Part 7 - Cracks Forming

It's no coincidence that all of us moved out of the household very soon after turning 18, moved very far away, and didn't keep in good touch with our parents. I moved from a very spiritually abusive environment to  a lesser spiritually abusive environment. I've actually noticed, looking back, that every time I move I go to progressively less abusive environments, though still abusive, with the exception of my marriage. My first move was to a small Bible college. While there, I still was in denial about everything my parents had done to me. I wanted to have a positive story so much that I pretended I did.

After Bible college and getting married, my husband and I moved to a missionary training center. We were in the dark about the mission's past abuse of MKs and their hiring of an outside organization, Godly Response to Abuse in the Christian Environment (G.R.A.C.E.), to do a report on one of their boarding schools. Our first week there, the report was released. I read through it and started having flashbacks of my life and my parents. There were so many parallels between the report and my life. It was the first time anyone validated for me that what my parents did was wrong, but it took days before I would even admit to myself that it was abuse. I was walking with my husband and processing it all, and I finally told him that it sounded like my own parents. Admitting it to him was excruciating. In the months that followed, I would hesitatingly tell him more and more of what happened, often ending with "I feel so guilty for telling you this." Their control over me was so strong that I feared, even as an adult woman, to describe their actions. I often felt like a child when I spoke of it, and I would get very fearful and quiet. I started thinking about cutting myself, and prayer became impossible.

Our missionary training required child protection classes. While there, they offered for any abuse victims to go to counseling, offered free of charge by the mission. David asked me to go, but I couldn't bring myself to talk about my needs with another person. Finally, at the end of a class, I walked up to the teacher's desk and waited in line to speak with her. She finally turned to face me, and my mouth went dry. I stared at her, probably looking like a deer in the headlights. She knew. She took me by the arm and led me aside. "What happened to you?" I couldn't answer. I was too distraught and terrified to speak. I felt trapped and just blubbered something to the effect of  "My mom." She gave me the phone number of my would-be counselor, and I went for a little while. The counselor's biggest issues for me to work through was the way I perceived God during my processing. I was too scared of him to even be angry with him.

My husband and I continued to move on towards being missionaries, though I prayed that he would see that I was emotionally unfit for ministering to anyone. I had plunged deep into depression and was becoming somewhat agnostic. Finally, during the last months of our final semester, he came around. We decided to put our plans on hold indefinitely and told our supporters we were taking time off. I'm not sure we'll ever look into doing vocational ministry again, as this time of recovery and being normal has been the most stable and enjoyable time of my life thus far. I felt incredible guilt walking away from the mission for a while, but it was outweighed by my happiness and feelings of freedom.

The stages of anger and depression were alarming to both me and my husband, but looking back, I believe they were necessary. I never would have met the real God if I hadn't doubted my parents' angry version of him. I saw it then as cracks forming in the side of my cave where the blue sky and light began to shine into my life. Yes, I was still very much in the cave and very much a prisoner. But without the realizations I had during that time, I would never have gotten out. It was worth the process.

I am worth the process.