When I was a child, I was sexually abused by someone I trusted, and life as I knew it imploded. A bedroom became a prison. A bed became a coffin. A little girl became a walking corpse. Everything had changed. Nothing felt like it would ever be the same again. And for almost two decades, I buried the abuse, hoping it would erase itself from my identity. It didn’t.

The thing about burying stuff is something grows in its place. So, like a poisoned seed, the shame I buried wormed its way into every crevice of my soul. It made me feel dirty, unloveable, unworthy, and worst of all, unforgivable. As though I had caused this vile wickedness to find me. As though I could have prevented it by guarding myself. That’s the story I told myself. That’s the nightmare I lived.

Not. Any. More.

Hello Anguish, My Old Friend:

After the abuse, words became my puzzle pieces, and like Humpty Dumpty, I pieced myself back together again. Frailer than before. Cracked. Fragile. Changed.

Books became my escape. I lived through heroines. Slew dragons. Stood up to evil. All in the workings of my mind. I devoured books like a hungry caterpillar, hoping they would transform me. My world could change with a flip of the page, but when I closed the books, and the stories ended, anguish became my only friend, once more.

So, I wrote poetry, created songs, journaled, and tried to escape the monster at my heels. The thing about monsters is they often lurk in dark places. And, Dear Reader, I was in one hell of a dark place. 

A New Story:

It wasn’t until I finally found the courage to face the evil done to me that I began to heal. I decided to write about it. At first, I used fiction to tell bits and pieces of my story. Themes of loss and renewal became the driving forces of my books. Characters struggled through molestation, rape, emotional turmoil, murder, and so much more. With each book I completed, I found a sense of security. With each page I wrote, I found freedom, authenticity, and the courage to begin again.

I had shared stories that haunted me, and I was still standing. The world didn’t end. So, I reached out to someone in my church and asked for prayer. The person ended up being a childhood friend who knew my abuser. His compassion in the moment of my greatest frailty encouraged me to keep reaching out. I joined a woman’s group at my church, began in-church counseling, and all the while I continued to write. I peeled away the layers of protection I had plastered around my heart, and with each painful memory, I continued to write.

Finally, after two years of hard work, I decided to reach out to a therapist. That was a game changer. She has been pivotal to my healing process, and she encourages me to write my books. In fact, yesterday, she suggested I write a book about rejection, and I plan to. If people can learn something from my pain, then I will be vulnerable and share it.

I am a survivor of sexual abuse. I allowed it to silence me with shame for almost two decades. I denied its existence in hopes that it would diminish. It didn’t. 

Today, I am an author, and I use my story to help others heal. With each word, I get closer to the woman I long to be. A woman resolved to see beauty despite the heartbreak that threatened to consume her. A woman who is worthy, loved, and most importantly, redeemed.

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, the world needs your story, too. We need more survivors willing to speak up and say, “Though it wanted to destroy me, it didn’t kill me. I’m still here. I’m still standing. I have a voice. A story. And a chance to begin again… one word at a time.”