She reassured me, “Don’t be afraid to tell the Bishop EVERYTHING. He already knows ALL of the details because I’ve already told him about everything.”
She had NO IDEA what she was asking. She had no idea the enormous weight that her words burdened me with. She had told the Bishop everything and NOTHING at the same time. She had NO IDEA. All she knew was that her 19 year-old was shy beyond reason. This wall-flower of a college student bottled up every thought and feeling behind a massive wall, never to be let out. She didn’t understand why I never opened up to her. She would never possibly comprehend the depth of why I kept those personal emotions so indescribably inward.
I was 19. I was old enough now to completely grasp the seriousness of my secret. I knew that if I ever revealed my torturous molested past, it would destroy EVERYONE and EVERYTHING. Not only would my world be shattered, but Mom, my siblings, my Grandma, even friends and neighbors, everyone and everything would be broken. I knew how fragile and unpleasant life was now. Somehow, I still thought our family was repairable, and definitely safer than exposing THE secret. If my secret got out, things would be broken beyond repair. It would be the ultimate betrayal. Yes, Dad had messed up big, but could I betray him like this? He would go to prison, perhaps for life. An eternal marriage would end permanently. Would Mom ever forgive me? To a lesser extent, I wondered how people would act around me. Would anyone talk to me again? Would they pity me, ask me embarrassing questions, or look at me as if I was an alien creature from another planet?
“Tell him EVERYTHING.” Mom would say repeatedly for the next three days in passing. There was no need for explanation or smooth transitioning into the topic, she’d just blurt out those three words any chance she got. Only God knew the tumultuous battle that those three words ignited within me.
This time was different. My heart and soul were obsessed with the all of the possible scenarios if I told. I played them all out in my mind. Most of them bad, some not quite as devastating. I visualized myself telling the Bishop. How would I even begin? How do you even begin to start THAT conversation? How do you shift a conversation towards a topic like that? Would it even be physically possible to utter those words out after spending so much energy on stuffing them deep down into the darkest abyss of my soul? Was THE secret even retrievable from those nether reaches?
I wanted to help my family. I wanted to help Dad. And I knew I desperately needed to help myself. Life could NOT continue like this. Those three days I constantly had a prayer in my heart. When I could, I knelt and poured out my soul to God. I found that even to Him, I couldn’t articulate my abusive past into words. I pleaded with Him as best as I could. I asked Him to send me a sign as to whether I should tell or not. I shared my dreaded fears, my pain, and the weight of it all.
I got the impression to talk to my sister about it. After all, she deserved to be part of the decision process. It was her secret as much as it was mine. She told me how Dad was still molesting her at night. She told me how intensely perverse the abuse had been these past few years. These same past few years that Dad hadn’t touched me, he made up for it by abusing her all the more. That pivotal day, Dad had promised that he’d stop! He promised that he wouldn’t touch EITHER of us. In return, I vowed to him that I’d turn him in if he didn’t keep his promise. This was the confirmation I needed. This was my answer to prayer.
Anger and righteous indignation fueled my confidence to finally break this life-long secret. I was furious with my father, but I was just as equally mad at myself. In my heart of hearts I had known that he was still abusing my sister. I had heard things in the night. Shadows always lurked. I chalked it up to my imagination, to dreams, or rather nightmares. Selfishly, I sighed in my half-sleep stupor each time when it wasn’t me that the “shadows” were after. I rationalized to myself that I had no proof, that Dad wouldn’t break his promise. I knew better though. I should have protected my sister more valiantly. I was crushed with the realization that I had failed as her big sister.
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On my good days I know that I am a precious daughter of God, and He loves me no matter what. I know that it’s ok if I don’t get everything done on my to-do list, or I lose my temper, or decline to go the extra mile on a day I just can’t handle it. God loved me so much that He gave me His precious son, Jesus Christ, to make up the difference. Christ helps me hold up my fragile world when I lose strength. It actually goes way beyond that! Through his atoning sacrifice, I can let go of my burden all together! He will carry it ALL for me when I need him to. That is how miraculous his loving atonement is.