Survivor Shame

When your protector becomes your abuser... The shameful life of an incest survivor.

You were meant to be my protector, I looked to you for support, love and safety. You showed me how to plant carrotts and peas. You told me I was special, you held me close and called me "Ferna". I trusted you.

I built my life around a lie. Sure my family had "issues", my father was an alcoholic, my mother was emotionally absent, but all families have "stuff", I would gingerly exclaim to my pre-pubescent self. I was a happy child, who grew up exploring the surronding forests and streams with my brothers. My parents exclaimed that I was such a "lucky kid", I led a "priveledged childhood", unlike so many other struggling children.

My life was shattered one rainy evening, around 7 years ago when I awoke from restless sleep stuck within a nightmare that felt too real to be imagined. I was in my early thirties, fresh out of graduate school. I'd written my thesis on my personal experience with transforming sexual trauma from my experiences with childhood sexual abuse, and a recent rape. I used my body as my tool for healing while integrating principles of Dance/ movement Therapy, Creative Dance, and Authentic Movement. I had completeled my healing journey and was ready for the next phase in my life. Yet every time I tried to move forward, I was pushed back with the weight of a deeply hidden past, a past that I could no longer run from.

As days rolled into weeks, and months rolled into years; I continued to break open dishaveled memories that caused my body to feel tainted to it's core. I tried to scrub away the feelings, scolding showers, my body numb, skin reddened to a deep hue. There you stand, towering with that sheepish manipulate grin.

After seven years of silence I still feel your pull, your power, your weight. The push to be the "good daughter", "the peace keeper". "Don't leave", you beg, "be a good little girl", stay with your Dad.

I am no longer your vehicle for your pain, shame, and hurt. I am not a "bitch" for speaking out, the silence is killing my soul. It's deadly roots will no longer ravage these parched lips.