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Cover 05/22/2013

The Survivors Project

Excerpts from ebook that gives sexual-abuse survivors a chance to tell their stories

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But somewhere along the way, things went awry for my father—a man who had honest hopes to be a successful and moral human being. Somehow, he fell short of the call. At some point, he fell and fell hard. He buckled under the pressures of the system that sought to rob him of his manhood. He lost the battle to retain his self-worth as a man of color, struggling for meaning in a society that hated him. He understood that the upward mobility he desired was continually being flaunted in his face, and all the more vigorously kept from his reach. Eventually, the demons that haunted his past could no longer be ignored. One day, he woke up, and God wasn’t enough to sustain him. He realized that his plan for a happy life of church and family wasn’t enough to erase the bitterness of his reality.

And somehow, this hatred for society translated to hatred for his life and his family. I am unsure of the process from trauma to abuse—victims becoming victimizers. What about my father’s consciousness allowed him to take a negative path instead of “fighting the good fight” for what he wanted? What about the struggles he had made him want to prove the destructive stereotypes about black men correct? Why did he turn on the only people who loved him—his children?

An unfortunate truth I hid and suppressed for what I thought would be forever is now at the forefront of my consciousness. For years, my father sexually abused me. The statistics for sexual abuse and rape are outlandishly high considering how “hush-hush” the topic still is. Victims are still stigmatized and shamed despite the efforts of social organizations and the media’s attention. Somehow, this disease continues to spread. My question is: Why? And how? How can someone feel entitled to take what does not belong to them?

It has taken me until adulthood to speak kindly, to look honestly at my father as a human being and not a monster. Today, I realize he suffered vastly in his personal, professional and social life and was unable to cope with the pressures of his large dreams that soon became deflated. I also suspect that he was sexually or physically abused in his youth. In no way do I excuse his behavior. Nor do I tolerate his constant denial and dismissive attitude toward his role in my abuse. The mere thought of him still makes me angry; to hear his voice mirrors rusty nails on a chalk board. But I understand that forgiving him is a part of my healing.

I used to feel nothing; I was numb to the experience. It is natural for the body to go into shock when pain and trauma are so great that it may threaten to take us out or to drive us insane. But later, I felt anger and hate so intense that nothing could parallel it. Today, more than anything, I pity him. I feel sorry for the shame, guilt, regret and disgust he must feel. He has never admitted the abuse took place, let alone apologized for his monstrous actions against his daughters. He may never admit it, but I know what he’s done haunts him in his dreams.

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