The next few weeks of my journey are almost a blur to me. I had slowly lost myself to the depths of depression and despair. I was merely surviving from day to day, but there was no life in me at all. To make matters worse, the surgery I had on my shoulder had not worked. The physical pain was almost unbearable, yet made no comparison to the even more tormenting emotional pain I found myself in. I had proclaimed war on the enemy when I disclosed the truth of my past, but little did I know that the battle would be so exhausting...so grievous...so lengthy.
By the time I was finally able to live on my own again and go back to work, I was dangerously close to holding up the white flag of surrender to the enemy. It seemed like a losing battle and quite honestly, I was too tired to fight. I desperately needed some help, but I did not know where to turn. I quickly learned that the "family" I grew up in was not capable of helping me. Unfortunately, I have come to realize this is all too common.
Growing up, I thought my mom and I were close. She took me to church, cared for me when I was sick, cheered for me at all of my sporting events...she loved me. In my mind, she often made up for some of the horror I experienced with my father. I thought she was my safe person. When I told my mom about the sexual abuse, you can imagine the shock I felt when she looked at me and said the words, "that is what I was afraid was happening." What?? My nightmare suddenly worsened. My safe person was really not a safe person at all. Quite the opposite really. Now I know that my mom knew all along what my father was capable of. She was very much aware of his sick, sexual fixations. From the words of her own mouth, she knew my father always "looked at me with a lustful eye." She knew my father had molested his own sister as a child. She had even been warned about leaving us with him. So what did she do....absolutely nothing. She failed her God-given responsibility of protecting her children. She put us in harms way simply to protect her own reputation. She chose to turn a blind eye to the evil that was right in front of her face. I often ask myself what kind of mother would do that to her own child, and then I cringe at the answer....my mom would.
The image I had built of my mother only intensified the hurt I felt when I realized she was not at all who I thought she was. She claims she never knew my father would go as far as he did, but that offers little comfort to me. Though there was not an actual physical death, I had to mourn the loss of my mother nonetheless. The grief was intense. The sense of betrayal and abandonment was overwhelming. Letting go of the mother I thought I had....the mother I wish I had....has been one of the hardest aspects of this journey for me. I have had to walk through sorrow, confusion, and ultimately a lot of anger toward my mother. I can say with assurance that I know my mom loves me. It is a very fragile, diseased, and imperfect love...but it is the best she can offer me in her condition.
I don't want to miss this opportunity to share with you the one thing I will forever be grateful to my mother for. She provided me the opportunity to get to know the one whose love is absolutely perfect. She took me to church week after week, and it was within the four walls of that church that I met Jesus....who loves me so much that He gave His life for me. He was the only one who could get me through this. What a wonderful thing it is to know that nothing, including the evil surrounding sexual abuse, can separate us from the unfailing love of a perfect daddy.
No comments:
Post a Comment