We've talked about telling “safe” people, which usually means objective people who were not involved in the abuse—and who quite possibly do not know anyone in your life from that time. That’s clearly the best place to start. They weren’t close to the situation, so it is easier for them to hear and accept. They have no agenda.
But, what about the people who were involved? For example, family members who did not commit the abuse but somehow have an emotional stake in the truth because they lived in the same environment in which the abuse occurred. Telling them can be really tricky. Here’s why: They usually have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. Maybe they knew and remained silent. Maybe they were abused themselves and aren’t able to deal with it yet. Maybe they didn’t know the details but knew that something was terribly wrong and took no action. Whatever their reasons, they were part of a secretive environment that conditioned them to silence. Your telling violates that silence. You never know how they will react.
So, don’t tell them until you are ready. For me, this means don’t tell until you are able to let the telling be about you, rather than about their reaction.
But, what about the people who were involved? For example, family members who did not commit the abuse but somehow have an emotional stake in the truth because they lived in the same environment in which the abuse occurred. Telling them can be really tricky. Here’s why: They usually have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. Maybe they knew and remained silent. Maybe they were abused themselves and aren’t able to deal with it yet. Maybe they didn’t know the details but knew that something was terribly wrong and took no action. Whatever their reasons, they were part of a secretive environment that conditioned them to silence. Your telling violates that silence. You never know how they will react.
So, don’t tell them until you are ready. For me, this means don’t tell until you are able to let the telling be about you, rather than about their reaction.
My Story
It had been coming on for months. Pressure building up inside. This insanity of owning what had happened to me as a child and interacting with my mother as if nothing had happened at all. As if my childhood had been ideal.
I had tried to confront her about it many times—but I could not get the words to come out of my mouth. What would it take? What was stopping me?
Good question. There were two obstacles.
First, I was afraid that my mother’s lifelong denial, expressed through inaction and silence, would cause her to not believe me now. That would have been really hard for me to deal with. A survivor spends her/his childhood knowing something is terribly wrong, and everyone else in the household is acting as if all is very normal. That’s why it’s so hard to tell in the first place. You don’t trust your own assessment of the situation. So, to finally dig out the secret and tell the truth, and then have someone you love tell you it’s not true could be excruciating.
Second, I didn’t want to hurt my mother. Whatever she said in response, there was no doubt that confronting her with the abuse would mean hurting her.
For a long time those reasons kept me silent, yet I was churning inside.
Eventually I came to understand that the only way I could do this scary thing—this confrontation—was to make it about me, not about her. In other words, I had to say the words just to say the words—and totally detach myself from her response. The purpose of confronting, for me, was to speak the truth. It wasn’t to hurt her. It wasn’t to lay blame. It was simply to tell the truth of my childhood to someone who had been there, and to say that what had happened was not okay. I had to say the words and know that I had gotten what I needed simply by saying them.
If I got caught up in pinning everything on whether she believed me, I could be setting myself up for disaster. The truth was, I had no idea how my mother would respond. I knew denial had been a powerful tool for her all her life, and it was likely to kick in now. I also knew from other survivors that most parents deny the truth when confronted. They often turn on the survivor, assigning blame or accusing them of lying.
In short, I couldn’t evaluate the outcome of telling on whether or not my mother believed me. It had to be enough to simply say my truth, and count that as the victory.
Also, I couldn’t protect her. Although I really didn’t want to hurt her, and in fact, loved her very much, the time had come to put myself first. I was going to tell the truth even if it hurt her. The fact was, her pain would be a consequence of her own choices, not mine. I became very clear on that.
Finally, I did it. At the time we lived halfway across the country from each other, and I didn’t want to wait, so I did it on the phone. I don’t remember how I led into it. I remember telling her of the rape when I was ten years old. I waited. I couldn’t breathe. I was really, really scared. But, it felt really good! Before I knew what her reaction was going to be—in that moment before I heard anything back—I knew I had done what I needed to do. No matter what happened next, I knew I was okay because I had told my truth, and it felt fantastic!
She wailed. It was a maternal, primeval cry. A sound I have never heard before or since. And it spoke volumes. It told me she believed me. It told me that, on some unconscious level, she knew all along. It was an affirmation. It was a release. It was an unexpected gift.
I have immense respect for how my mother handled my telling the truth of my childhood. She found the strength to believe me even if it meant facing pain she had unconsciously buried for years. She took the truth head on and owned it. No denial here. She said how sorry she was for not knowing. (I believe she really did not know on a conscious level.) She said how sorry she was that she didn’t take better care of me, that she let me be so damaged.
This telling happened about 12 years before she died, and never once did she ever questioned the truth of what I know about my childhood. She stood by me and believed me even when it was very hard for her to do. She was even very supportive of my writing this book.
Here’s the gift my mother gave me that day. She stood by me, as she had never been able to do when I was young. In that moment, her maternal instincts kicked in and she did what was best for her child. I had a mother again.
My mother’s reaction allowed us to move forward in our relationship. I could be myself with her. I could tell the truth. I could respect her. And I know I am very lucky, because often this is not the way these revelations turn out. And, here’s the really important part: Had her reaction been the opposite, had it been my worst nightmare, I still would have been glad that I confronted her. It really was about me telling my truth. That’s where my true healing came.
I had tried to confront her about it many times—but I could not get the words to come out of my mouth. What would it take? What was stopping me?
Good question. There were two obstacles.
First, I was afraid that my mother’s lifelong denial, expressed through inaction and silence, would cause her to not believe me now. That would have been really hard for me to deal with. A survivor spends her/his childhood knowing something is terribly wrong, and everyone else in the household is acting as if all is very normal. That’s why it’s so hard to tell in the first place. You don’t trust your own assessment of the situation. So, to finally dig out the secret and tell the truth, and then have someone you love tell you it’s not true could be excruciating.
Second, I didn’t want to hurt my mother. Whatever she said in response, there was no doubt that confronting her with the abuse would mean hurting her.
For a long time those reasons kept me silent, yet I was churning inside.
Eventually I came to understand that the only way I could do this scary thing—this confrontation—was to make it about me, not about her. In other words, I had to say the words just to say the words—and totally detach myself from her response. The purpose of confronting, for me, was to speak the truth. It wasn’t to hurt her. It wasn’t to lay blame. It was simply to tell the truth of my childhood to someone who had been there, and to say that what had happened was not okay. I had to say the words and know that I had gotten what I needed simply by saying them.
If I got caught up in pinning everything on whether she believed me, I could be setting myself up for disaster. The truth was, I had no idea how my mother would respond. I knew denial had been a powerful tool for her all her life, and it was likely to kick in now. I also knew from other survivors that most parents deny the truth when confronted. They often turn on the survivor, assigning blame or accusing them of lying.
In short, I couldn’t evaluate the outcome of telling on whether or not my mother believed me. It had to be enough to simply say my truth, and count that as the victory.
Also, I couldn’t protect her. Although I really didn’t want to hurt her, and in fact, loved her very much, the time had come to put myself first. I was going to tell the truth even if it hurt her. The fact was, her pain would be a consequence of her own choices, not mine. I became very clear on that.
Finally, I did it. At the time we lived halfway across the country from each other, and I didn’t want to wait, so I did it on the phone. I don’t remember how I led into it. I remember telling her of the rape when I was ten years old. I waited. I couldn’t breathe. I was really, really scared. But, it felt really good! Before I knew what her reaction was going to be—in that moment before I heard anything back—I knew I had done what I needed to do. No matter what happened next, I knew I was okay because I had told my truth, and it felt fantastic!
She wailed. It was a maternal, primeval cry. A sound I have never heard before or since. And it spoke volumes. It told me she believed me. It told me that, on some unconscious level, she knew all along. It was an affirmation. It was a release. It was an unexpected gift.
I have immense respect for how my mother handled my telling the truth of my childhood. She found the strength to believe me even if it meant facing pain she had unconsciously buried for years. She took the truth head on and owned it. No denial here. She said how sorry she was for not knowing. (I believe she really did not know on a conscious level.) She said how sorry she was that she didn’t take better care of me, that she let me be so damaged.
This telling happened about 12 years before she died, and never once did she ever questioned the truth of what I know about my childhood. She stood by me and believed me even when it was very hard for her to do. She was even very supportive of my writing this book.
Here’s the gift my mother gave me that day. She stood by me, as she had never been able to do when I was young. In that moment, her maternal instincts kicked in and she did what was best for her child. I had a mother again.
My mother’s reaction allowed us to move forward in our relationship. I could be myself with her. I could tell the truth. I could respect her. And I know I am very lucky, because often this is not the way these revelations turn out. And, here’s the really important part: Had her reaction been the opposite, had it been my worst nightmare, I still would have been glad that I confronted her. It really was about me telling my truth. That’s where my true healing came.
Our Walk Together - Questions and Answers
Why tell these people who can be so hard to tell? Why not just tell the “safe” ones?
Let me make this clear. There may be people you choose never to tell. It just won’t be worth it to you. If they are really crazy or abusive themselves, not telling them is a legitimate choice. If they are at the end of their lives and you love them and know it would be devastating to them, you may decide not to tell them. There are a number of circumstances in which you may choose not to tell.
But, sometimes, it becomes too much to live in a divided world—the world where you have told your truth and feel really good about that, and the other world where you are still pretending nothing happened. For me, this dual existence came to be intolerable. I was no longer willing to pretend, with anyone, that what happened to me as a child didn’t actually happen.
What do you mean about the telling being about you rather than about the other person’s reaction?
You know the time is right to tell when your motive is to tell the truth simply for the sake of the truth. Period. Nothing else. When it is no longer about that person believing you, or feeling sorry for you, or apologizing. When getting a particular reaction is not your reason for telling, you are ready.
You also need to have enough of a support system in place so that it will not devastate you if the person has an undesirable reaction. If they go nuts and call you a liar, that won’t feel good, but you will be able to understand that their reaction is all about them. It’s not about you.
I don’t understand how you can say that your mother had known all along, but that you also believed she didn’t know on a conscious level. Please explain more about that.
I believe everyone who lives in an incestuous family environment knows something is wrong. Those who are not able to bring that knowledge to a conscious level employ a tremendous amount of denial. So, while my mother did not know on a conscious level, I believe a deeper part of her sensed that something was terribly wrong with her child. For her, it would have been too unsafe to let these concerns rise to the conscious level. So, in that sense, she didn’t know a thing.
Let me make this clear. There may be people you choose never to tell. It just won’t be worth it to you. If they are really crazy or abusive themselves, not telling them is a legitimate choice. If they are at the end of their lives and you love them and know it would be devastating to them, you may decide not to tell them. There are a number of circumstances in which you may choose not to tell.
But, sometimes, it becomes too much to live in a divided world—the world where you have told your truth and feel really good about that, and the other world where you are still pretending nothing happened. For me, this dual existence came to be intolerable. I was no longer willing to pretend, with anyone, that what happened to me as a child didn’t actually happen.
What do you mean about the telling being about you rather than about the other person’s reaction?
You know the time is right to tell when your motive is to tell the truth simply for the sake of the truth. Period. Nothing else. When it is no longer about that person believing you, or feeling sorry for you, or apologizing. When getting a particular reaction is not your reason for telling, you are ready.
You also need to have enough of a support system in place so that it will not devastate you if the person has an undesirable reaction. If they go nuts and call you a liar, that won’t feel good, but you will be able to understand that their reaction is all about them. It’s not about you.
I don’t understand how you can say that your mother had known all along, but that you also believed she didn’t know on a conscious level. Please explain more about that.
I believe everyone who lives in an incestuous family environment knows something is wrong. Those who are not able to bring that knowledge to a conscious level employ a tremendous amount of denial. So, while my mother did not know on a conscious level, I believe a deeper part of her sensed that something was terribly wrong with her child. For her, it would have been too unsafe to let these concerns rise to the conscious level. So, in that sense, she didn’t know a thing.
Action Steps
Your first action is to decide if, at this point, there is anyone who was there whom you want to tell. If the answer is “no,” honor your instincts about this. If, at a later point, you become conflicted about living in today’s truth most of the time, but at other times feeling like you have to revert to the childhood burden of pretending nothing happened, then reconsider the matter of whom you wish to tell.
If you decide you want to tell someone who was there, then consider the following questions:
If you decide you want to tell someone who was there, then consider the following questions:
- What is my real reason for wanting to tell? If it has anything to do with getting a particular response from the person, or hurting the person, then you should probably wait until you have a different answer.
- What will I say?
- Is there anything I will request of them before I begin the discussion? (For example: “All I want you to do is listen. I am not asking for a response.”)
- Is there anything they might say that would be damaging to me? If so, you might want to wait. Only you can decide what would be damaging to you at any point of your healing.
- When and where will I tell them?
- Would I like to have anyone there with me for support?
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Copyright 2006 Journey Publishing LLC |
