Life experiences are sometimes like shards of glass. They cut through you with precision and purpose, leaving behind open wounds and scars, and if you leave these wounds to tend themselves, over time the pieces left behind can fester.
As a child, my mother was depressed. As an adult, she was an addict. She left her raw wounds to fester and bought prescriptions online and drank to ease her pain. She would go to rehab, but would always return to her habits, no matter how perfect life was, how much money we had or how well I did in school. However, even from an early age, I knew she was not dependent on drugs and alcohol; she could get off of them as easily as she got on them. This was about something deeper.
She finally drank herself to death after years of struggling with demons. It wasn’t until much later, when I came forward about my sexual abuse, that my mother’s stories and drunken comments began to form a horrific picture. She had been sexually abused by her father, just as her father had sexually abused me. A father who was the principal of her high school, the pastor of her church and a champion of the civil rights movement.
While she suffered so openly within our family, no one ever asked if she was abused. No one expected an intelligent and generous man to be such a monster — no one ever does. Perhaps no one really wanted to know. My grandmother didn’t want to know, just as she didn’t want to know when I watched her shut the door and walk out of the room when my grandfather abused me.
Once I confessed my perceived sin of being a victim, my mother’s response was to dive deeper into her bottle, and then to blame me. For my father, it was easier to focus on what was tangible, her drinking problem, than to deal with the raw pain of abuse. His desperation to disbelieve the truth was evident when he so easily believed me when I claimed to have made up my earlier confession.
My mother’s wounds didn’t heal on their own. They became infected. They led her to self-medicate. They broke apart our family, ate away at her relationships and hindered her faith. They prevented her from protecting her daughter from the same horrors she experienced, and ultimately, they killed her.
Left untended, these shards of glass create a dark cycle. I could have easily ended up like my mother. Fortunately, I received help and slowly opened up to friends and family. I took a very painful leap of faith and became involved with the Children’s Advocacy Center. I went to counseling and worked through my pain with the help of professionals, friends, family and faith.
The shards can be removed. Yes, it’s a slow and painful process, but it’s necessary and imperative. Those wounds won’t heal on their own, but they can heal. The only difference between my mother and me is that I chose to turn toward the light and start the journey of healing. I sincerely hope that all others in my position choose to do the same. Even clean wounds may still scar, but they will be scars we can live with.
(Related: First Lady Susan Hutchinson Champions Children’s Advocacy Centers of Arkansas)