Today in my session with Ms. A, we were discussing the events that led up to one of my abusers being arrested and all of the things that happened following his arrest.
In summary, he was arrested and released same day. Out on bond until the trial. Only there never was a trial.
After several visits with the state’s attorney, they basically told my parents that I wasn’t stable enough to be believable in a court hearing.
And this is why. The first statement attempt was with two attorneys (one of them was the abuser’s attorney) and a lady. Maybe the court reporter? I don’t know.
But the questions to me were very odd. “Did he penetrate you?”, etc. I sat there trying to figure out what that even meant? I had just turned 15. My only experience with sex was sexual abuse. And there weren’t terms around those events. Infact, words were rarely spoken. I was just forced to do whatever he pushed me to do. Literally.
All I knew is that he said we were having an affair. I believed him.
Anyway, the second attempt was even worse. The doctor instructed my parents to medicate me before the interview. He went over with me what the questions might be. He instructed me to never ever say it was an affair. If I did that, it made it my fault.
Anyway, I went to the second attempted interview so stoned that I had no idea what they were saying. I couldn’t even sit up. I just keep falling over to the side.
My parents were so angry. When we got in the car to go home, they both yelled at me. Mom said I was a whore and must have liked it. Dad said if I ever spoke to anyone in that family again he would disown me.
Being sexually abused is awful. But being blamed for it as a child is even worse.
One of the hardest things for me to accept is that they let me go thru this all alone. They didn’t go in the interviews with me. I’m sure it was just too painful for them. They never said “I’m sorry this happened to you”. They just didn’t parent me.
As I tell my story to Ms. A, I’m ashamed. I can’t even look up. I wonder how she continues to listen to my stuff week in and week out. I don’t want her to even look at my face. It’s as if I’m diseased and her listening to my story could make her sick.
But as usual, she is kind and loving and caring. She says we’ll get thru this. I tell her that I just want it all to be over. I think she knows that I think about dying a lot when I’m in there. Every session she tells me how much I have improved. My heart tells that she probably just has to say those things. It’s her job. My brains tells me not to listen to my heart because it’s broken and can’t be trusted.
Anyway, now that I know what the ugly words mean, I can’t say them at all and I believe it’s what keeps me stuck.
Now I need the words to tell my story but I can’t get them out. It’s so frustrating. I hate that I know what they mean now.
Until next time – I am being MJ every day.