I was molested by my father in early 1985. My first therapy session was not until December 2004, nearly 20 years later. My young marriage was failing, and I was losing my mind. My son was in the dead heat of his terrible two's, and I felt like I was being raped every time my husband wanted to make love to his wife. I needed help. STAT. And lots of it.
It is typical for victims of trauma, especially that of sexual assault, to "split" and/or have severe difficulty not only with long term, but also short term memory. But for some reason, there are many things I do vividly remember about my therapy sessions in 2004, 2005 and 2006. I remember my therapist, Pam, asking me to write a letter to my father…my offender. So I did. At that point, I was visiting Pam's office every week, and she was unmoved, completely unimpressed with my ever-revised, so-called letter to my father. After several months worth of what seemed like wasted time, ink and paper to me, perhaps I gave up.
Still trying to live this happy, blemish-free life - after all, my husband (ex now) was the Youth Director at our Christian/Baptist/NonDenominational/MakeUpYourMind church, and why the hell ANYONE let ME be the "Youth Director's Wife" is absolutely beyond me! But one thing is for damn sure - whoever was in charge had no flipping' clue who I was. But wait, yes, he did. They all did. I went to every last one of the members of the "church leadership" for help, and not one of them knew what to do with me. We won't get into all of that here, but that is ultimately what drove me to seek professional help in 2004 and by the Grace of God, I found Pam.
So a few months later here comes the beloved Father's Day 2005. At this point, I had been in professional therapy for 6 months, and Pam was still dissatisfied with my letters to my offender. But Father's Day…always falls on a flipping' Sunday. In hindsight, I probably should have just stayed in bed, under the covers. But no, I got up, got dressed and proceeded to teach my junior high Sunday school class that morning. My students had NO idea what I was going through (they were all perfect, from perfect marriage homes)…and I felt like such a disgusting hypocrite to stand before them and teach this thing called the Bible that I was not even sure I believed in myself, trying to refer to God as a loving Father when all I knew of a father was - well, we'll save that for the Chronicles blog. But there were no checks and balances at this church, so there I was, and there we were.
After Sunday school, we proceeded to the chapel for service.
As the service began, I literally felt like I was going to puke all over the place. The whole "honor the fathers" direction of the service was literally suffocating me, and all I felt was anger and rage bubbling up inside of me. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs right there in the chapel. But I didn't. I bit my lip. I smiled and acted like I was thrilled it was Father's Day, because after all I was celebrating my son's father, right? Smile, smile, smile...although my father was locked up in prison somewhere on two counts of indecency with a child, both reduced plea bargains from aggravated sexual assault of a child. Neither of which were convictions for what he did to me…or to my friend Heather…or to my relative Lisa. These three assaults got lost somewhere under the radar, so tell me again why I should be celebrating Father's Day? Oh, that's right, because my pastor had four seemingly flawless daughters, a wife who appears to adore him, and surely he must be holiness incarnate. Yet, his council has me spinning in circles.
I got home - thank god! I changed clothes. I don't remember doing the whole after-church lunch ritual, maybe we did, I honestly don't remember. I just remember sitting down at my computer, after church, and pounding away at the keyboard as my son played in the backyard. I was angry. I was furious. I was livid. And I was NOT able to keep it inside anymore. It came gushing out of me like an avalanche out of no-where.
I typed words that I wasn't supposed to say. And it felt good... I wrote whatever the hell I wanted to write because I knew no one would ever read it. And it felt good… I wrote all kinds of bad words. Ugly words. Unchristian words. Violent words. And it felt good… It felt good to tell him to rot in hell and feel no remorse. Yes, it felt good.
At that point, I was not worried about "being a Christian" or being a "Sunday School Teacher"…I was consumed with the rage that this man, this offender, my father…had borne inside of me. And I wanted it OUT. I wanted it OUT of me! I did not want it inside of me anymore - it was killing me - suffocating me.
So I let it out…
In a writing entitled "Father's Day Wish 2005," I let it out.
I shared it with Pam at the next session just two days later, and I don't remember her exact words, but I do recall that that was the moment that my own healing and growth took root and began to grow, oh so slowly, but ever so surely. Little did I know at that time that that event - that collision of emotion and expression - would result in a masterpiece.
Later that year, upon locating my father's confession of his sexual abuse of me in the PSI of another case, I decided to press charges. The DA originally accepted the charges and ordered $150,000 bail. I was pretty pleased with that, seemed pretty significant. He was incarcerated as was, so it wasn't like he was going to post bond or something…
So I went to the CAC to make my statement, my mother even came with me. And we waited. I was later notified that the DA had to drop the charges due to the statute of limitations. Because the crime occurred in 1985, I was under the statutes that were in effect in 1985, which allowed me to press charges up until TWO years past my 18th birthday (18 + 2 = 20), and at the time I was 25. So no go. I had to peeeeeeel myself up off the floor and do my best to re-group, even though I had his confession sitting right there in my hand…
It didn't seem right, it wasn't fair; but it was what it was. And that is the criminal justice system for you. And I became a case of injustice that would fall through the cracks. Me. Jessica. I was slipping through the very cracks that were supposed to protect me...
I entered a state of depression and something that - in hindsight - should have probably been considered borderline mania. But apparently it was undetectable because no one ever said anything. I have no idea how others did not pick up on my signals, but I was ill. I was sick. I was dieing. I was damaged. And if you've never been groped, fondled, molested, or raped, then you probably don't fully understand the trauma of merely being touched without permission.
So I was dieing, and I was manic, and in my moment of sanity, I called TDCJ. Mind you I was huddled and barricaded in my closet when I placed the phone call to TDCJ Victim Services for the first time. I was petrified. I had no idea what to expect, other than the disbelief and/or denial that I had been subject to from every one else for the majority of my life. I shared with them my story and asked if there was ANYTHING that I could do. To my surprise, they recommended the VOMD - Victim Offender Mediation Dialogue. They said it was a 6-8 month process and gave me the details. My only issue with this too-good-to-be-true-oppertunity was that it took too damn long, and Don was scheduled for parole release on May 7, 2006. We didn't have 6-8 months!!!
So my only ray of hope was quickly closing in…and I was going deeper and deeper into a dark, depressive oblivion. It was not good, and it was not pretty.
Shortly thereafter, TDCJ called to notify me that they had identified a mediator who was willing to expedite my case. Her name was Susan. I did not know it at the time, nor did she, but Susan became my third mother. Fast Forward…. I remember sitting at a little Italian cafe when Susan asked me intimate details about how I wanted the mediation room set up. I honestly did not know I had a choice or preference in the matter, but it did not take me long to verbalize my intentions. I wanted him seated so that when I entered the room, he would NOT be facing me, nor would he be able to watch me enter the room. This meant I would approach him from behind without him seeing me. This gave me a position of power. For him to hear my high heels coming but not be able to turn and see. Sick bastard. And then I would walk past him and sit down face to face. But I did NOT want him to WATCH me walk in. He's a sick fucker, that would give him too much pleasure.
And yes, he read my "Father's Day Wish 2005" letter when we met on April 7, 2006 at The Hightower Unit in Dayton, TX. And yes, it brought it him to tears. He asked to keep the note. As I slammed my hand on the table over the letter, I proclaimed, "NO!! You will keep nothing of me!" This was well after the donut incident (See "Victim Chronicles"). He tried to claim, after 20 years of no contact mind you, that he was still my spiritual covering and just did not know how I could use such fowl language towards him (please see the "Victim Chronicles" for the actual letter).
That did not go over so well with me.
Fortunately, he died last February of a heart attack, all alone in his apartment, maggots were coming out of his ears when his body was finally found. So I am no longer worried about HIM. I am concerned about the sick MF's LIKE him.
Therefore, I invite you, if you have the stomach, to hop over to the Phoenix Chronicles, where victims of sexual assault are allowed to say anything and everything, anonymously, so that the whole world might understand what sexual assault does to an individual and his/her family. Empathy is the key; let's unlock the door.
Much love and yours truly,
Phoenix #1
Here are some of my fav quotes:
"One of the best-kept secrets in this technically oriented culture is that simply speaking truth heals." - Rachel Remen, MD
"To write poetry is to be alive."- Rainer Maria Rilke, Poet
"Medicines and surgery may cure, but only reading and writing poetry can heal." – J. Arroyo, Author
"When a poem doesn't work, the first question to ask yourself is, 'Am I telling the truth?'" -Wendy Cope
"Modern poetry is based on voice, and must be passed through the ear. This is where the sense is made." - Robert Carroll, MD
"Poetry brings unconscious forces into consciousness to make them understandable…it provides an outlet for emotions." – Owen Heninger
It is typical for victims of trauma, especially that of sexual assault, to "split" and/or have severe difficulty not only with long term, but also short term memory. But for some reason, there are many things I do vividly remember about my therapy sessions in 2004, 2005 and 2006. I remember my therapist, Pam, asking me to write a letter to my father…my offender. So I did. At that point, I was visiting Pam's office every week, and she was unmoved, completely unimpressed with my ever-revised, so-called letter to my father. After several months worth of what seemed like wasted time, ink and paper to me, perhaps I gave up.
Still trying to live this happy, blemish-free life - after all, my husband (ex now) was the Youth Director at our Christian/Baptist/NonDenominational/MakeUpYourMind church, and why the hell ANYONE let ME be the "Youth Director's Wife" is absolutely beyond me! But one thing is for damn sure - whoever was in charge had no flipping' clue who I was. But wait, yes, he did. They all did. I went to every last one of the members of the "church leadership" for help, and not one of them knew what to do with me. We won't get into all of that here, but that is ultimately what drove me to seek professional help in 2004 and by the Grace of God, I found Pam.
So a few months later here comes the beloved Father's Day 2005. At this point, I had been in professional therapy for 6 months, and Pam was still dissatisfied with my letters to my offender. But Father's Day…always falls on a flipping' Sunday. In hindsight, I probably should have just stayed in bed, under the covers. But no, I got up, got dressed and proceeded to teach my junior high Sunday school class that morning. My students had NO idea what I was going through (they were all perfect, from perfect marriage homes)…and I felt like such a disgusting hypocrite to stand before them and teach this thing called the Bible that I was not even sure I believed in myself, trying to refer to God as a loving Father when all I knew of a father was - well, we'll save that for the Chronicles blog. But there were no checks and balances at this church, so there I was, and there we were.
After Sunday school, we proceeded to the chapel for service.
As the service began, I literally felt like I was going to puke all over the place. The whole "honor the fathers" direction of the service was literally suffocating me, and all I felt was anger and rage bubbling up inside of me. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs right there in the chapel. But I didn't. I bit my lip. I smiled and acted like I was thrilled it was Father's Day, because after all I was celebrating my son's father, right? Smile, smile, smile...although my father was locked up in prison somewhere on two counts of indecency with a child, both reduced plea bargains from aggravated sexual assault of a child. Neither of which were convictions for what he did to me…or to my friend Heather…or to my relative Lisa. These three assaults got lost somewhere under the radar, so tell me again why I should be celebrating Father's Day? Oh, that's right, because my pastor had four seemingly flawless daughters, a wife who appears to adore him, and surely he must be holiness incarnate. Yet, his council has me spinning in circles.
I got home - thank god! I changed clothes. I don't remember doing the whole after-church lunch ritual, maybe we did, I honestly don't remember. I just remember sitting down at my computer, after church, and pounding away at the keyboard as my son played in the backyard. I was angry. I was furious. I was livid. And I was NOT able to keep it inside anymore. It came gushing out of me like an avalanche out of no-where.
I typed words that I wasn't supposed to say. And it felt good... I wrote whatever the hell I wanted to write because I knew no one would ever read it. And it felt good… I wrote all kinds of bad words. Ugly words. Unchristian words. Violent words. And it felt good… It felt good to tell him to rot in hell and feel no remorse. Yes, it felt good.
At that point, I was not worried about "being a Christian" or being a "Sunday School Teacher"…I was consumed with the rage that this man, this offender, my father…had borne inside of me. And I wanted it OUT. I wanted it OUT of me! I did not want it inside of me anymore - it was killing me - suffocating me.
So I let it out…
In a writing entitled "Father's Day Wish 2005," I let it out.
I shared it with Pam at the next session just two days later, and I don't remember her exact words, but I do recall that that was the moment that my own healing and growth took root and began to grow, oh so slowly, but ever so surely. Little did I know at that time that that event - that collision of emotion and expression - would result in a masterpiece.
Later that year, upon locating my father's confession of his sexual abuse of me in the PSI of another case, I decided to press charges. The DA originally accepted the charges and ordered $150,000 bail. I was pretty pleased with that, seemed pretty significant. He was incarcerated as was, so it wasn't like he was going to post bond or something…
So I went to the CAC to make my statement, my mother even came with me. And we waited. I was later notified that the DA had to drop the charges due to the statute of limitations. Because the crime occurred in 1985, I was under the statutes that were in effect in 1985, which allowed me to press charges up until TWO years past my 18th birthday (18 + 2 = 20), and at the time I was 25. So no go. I had to peeeeeeel myself up off the floor and do my best to re-group, even though I had his confession sitting right there in my hand…
It didn't seem right, it wasn't fair; but it was what it was. And that is the criminal justice system for you. And I became a case of injustice that would fall through the cracks. Me. Jessica. I was slipping through the very cracks that were supposed to protect me...
I entered a state of depression and something that - in hindsight - should have probably been considered borderline mania. But apparently it was undetectable because no one ever said anything. I have no idea how others did not pick up on my signals, but I was ill. I was sick. I was dieing. I was damaged. And if you've never been groped, fondled, molested, or raped, then you probably don't fully understand the trauma of merely being touched without permission.
So I was dieing, and I was manic, and in my moment of sanity, I called TDCJ. Mind you I was huddled and barricaded in my closet when I placed the phone call to TDCJ Victim Services for the first time. I was petrified. I had no idea what to expect, other than the disbelief and/or denial that I had been subject to from every one else for the majority of my life. I shared with them my story and asked if there was ANYTHING that I could do. To my surprise, they recommended the VOMD - Victim Offender Mediation Dialogue. They said it was a 6-8 month process and gave me the details. My only issue with this too-good-to-be-true-oppertunity was that it took too damn long, and Don was scheduled for parole release on May 7, 2006. We didn't have 6-8 months!!!
So my only ray of hope was quickly closing in…and I was going deeper and deeper into a dark, depressive oblivion. It was not good, and it was not pretty.
Shortly thereafter, TDCJ called to notify me that they had identified a mediator who was willing to expedite my case. Her name was Susan. I did not know it at the time, nor did she, but Susan became my third mother. Fast Forward…. I remember sitting at a little Italian cafe when Susan asked me intimate details about how I wanted the mediation room set up. I honestly did not know I had a choice or preference in the matter, but it did not take me long to verbalize my intentions. I wanted him seated so that when I entered the room, he would NOT be facing me, nor would he be able to watch me enter the room. This meant I would approach him from behind without him seeing me. This gave me a position of power. For him to hear my high heels coming but not be able to turn and see. Sick bastard. And then I would walk past him and sit down face to face. But I did NOT want him to WATCH me walk in. He's a sick fucker, that would give him too much pleasure.
And yes, he read my "Father's Day Wish 2005" letter when we met on April 7, 2006 at The Hightower Unit in Dayton, TX. And yes, it brought it him to tears. He asked to keep the note. As I slammed my hand on the table over the letter, I proclaimed, "NO!! You will keep nothing of me!" This was well after the donut incident (See "Victim Chronicles"). He tried to claim, after 20 years of no contact mind you, that he was still my spiritual covering and just did not know how I could use such fowl language towards him (please see the "Victim Chronicles" for the actual letter).
That did not go over so well with me.
Fortunately, he died last February of a heart attack, all alone in his apartment, maggots were coming out of his ears when his body was finally found. So I am no longer worried about HIM. I am concerned about the sick MF's LIKE him.
Therefore, I invite you, if you have the stomach, to hop over to the Phoenix Chronicles, where victims of sexual assault are allowed to say anything and everything, anonymously, so that the whole world might understand what sexual assault does to an individual and his/her family. Empathy is the key; let's unlock the door.
Much love and yours truly,
Phoenix #1
Here are some of my fav quotes:
"One of the best-kept secrets in this technically oriented culture is that simply speaking truth heals." - Rachel Remen, MD
"To write poetry is to be alive."- Rainer Maria Rilke, Poet
"Medicines and surgery may cure, but only reading and writing poetry can heal." – J. Arroyo, Author
"When a poem doesn't work, the first question to ask yourself is, 'Am I telling the truth?'" -Wendy Cope
"Modern poetry is based on voice, and must be passed through the ear. This is where the sense is made." - Robert Carroll, MD
"Poetry brings unconscious forces into consciousness to make them understandable…it provides an outlet for emotions." – Owen Heninger
