When truth appears more frightening than the unknown.
I started regaining my memories of childhood abuse a few months ago. So far, I have three pieces of the puzzle that are all quite distinct from each other. About a week ago, I regained a memory that was as close as I have gotten to the identity of my abuser. I am going to write about my memories in detail. I haven't done this yet. Please do not keep reading if it will bother you. It is a cathartic process that I need to do for myself.
The first memory I regained, I was in a playroom. The room was orange and yellow, like a sunset. There was a border on the top of the walls. I remember Mickey Mouse and Goofy-- whether they were part of the music playing, or featured in the border itself, I'm not sure. But I know those characters were in the room. I was standing between a wall and a shelf, and felt suddenly like I couldn't breathe. Something was on my face. A hand went down my pants.
I regained this memory "easily", meaning, through lots of prayer and rest. It was like recalling a fact I had forgotten. It was shocking, but I felt more relief* than fear or anxiety initially.
*Relief, because I have long dealt with a porn/masturbation addiction with a very unclear origin. I thought my mind was broken. I had no idea why I thought this was a comforting thing. It was strange and awful and shameful. I've gotten counseling for this before, but for so long I felt like I was hitting a brick wall. This was a symptom, not a disease. But what was the disease? I had no clue until this first memory. I felt cascading relief. At last, I understood why I have so long lived with these addictions, why I have fled from relationships of any sort for years, and yet still craved physical touch like a drug.
The second memory, I regained under much different circumstances a couple of months later. I was about to get in the shower, and I was thinking about the fact that I thought (correctly) that I had a kidney infection. I got kidney infections a lot as a child, and was frequently hospitalized for them.
Hospital. That word rattled my reality like a lightning strike. I stumbled into the running shower, the word echoing in my mind like a painful cymbal. The memory exploded into my mind, leaving me a crumbling, weeping mess.
I was lying on a hospital bed. The room was baby pink and blue, with a border once more on the wall. I was wearing a gown, and no underwear. And someone came in and held me down and molested me.
I never wanted to die so much in my life as I did in the moment that I regained that memory. I sat in the tub under the falling water, weeping, aching, staring blankly at the wall. I considered drowning myself, or cutting open my wrists, but I made no actual attempts to do so. By God's good grace, I was able to get out of that shower and lie down on my bed.
Just a few days following this, I went to the ER with uncontrollable anxiety and spent 5 days in a mental hospital, confronting over and over these dark memories, starting the process of dealing with this pain. Jesus was with me. So often, His name was spoke in those halls, and not frequently in vain.
I learned how to hold and comfort my inner child while there. Through a counselor's help, I held the weeping girl in my arms and I did not lie to her-- things were not alright. But I told her then, "You are not broken. You are beautiful. This is not your fault. He was a bad, selfish man. You are loved. I will be here for you."
This was the most helpful form of therapy I have so far encountered. It was through use of this therapy on my own that I encountered my third memory.
Purple, the little girl told me. I have been doing some watercolor painting, so I decided to paint a picture of my inner child wearing a purple gown. But something about that made me shudder.
I asked her why this was uncomfortable. She told me, I wasn't wearing purple. He was.
My mind's eye was filled with a third memory, of me hiding under the bed, trembling. I looked up and saw a large man, wearing a purple shirt over his large belly, framed by the hall light behind him. I don't remember what else happened, or why I was afraid of him.
But a couple of days later, his face came into view. For the first time ever, I saw the face of (potentially one of) my abuser(s), or at least, someone who has given me great reason to fear. I saw a beard. I saw his eyes.
My counselor had mentioned seeking an incest support group during our last visit. I nodded, but I was appalled. I had never mentioned the abuser(s) being a family member.
But that word, incest, echoed in my mind.
And with a sickening realization, I discovered that the man in purple, framed in light, was my uncle.
I do not know how to deal with this. I haven't discussed it with any family members so far, for fear of what might result from this discussion. I have played it off as a trick of the mind, potentially a reflection of being too susceptible to suggestion. But I am so afraid that I am right.
I don't know what my uncle did to make me so afraid in that memory. That will take time, still. And I am in no hurry to find out.
Please help me pray about what to do. I want the truth, not just something I've imagined or assumed.
The first memory I regained, I was in a playroom. The room was orange and yellow, like a sunset. There was a border on the top of the walls. I remember Mickey Mouse and Goofy-- whether they were part of the music playing, or featured in the border itself, I'm not sure. But I know those characters were in the room. I was standing between a wall and a shelf, and felt suddenly like I couldn't breathe. Something was on my face. A hand went down my pants.
I regained this memory "easily", meaning, through lots of prayer and rest. It was like recalling a fact I had forgotten. It was shocking, but I felt more relief* than fear or anxiety initially.
*Relief, because I have long dealt with a porn/masturbation addiction with a very unclear origin. I thought my mind was broken. I had no idea why I thought this was a comforting thing. It was strange and awful and shameful. I've gotten counseling for this before, but for so long I felt like I was hitting a brick wall. This was a symptom, not a disease. But what was the disease? I had no clue until this first memory. I felt cascading relief. At last, I understood why I have so long lived with these addictions, why I have fled from relationships of any sort for years, and yet still craved physical touch like a drug.
The second memory, I regained under much different circumstances a couple of months later. I was about to get in the shower, and I was thinking about the fact that I thought (correctly) that I had a kidney infection. I got kidney infections a lot as a child, and was frequently hospitalized for them.
Hospital. That word rattled my reality like a lightning strike. I stumbled into the running shower, the word echoing in my mind like a painful cymbal. The memory exploded into my mind, leaving me a crumbling, weeping mess.
I was lying on a hospital bed. The room was baby pink and blue, with a border once more on the wall. I was wearing a gown, and no underwear. And someone came in and held me down and molested me.
I never wanted to die so much in my life as I did in the moment that I regained that memory. I sat in the tub under the falling water, weeping, aching, staring blankly at the wall. I considered drowning myself, or cutting open my wrists, but I made no actual attempts to do so. By God's good grace, I was able to get out of that shower and lie down on my bed.
Just a few days following this, I went to the ER with uncontrollable anxiety and spent 5 days in a mental hospital, confronting over and over these dark memories, starting the process of dealing with this pain. Jesus was with me. So often, His name was spoke in those halls, and not frequently in vain.
I learned how to hold and comfort my inner child while there. Through a counselor's help, I held the weeping girl in my arms and I did not lie to her-- things were not alright. But I told her then, "You are not broken. You are beautiful. This is not your fault. He was a bad, selfish man. You are loved. I will be here for you."
This was the most helpful form of therapy I have so far encountered. It was through use of this therapy on my own that I encountered my third memory.
Purple, the little girl told me. I have been doing some watercolor painting, so I decided to paint a picture of my inner child wearing a purple gown. But something about that made me shudder.
I asked her why this was uncomfortable. She told me, I wasn't wearing purple. He was.
My mind's eye was filled with a third memory, of me hiding under the bed, trembling. I looked up and saw a large man, wearing a purple shirt over his large belly, framed by the hall light behind him. I don't remember what else happened, or why I was afraid of him.
But a couple of days later, his face came into view. For the first time ever, I saw the face of (potentially one of) my abuser(s), or at least, someone who has given me great reason to fear. I saw a beard. I saw his eyes.
My counselor had mentioned seeking an incest support group during our last visit. I nodded, but I was appalled. I had never mentioned the abuser(s) being a family member.
But that word, incest, echoed in my mind.
And with a sickening realization, I discovered that the man in purple, framed in light, was my uncle.
I do not know how to deal with this. I haven't discussed it with any family members so far, for fear of what might result from this discussion. I have played it off as a trick of the mind, potentially a reflection of being too susceptible to suggestion. But I am so afraid that I am right.
I don't know what my uncle did to make me so afraid in that memory. That will take time, still. And I am in no hurry to find out.
Please help me pray about what to do. I want the truth, not just something I've imagined or assumed.
Replies
Lord, we need your help. torijayne, is remembering some things that will shatter her world. Let her feel you presence, as you have allowed me to do soooo many times before. Let her know we are both there for her. To listen. To talk to, to do whatever is needed.