Healing through Storytelling

The truth will set you free!

— John 8:32

This story is based on the experiences of many women I have met, my experiences, and my interpretation of those experiences and struggles. I have changed all personal details to protect the private lives of those I love and respect. Throughout my life, I have been an observer of people. I've written this book for all the courageous women who want to begin the journey to self-discovery.

I want to tell you Grace's story. Grace was born in 1961 in Palmerston North, New Zealand. Her parents immigrated from England looking for new opportunities and experiences. Her early childhood was uneventful and idyllic. Her family was typical of families during the 1960s and '70s; her father was the breadwinner, and her mother stayed home as a homemaker. Her father was "the boss," and though he never raised his voice or a hand to any of the children, Grace was a little frightened of him and took the role of the "good child" in her family of five.

At age fourteen, Grace's emotional life unravelled after she was raped in the park near her parents' home. Grace and her brother Charlie had been practising shooting baskets on a basketball court. Charlie kicked the ball a far distance away and ran home. Grace ran off to collect the ball, fulfilling her role in the family as the good child, and began her way home. She would never have considered leaving the ball there and yelling at Charlie to fetch it!

On the way home, Grace was approached by a friendly young man who appeared nonthreatening. He dragged her into a dark corner of the park, knocked her out, and raped her. The youth escaped into the darkness as Grace regained consciousness. She became aware of her parents calling her name as she staggered towards her home. She tried to explain what had happened to her, but the words wouldn't come out. The trauma had caused memory loss, and Grace could not give an adequate description to the police, who arrived very quickly after the event. Charlie felt enormous guilt as he realised that if he had not kicked the ball away from Grace, Grace would have arrived home unharmed with him.

Other people had been in the park while Charlie and Grace were playing but had left shortly afterwards. No one came forward to offer any information even though someone had likely seen the offender. This happened more than forty years ago.

Here is Grace's story in her words.

* * *

From that day on, my life changed. I endured interviews by the police that left me feeling like I was the offender. For many years, I couldn't wait to get to age twenty-one because I thought I had a police record for seven years after the rape. My father was traumatized by the event; he didn't speak for several days after, and I never knew how he felt because he never told me. It was like we all had entered into a pact not to talk about it ever again, but we had never talked about not talking about it either!

Within a week or so, my parents encouraged me to forgive the offender. Both my parents were deeply religious, and forgiveness was something that I understood in theory, but not in practice. This created even more confusion! I didn't understand why I had to forgive someone who had offended against me. I was torn between wanting to please my parents and trying to process my feelings (something that didn't happen till nearly forty years later). I didn't receive counselling, except for a brief conversation with some friends of my parents. My memory of the event buried into the recess of my mind.

A couple of months after the rape, I was invited out by two teenage boys and a girl who attended my school. My parents thought it would be good for me to have normal experiences as a teenager and approved the group date. We were going to a church service, after all! What harm could come from that? The other young people seemed polite and suitable.

I loved the feeling of belonging that I experienced in the church as everyone raised their voices and arms and worshipped a different version of the God I knew about from my Catholic upbringing. Then they all started singing in various languages (speaking in tongues). I had heard tongues before because my parents had been to churches where they did that. Somehow at that moment, it didn't seem at all strange, and I wanted to join in. Of course, I had the complete born-again experience, let down my guard, and jumped in both feet at one time.

After the church meeting, my new friends took me home, and I lived happily ever after. Unfortunately, that only happens in fairy tales! Instead, we drove off to a dark spot at a local park. I froze. My saving grace was that I was wearing a rather well-fitting dress and my grandmother had lent me her corset, and well, the young man involved couldn't figure out how to get it off, much to my relief. It seems funny now when I think about it, but it was terrifying at the time. I remember disassociating, trying to block out any feelings or memories.

Despite my relief that the car situation hadn't gotten out of hand, I still decided to go out with the young man again. I did not understand how emotionally vulnerable I was and how my ability to protect myself with boundaries had all but vanished into thin air. Dates changed very quickly from pleasant experiences into nasty ones. As my first serious relationship with a boy developed, it became abusive and controlling. He sent constant negative messages that I wasn't good enough; I had to observe heavy-handed religious rules to try to prove that I was. Sexual abuse followed during that first year of being raped.

My boyfriend joined a religious cult, and I was expected to join too, which I did willingly at the time. There were some outlandish rules, such as if you were sick, you didn't go to the doctor because you had faith God would heal you. Every trial or challenge you encountered was your fault because you didn't have enough faith to change it. In the beginning, it was exciting because it was a new way to look at religion and it made me feel that I was better than everyone else. I was baptised again and took on board all the teaching of the cult with an open heart and mind. During this period in my life, I sank to a low level of self-esteem, yet I had no awareness of it. My behaviour was proud and haughty; I became a religious zealot who tried to convert others to my way of thinking. Anyone who thought differently to our group was damned to hell.

During my teens, I continued having flashbacks and nightmares. In some dreams, I was reliving the rape repeatedly under cover of my blankets. When I told my friends about the nightmares, they got people at church to pray for me. The church people thought it was demons attacking my body and mind. A period of spiritual abuse followed, which included ridding my body of the demons. It was emotionally exhausting! My boyfriend started this abuse, and it was unwittingly continued by people in the church whom I trusted.

My boyfriend and I broke up after a couple of months of dating. My parents caught me putting all my clothes in a rubbish bag to take outside and burn. They were horrified when they found out why! My boyfriend had told me that I dressed like a whore, and I reacted by taking all my clothes out of my wardrobe with intent to destroy them. I came from a very conservative, traditional family. I wasn't allowed to wear jeans, or anything remotely suggestive. All my clothes were old-fashioned and usually made by my mother. I often felt out of place when I was with others my own age and noticed how they wore clothes quite different from mine. My father was angry. I had never seen my father angry before! He dealt with my boyfriend, and the next thing I knew was that I was alone again, trying to figure out life by myself. I had become excessively emotionally reliant on my boyfriend, who made himself inaccessible after we broke up, and this seemed to make me want him back even more, despite the abuse.

Once I was old enough, I left home and joined the religious cult in Canada. After about six months of experiencing what life inside a cult was like, I returned home. I don't know how I found the courage at that point in my life, but one day, I woke up and realised that the people in my life were not loving, and I wanted to be around people I felt safe with and loved. It was my first moment of awareness around personal boundaries and my first important life lesson.

I choose to be around people I feel safe with.

I arrived home just before my twentieth birthday. I remember a lovely, spontaneous birthday party where friends and family congregated. I rejoined the church I had previously left and found that my grandfather had gained some status as a counsellor in that church since leaving the Catholic Church some time before. A lot of things had changed, but I was still having nightmares and flashbacks and periods of anxiety, which I didn't recognise as anxiety at the time.

Many of my peers were getting married, and it wasn't long before I met a man who seemed interested in me. He was much older than me and had several children from previous partners. During our courtship, he rarely put a foot wrong. There were alarm bells going off behind the scenes as some people warned my grandfather about him. I knew none of this at the time. My family's position was that I was an adult and that it was up to me to decide.

I decided to marry, but during this time, my flashbacks and nightmares became increasingly upsetting. I knew that others thought I was "possessed," but I knew I was emotionally wounded. My health started to deteriorate, and I was exhausted a lot of the time and emotional. I experienced so much internal conflict. I didn't know who to trust or believe. I wasn't sure of my spiritual beliefs, but I didn't know what to replace them with. I was confused and tormented on the inside.

Like most young women, I believed that I would be happily married, that children would come, and that I would be supported and loved in my new role as wife and mother. It could take a thousand pages to tell my story fully, but I don't want to linger on the negativity and abuse that happened in the years that followed.

* * *

Grace described this period of life as feeling like a cold, dark tunnel with no hope of light or warmth. As she told me her story, I heard how vulnerable she was to further abuse following a traumatic life event. Grace began to heal by expressing her story and pain through creative writing. The poems that follow depict her suffering and her courage to move into hope and recovery.

Wounded

I was wounded once, you see,
many years ago.
Another took my precious soul
and ravaged it within.

He took; he had no right to take.
By force, he knocked me out,
and when he had finished the deed,
he stood and took a bow.

He left me for dead and vulnerable
like an unborn child without a womb.
I sought to find the words to tell
just what I had been through.

On that night, my soul took flight
to find a safer place.
But though I look both far and wide,
I never found that place.

I am battle weary,
fighting for my soul.
The war I fight is deep inside
where no one can come in.

Grace, 2013 (Used with permission.)


Forty Years On

It happened in the twilight hours.
I was playing, still a child,
sunset ending, dusk defending,
moonlight not yet lit.

He was standing in the driveway.
I don't remember much.
I know he kissed me,
murmured something. Next thing, I was lost.

Falling loudly,
fear engulfing,
screams caught inside my head,
trying, trying, always trying
to make myself be heard.

I'm gone, I'm gone, I don't remember.
Suddenly, there's pain.
Now the fear has entrenched me.
Rape and I'm fair game.
Looking upwards,
can't remember
what his face looks like.
All I know is pain below me,
rage screaming in my heart.

Violent manners, stabbing ache,
humiliation, filled with shame,
spoilt, dirty, ruined soul,
blood on the concrete,
filled with pain.

Voices, voices
ringing, screaming,
flying forward,
arms towards me.
Pain, there's pain
and misery too.
Friends who don't know what to say —
I wish they would all go away.
The bell tolls for the years I've missed.
Years I've grieved through.
Years I slept.
Finally, I reawaken
and find in myself
that I'm
okay!

Grace (Used with permission.)

I would like to tell you Sarah's story. Sarah also came from a religious background. Her childhood had been uneventful, and her family, while a little alternative, loved and respected each other. I'll let Sarah tell you in her own words.

* * *

After thirteen years of marriage, my life was empty, unpalatable, and I felt deeply rejected and unloved. I struggled with the concept of divorce. After all, what grounds did I have? My husband hadn't committed adultery. My religious beliefs tied me to staying in an abusive relationship. I wondered why my husband was so disinterested in me. I convinced myself that it must be all my shortcomings. Sex was brief with no intimacy; I frequently felt used instead of cherished. Kind words were lacking, and my husband would go days without speaking to me until Sunday came, and he would make out that we were a lovely, caring couple and family. My children feared him, and there was little chance of them acting out in the church. At this point, my husband was an elder in the church and had many church responsibilities. When I reached out to people at church, they couldn't believe my husband was abusive; it was only when I had bruises from being pushed hard into the furniture that anyone reached out to me to see if I was okay.

My breaking point came one Sunday after church when my ex-husband was angry with one of the children for being "naughty" and spanked him to the point of severe bruising. When I intervened, I was pushed out of the way. "Spare the rod, spoil the child" seemed to be his viewpoint. It wasn't mine! I have always detested bullies and especially physical violence towards children or animals. Early in the week that followed, I engaged a lawyer and began a process to have him removed from the family home.

Physical abuse is unacceptable, and I will stand up against it and challenge it! I will protect my children from it.

We divorced. Over time, resentment turned into bitterness, which found a root in hatred. I could not forgive myself or my ex-husband for all that had happened. I didn't know what boundaries were, and I didn't know how to be in a healthy relationship with other people yet. When my ex-husband left, I was vulnerable, exhausted physically and mentally, depressed, and anxious. My self-confidence was gone, and I felt like I was walking alone in the darkness.

I reached out to others and discovered that many of my friends had stories too. I hadn't grown up in a world where people hurt each other, and I couldn't make any sense of it. Everyone I talked to downplayed their grief and suffering. "Just take it to the Lord," they said. That wasn't enough for me.

I did my best bringing up children. I made mistakes that I regret. I have had to forgive myself for my failings, for being codependent, for not being the healthy parent I would have liked to have been. My children rebelled, and I can understand why. I looked for answers everywhere. I went to parenting seminars and watched Oprah on television. I read every self-help book I could get my hands on, but nothing seemed to work. Nearly every professional I spoke to said that I was doing very well given the circumstances. I looked for answers everywhere, but I could not find them. My life was a great puzzle to me. I couldn't find peace anywhere.

By the early 2000s, I had left my church and began a quest for spirituality, wholeness, and recovery that didn't include a long list of rules and standards that I couldn't meet. I felt misunderstood by the church community. I had little sense of belonging there, yet it took extraordinary courage to let go of all the rules and doctrines I had learned over the years and find true peace and wisdom.

As I moved towards recovery, I learned that patterns of dysfunctional family relationships or abuse could continue into the next generation. This was my greatest fear. I didn't want my children to experience any further abuse, and I became determined that I would "save" them from it. On the outside, I appeared competent and together, but I was developing codependency. I believed that the well-being of my family was 100 per cent my responsibility. I saw it as my mission to "help" my family and cure them of their afflictions.