Periodically I receive an email from someone who wants to tell me their story and that’s okay. That’s what I’m here for. But their particular story might be extremely violent or abusive and might be difficult to read. If a story I read in the online news media follows, that is also virulent and I read it with knots in my stomach and a sense of aversion, then I understand why so many people don’t want to hear about child sexual abuse. It is clear to me why they, as my granddaughter does, refer to my work as that “yucky sex stuff”. I also find the subject repulsive and have days when I understand why people don’t want to talk about their own incest issue. I have days when I don’t want to do this anymore. I just want to read books, talk to friends and family on the phone, play on the Internet, work in my garden, listen to good music, take long walks in the Sedona area, go to movies and probably a couple others I left off. But then I think about the main reason child sexual abuse is so prevalent and why I must keep addressing it. That reason is Silence.
I want so badly for my family, especially my children, to understand what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I’ve been accused of wanting to do it for attention. I’ve been accused of making up what my father did to me. For years I had a granddaughter who pretended I was invisible. It hurt more than I can tell. Of all the people who wish none of my incest had happened to me, I’m the one that wishes it the most. My father spoke with me about what he had done twice before he died. Both times were so uncomfortable and confusing, so deplorable, that for years I struggled to erase them from my mind. I had not yet begun recovery and thought the bad memories from my early teens were just nightmares.
Yes, I think the subject of incest and child sexual abuse is disgusting, repugnant and loathsome. I understand why my family and most of my friends don’t like what I’m doing. None of them ask how many chapters the Lamplighter Movement has. No one asks how my books are selling. No one asks how I’m dealing with the subject. We don’t talk about the elephant in the room. I understand. But it makes me sad. It makes me feel alone.
