all. Oh my God, I get it…it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t my fault.
