Ask Me

Now, I'm going to write something *really* personal. It's about something that made me feel ashamed for years. But, I'm not anymore. There is a difference between secrecy and privacy. Secrecy is when you've done something wrong, and you stuff it down, full of shame. I stuff down a feeling of shame that doesn't belong to me when I keep this inside. Privacy, on the other hand, is when you decide to keep something to yourself just because it's nobody's business. Then I should not put it on the Internet. But here I am, typing this, because it could help at least one other woman out there in the world who is just like me.

Along with sharing this my husband, I've shared this incident with teens in my girls' Bible study for years. Girls who had similar experiences, like 1 in 3 women or something like that. So, if you are some random woman whose stumbled upon my blog, and you've found yourself in similar circumstances and think it's ALL YOUR FAULT, it's not. Learning that, I think, is the first step towards true healing. So, here goes....

There is song by Amy Grant called “Ask Me.” It starts with lyrics about a little girl who has been molested repeatedly in her home. She’s some pedophile’s “little rag” and she, “washes off his need.”

It’s disturbing, that visual. But then the lyrics take you to her future, and say, almost jarringly brightly, “Ask me how I know, there’s a God up in the heaven,” and talk about how He was there in the “middle of her pain,” and how “His mercy is there for her now.” She’s a grown woman, who “keeps the light on in the hall,” but otherwise takes care of herself and is strong. It’s off an old album, but I downloaded it the other day.

I told my former therapist that my molestation experience was no big deal in comparison to some stories I’d heard from girlfriends. He said that’s a problem, that I diminish it so. But I have one friend who was molested when she was in daycare, several times over. She hasn’t had a boyfriend since high school, and he was an emotional abuser who still tries to control her life, even though he's married to someone else.

So, I diminish. And in the process, myself, my therapist said.

It was a short-term, foul note in my life, where a 16-year-old neighbor boy said I was a “dirty girl,” having spied a Barbie in my closet in some state of undress. Why he was dispatched to babysit me by my parents when I had four other siblings, I do not know. I have no recollection of any other outside babysitter my whole childhood. Just this one experience, with this depraved individual, who branded me on my backside for life with his need.

Anyways, he said he wanted to “play a game” with me, and convinced me to kiss his penis. He touched me in my privates, but just briefly, thank goodness. My body wasn’t of much interest. He was more intrigued by whatever was titilating about my 7-year-old pursed lips and tiny hand on his penis. He’d told me that other girls his age wouldn’t touch him. I felt sorry for him, like it was somehow my job to remedy that problem. Then, he told me I had better not tell anyone, that it was just our game. He came to my house a day or so later, requesting a repeat. I acquiesced. But something shifted in me, and for some reason I remember feeling old. Words came out of my mouth unrehearsed, as though they were not my own. Now, I wonder if it wasn't God speaking through me, to protect His precious child. I told him it was wrong and threatened to tell on him. He left me alone after that. My therapist said it showed a great deal of ego strength to stand up to someone nine years older than me. Before he said that to me, less than a year ago, I always considered myself just a victim.

Days later, this boy made a veiled comment that only I could understand but right now can’t remember, disparaging me sexually in front of my puzzled oldest brother as they played catch in the middle of the street. He laughed at me. I stood there, humiliated. I told my middle brother what the boy had convinced me do. When I was 17 years old, my oldest brother confessed that my middle brother had let the cat out of the bag on the incident. My oldest brother retaliated, beat the boy up with a bat. Why this was kept secret from me, I do not know. We were all about secrets in the ‘70s, I guess. I wished I had known all those years that someone who loved me had stood up for me. I wonder if it would have made the confusion and shame less sharp.

Over the years, I always thought what happened was my fault, that I was indeed that dirty girl. It was through therapy in my late 20s that I was healed of this notion. I’ve never had any problem making love with my husband—that’s an area that remains passionate, interesting, inventive, and strong after 15 years of marriage. He’s the only person I’ve ever allowed to touch me since that boy, but I’m far from frigid and I’m thankful that I never became promiscuous, like some former victims. Where I seem to struggle, as a result of that incident, is in what my therapist called “passivity,” a willingness to withstand circumstances that other women would not. It’s because women like me don’t think we deserve better treatment than what we receive. We’re that “little rag.”

I have to catch myself not just going along with whatever is dropped on my head, and thinking I deserve it, since I’m still that dirty girl. Instead of immediately realizing someone who is using me for a toilet has other options, I try to psychoanalyze why that person does what he or she does. If pain has provoked the action, pain that has nothing to do with anything I have done, I try to have compassion. If it’s anger, I hide out. Instead of standing up for myself, I passively accept their consequences, as though that’s my role in life.

Just as I did when I was that confused little girl, helping a high school boy work out his insecurity and, my husband thinks, the boy's own molestation.

I tell myself I’m being Godly. Sometimes, maybe, I am. But mostly, I’m just being passive. And that’s not helpful to the anyone else, in the long run. And mostly, according to my therapist, I’m not necessarily pleasing God. He doesn’t want me to be wiping off anybody’s need, at such great personal cost. I’m more precious to Him than I allow myself to think I am. Other people around me, my family and my friends, benefit when I’m whole, as opposed to when I am re-acting out some victimized waif role, and letting myself get run over like a speed bump in the suburbs.

I feel more open to friendships when I feel more precious to God, when I feel I’m worthy of being respected. My circle has grown. I feel so confident that I went to the movies the other night, all by myself. I wasn’t even tempted to ask anyone to come with me, and felt good because, unlike in previous years, there was a good handful of people that I could have called. I saw that “Hairspray” was playing, and I have been wanting to see it. My hubby was off having a good time with our daughter, so I left a message for him and made my Mommy escape. I ate popcorn that had been buttered just right, and chugged down the most satisfying Icee ever made.

Some day when I’m feeling really stupid, I’ll have to blog about Icees vs. Slurpees. Today isn’t that day. Though, I am kinda stupid, most days.

But anyways, that movie was perfect for my mindset. Here was this girl who was singing her heart out, talking about her dreams. A happy movie. I loved it, not for the script, which sucked, but for all that dancing and singing about good things. My favorite song was probably Queen Latifah’s solo during their march against segregation. I started to cry, it was so powerful. I must download it.

Well, anyways, how did I get from Amy Grant to pedophiles to Queen Latifah? I must be tired.

So, I'll close with some verses I love:

James 1:2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.

James 1:12 Blessed is a man who perseveres under trial; for once he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love Him.

James 5:11 We count those blessed who endured. You have heard of the endurance of Job and have seen the outcome of the Lord's dealings, that the Lord is full of compassion and is merciful.