by CeeCee James
I’m sharing my story now because I don’t want anyone who has experienced any type of sexual assault to feel alone.
I want anyone else who feels like they have to fake it to know there are people out there who understand.
Even if you feel those emotions for other reasons than what I experienced. You aren’t alone. Your story matters. You deserve love.
For years I felt alone. Like I said, I struggled with the belief that it had been my fault. Society tells women that they need to be careful not to dress wrong, act wrong, or be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I constantly questioned myself. Why did I freeze like that? I felt like an idiot for not protecting myself or fighting back. I felt stupid that I let them surround me on the bus at all, because I’d been caught in the net of not wanting to “over-react.”
Shame had such a powerful hold over me that whenever the memories came I always minimized them and stomped them back down.
But since then, things have changed. Talking with other survivors made me realize that victims of sexual abuse do what they must to survive the attack. There is no shame in what I did to survive. It took me a little while, but I finally found freedom from the fear. I learned that I am stronger than manipulation and abuse. I know what love looks like and celebrate it in my life.
If I could go back to the teenage girl that I was then and talk to her, I’d grab her in a hug and say; “This wasn’t your fault. Your reaction was caused by old tapes from the past. Don’t give up, you can and will get better. You are good enough. Even on your bad days, you are good enough.”
And then I’d add, “Be kind to yourself.” It still amazes me the grace that I’m willing to give other people that I would never give myself. My motto now is- if I wouldn’t say it to someone else, don’t say it or think it about myself.
If you can relate to any of the things that I shared in this book, please know it was not your fault.
Your story matters. If you haven’t told anyone, please consider sharing it. Even if it’s just in a letter you never plan to share with another person.
There are people who care.
If you’ve never heard this before, I’m sorry it happened.
A friend told me about attending a sexual psychology class in college. On the first day the professor asked for a show of hands of every person who’d ever been sexually assaulted in their lifetime. In that brave moment, nearly every female and eight males raised their hands, including the professor.
It’s okay to talk about it. We are not alone and, as we share, we link together with other survivors.
There can be beauty from these ashes.
This book isn’t quite over yet, but before I continue, let me share a few links that I have used myself.
https://www.rainn.org/
http://www.way2hope.org/sexabuse.htm
http://www.christiansurvivors.com/forums/
Sharing is powerful. I was terrified when I went to my first support group. What was going to be expected of me? Was I going to have to talk? The dread inside of me caused me to try to convince myself to just brush the memories under the rug and move on. I didn’t need help. But I knew it wasn’t true.
I needed to tell someone. Finding my voice was crucial to my recovery.
On the following pages are statements from people who have overcome assault. I would love one from you. You don’t have to use your real name- or you can, whichever you prefer. Email me (my address is at the end) . They are my favorite part of the book.
* * *
~*The life I have now is greater than the pain I had then. I never thought I'd say that. I never thought it would be that far behind me (farther at sometimes than others). –T
~*I made it through. You will too. -L
~*Its not something you made happen, its something that happened to you. Nothing you did caused this. Nothing. Now the power is back in your hands. You matter, and you are not alone -Joanna-Maria
~*You have the inner strength in you to survive and thrive. You just have to look inside yourself to find it.-T
~*Forgiveness is the clean fire that burns away the past. –RW
~*For close to 30 years, I kept my story a secret and held on to shame. Shame that was not mine to carry. As a child, I was shamed and told I was not supposed to be doing those things. As an adult, I recognize this was a damaging and unhealthy response to the abuse I experienced. Though I had family that did not have the skills to help bring healing; I found friends that do. Don't give up! I have found great hope in a loving God who listens, cares, and is for me. He knows what it is like to feel rejected, betrayed and used. You are not alone. -J
~*Does a bad experience define who you are or who you will become? Only if you let it... –T
~*There's this quote, 'She who is brave is free'. It's true you know. Be brave, don't let others rule your life because that's the point, your life is YOURS. Your own. -Amanda
~*The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18 Stay strong friends,God is our debt collector. Love you my fellow survivors. -Kindal
~*Chasing the scream will not lead you to peace. There are three things you cannot change, the truth, the past and the abuser. Grieving your innocence is not an event, it is a process, but grieve we must. –JM
~* It's so hard for me to articulate how I feel. All I can say and this is so important, is to never let the abuse you suffered or your abuser define who you are! It is not easy because the abuse causes such deep seeded scars and emotion that it's almost at a cellular level. I have to constantly remind myself that I am not the things my abuser told me I was and that I am a good person who deserves Love!- Sheila
~*Sometimes I didn’t think I could go another day. But a minute I could do. Then one day I realized those minutes added up, and I was in a different place. –C
~*I didn’t know what love was because pain, hurt and love were all grouped in one category. Until I realized I needed to love myself. I am now seeing things differently. –JL
~*No matter what happened to you, you are still an incredible, amazing person whose life is precious, and who absolutely and especially deserves real love. never ever let yourself forget that, or let anyone convince you otherwise. –Ana W.
~*You are important. You are loved- JJ
~* When 'one day at a time' gets too much, take one hour at a time, but don't give up. It gets better. It takes time and work, but you can get to a place of peace and joy. - Leslie G. Nelson
~*Rape culture taught me that I deserved to grieve alone until I could bury my shame. What a smelly, heaping, pile of lies. -KT
~*We all have choices to make each day. The bravest people I know and love have not let harmful events define them. Instead those experiences become turning points that inspire others in similar situations to also choose forgiveness and recovery. Their vibrant lives are inspiring to me. And reminders of how important it is to tell someone they are valuable. - SF
~* I am also a survivor. The most important thing to remember is that you can have any emotion you want, except guilt. You can be mad, sad, hurt, upset or any combination of those. You may not have guilt. What happened is not your fault. Someone else's very bad behavior is never your fault. Do not blame yourself. You cannot control someone else's behavior. –Cindy
~* The assaults that shook my world are not my fault nor did I ask for them. Their origin stems from something gone wrong in someone else's world. But they have affected me. Its taken a long time, but I realize now that the affects of the assaults do not have to define me. I no longer have to self medicate to get through the painful (and often blocked) memories. I know that each time I allow myself the brain-space to depreciate, I give myself to my offenders all over again. It's like repeatedly climbing aboard a crowded train to a concentration camp where I've been humiliated and stripped of my true identity and become the object of someone else's injuries and darkness. When I go there I am no longer the me God intended. Someone else has stolen my passport, an
d I think I'm powerless to get it back.
Hanging onto my injuries, reliving the pain over and over, or blocking them out completely has resulted in depression and addictions. Worse yet are the mental attacks of terror (way worse than so-called "anxiety" attacks) that seem to come out of no-where, hold me hostage and threaten to take my life. This is no way to live.
No one gets to skim through life unscathed. Since Adam and Eve there has been event and then blame, all down through the ages. I can choose to remain a victim and spiral downward. It's not pleasant but it is easy. Or I can see the pattern for what it is and choose to deal with it constructively. Its not easy, but the end is pleasant. Because that is where peace resides. Here's the deal: The choice is mine. It is our God-given right and gift. And He practically begs us to exercise it. Duet 30:19 says it best: "Today I have given you the choice between life and death, between blessings and curses. Now, I call on heaven and earth to witness the choice you make. Oh, that YOU would CHOOSE LIFE, so that you and your descendants might live".
My choices do not just affect me. It also affects my descendents. Break the pattern. Choose life. -L.L.
Untitled
Thank you for reading Fear No More,. Turn the page for a free section of Ghost No More.
This series has 3 books- Ghost No More and Lost No More and Fear No More.
Free with Kindle Unlimited- Ghost No More
Free with Kindle Unlimited- Lost No More
There is a tiny “Easter Egg” in this book. Any guesses as to who the library guy turned out to be?
Join the hunt- reap the rewards- Mailing List
I love to hear from my readers. Here are some more ways to reach me:
http//joyfullivingpafterchildabuse.blogspot.com/
email- [email protected]
Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/ghostnomore
Turn the page for a sneak peek of Book ONE-
13
Ghost No More
Introduction
This is my journey back from fear and hopelessness, and how I went from feeling like a ghost, to realizing my voice and value. I own it and share it because it has no power over me anymore.
I’ve written my story as accurately as my memory would allow. The names and locations have been changed to protect the people in my memoir. My story isn’t about assigning blame, or making people out to be villains.
There is light at the end of the tunnel. You, the reader, are amazing. You are a gift. Your identity isn’t what someone has ever said about you. Your identity isn’t how you think you compare with someone else, or how you think you could be better. You’re made for good things, deeply loved, talented, and valuable. And you deserve love.
I once hated my past. It had broken and twisted me, but now I appreciate all the beauty and redemption God has brought from each broken area.
Taking a big breath now, here is my story.
~Turning Invisible~
“You know, CeeCee,” Mama said, not looking up at me, “I was lost in the desert once.”
I froze, afraid to move a muscle. I didn’t want to break the spell causing Mama to talk to me. They were her first words to me in two days.
Mama sat on the floor staring at a picture in her lap-- a picture that Grandma had painted of Arizona. She lit a cigarette, paused to take a deep drag, her eyes focused on the yellow painting.
“Your dad and I were in the Sonoran desert looking for peyote when I was pregnant with you. And then the car died. I told your Dad that car was a pile of crap but he never listened to me.” She snorted and shook her head. “He had this great idea to take a short cut back to town. Instead, we got lost. I thought we’d die out there.”
She jerked her head up and gave me a sharp look, and my eleven-year-old heart jumped. “I remember thinking I was never going to get away from him, because of you. Somehow, we got back to town. I went into labor, and your dad left me alone at the hospital on his way to the bar to get drunk.”
She stood to put the painting back in the box.
“Mama, were you happy? You know, when I was born.” I blurted out before she could turn her back, and the moment was gone forever.
“You were a terrible baby. You just screamed all day. But I didn’t let you manipulate me with your crying.” Her lip showed a hint of a smile as she remembered. “I used to let you scream until your face turned black. Just closed the bedroom door and let your dad deal with you when he got home.”
She paused from folding the tissue paper around the painting and turned with a dark sneer. “Don’t think he’s a good guy. Your dad destroyed your baby book one night when he was drunk.”
With that, she abruptly left the room, returning a minute later with a white photo album that she set before me on the kitchen counter. I looked at her for a second and then opened the book.
The first picture captured Mama in 1973. She was twenty, beautiful, and smiling with the confidence of a woman who once had every football player at her high school chase after her. I was perched on her lap, and Mama’s hands were tucked under her legs to avoid touching me. Another picture caught her in mid-laugh. She was with Dad and his older cousin, her arm coquettishly wrapped around the cousin.
The next page had photos of me as a toddler proudly being displayed by Grandma in front of my grandparents’ fruit trees, flowers, and their house, and in each picture I was wearing a variation of plaid pants and a long sleeve shirt.
“Why am I wearing long sleeves in the summer?” I asked.
“To hide the bruises. Your dad wore so many rings. Your Grandpa threatened to call CPS on him all the time.”
I hesitated for a moment, before tapping on the picture of my second birthday. “Why do I have a black eye?”
“Oh, I popped you one that morning because you were being smart to me.” She laughed. “Now go outside.”
* * *
I had an assignment at school the next week to bring in baby pictures. I cut some out of a magazine and pasted those to my project instead.
* * *
When I was two, my parents and I lived in a farmhouse in Pennsylvania. The house was big and white, with a muddy yard in front, and two garages that jutted out on the side where Dad ran his motorcycle business.
Nearly every morning, as soon as I finished my breakfast that Dad set out for me, I ran outside. He was already out there, working on one bike or another. I was too scared to be in the farmhouse alone. The house was hollow and cold; and the wooden floor gave sharp creaks that made my skin prickle. Mama stayed in one of the rooms upstairs. I knew better than to go look for her.
Outside, I sang, “la, la, la, la,” and used my shovel to fill my blue plastic wheelbarrow with dirt. I had made a path in the golden grass that led between the two garages. I thought for the most part that life was silent, ants were silent, grass was silent, and my parents were silent. The only sound was my own voice.
There was always a parade of motorcycles lined up in the sun, waiting for Dad to fix them. I pushed my wheelbarrow past them and dumped the dirt at the end, jumping up and down on it to pound the dirt flat. I looked at the motorcycles and squinted. The chrome trim flashed back the reflection of the sun and hurt my eyes. Near one of the bike tires was a pile of gasoline-soaked rags. I loved the smell of gas and crouched over them to smell them. Dad yelled from the garage, “Get away from there!”
Dad saw me! As fast as I could, I ran from the rags into the muddy yard, almost tripping on the rope that tied our dog, Bo, to a rotting dog house. He looked at me with sad eyes. I put my arms around him, my face burying in the fur of his dirty neck and squeezed him tight. He made a quick snarl and bit my arm. I shoved him away with a scream, hurt and anger pumping through my lungs. Mama came out onto the porch with her cigarette and poked it in my direction, “Serves you right for messing with him.”
It was the first time I saw her since the night before.
Mama liked to be left alone. Whenever I caught her eye in the house, she’d point her finger to
the front door, “Out.”
She was also rough if she had to touch me. My stomach felt like I had swallowed rocks if I heard her come down the hall in the morning to help me dress for the day. She’d whip the pants out of the drawer with a dark look on her face and jam my legs into the holes. Then she’d lift me up by the band of the pants and shake me until I slid into them like a pillow in a pillow case. I learned to suck in my stomach because she snapped them quick, more than once catching my skin.
After she pulled the shirt over my head, I’d scramble to get my own arms through the sleeve holes. I didn’t like having her hands under my shirt with her sharp nails, where there was grabbing and twisting to get my hands through the sleeves.
Mama didn’t like to be around Dad either. One night, I was woken up by a loud cry that came from downstairs. A minute later there was a scream that was abruptly cut off. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I rolled out of bed. I tip-toed out of my room because the plastic bottoms of my pajama feet scratched on the wood floor. With my blanket wrapped over my arm, I snuck part way down the stairs to peek through the railing.
It was bright in the kitchen. Dad leaned over Mama who sat at the table. His eyes glared with anger, but she wouldn’t look at him. He slapped the table next to her, and both she and I jumped at the sound. When he walked behind her, she whimpered, and his lips curled in a snarl. He slapped her with a crack that made me yelp, but I was drowned out by her scream.
I stuffed my blanket in my mouth and curled down on the step. I didn’t know adults hit each other; I thought they only hit children. When Mama quit crying, I peeked out one more time and then crept back up the stairs to my room. I squished my eyes tight, trying to stop the image from replaying in the darkness.