Am I Talking?

I am a writer, a musician, and a sexual abuse survivor.  I have authored two books. I have performed my music at clubs and events in both Indiana and Illinois.  And I have written countless words on the subject of childhood sexual abuse. 

But it seems no one is listening.  So it’s possible I only THINK I’m talking. 

I get it.  Childhood sexual abuse is no one’s idea of fun conversation.  No one’s for it – anyone who tried to run for office on a platform of “Sexual Abuse of Children is a Great Idea” would lose, even now.   At least I hope that’s still true. 

But it keeps happening.  To at least one out of five children in America.  Experts disagree on the exact numbers, but everyone agrees that they’re too high.  Currently, there are as many as 42 million childhood sexual abuse survivors living and suffering in the land of the free. 

Would that be happening if people were listening? 

Last month I posted a piece entitled “Am I An Author?”  Shortly afterwards, I found myself unable to step away from the questions I had posed for myself.  Something bigger, and older, was going on in my brain. So. Time to go back in time for a moment or two. 

I began writing “stories” when I was about seven.  My parents laughed at them and made fun of me.  OK, they were bad.  I was seven!  I was a lonely little girl, with a whole list of imaginary friends, all with names and even addresses.  Everyone agreed I was “going to be a writer someday,” but no one seemed to want to read anything I wrote. 

I was sexually abused by a family member between the ages of eight and fourteen.  My mother would leave me at his house when she had errands or social commitments, because I wasn’t old enough to stay alone by myself.  That’s the only reason the abuse ended – I finally got old enough. 

Over the years, as I pursued healing from this and other childhood traumas, I asked myself why I never told anyone what was happening.  Experts have told me numerous times that the number one reason children don’t tell is the fear that they won’t be believed.  I don’t even remember wondering if I should tell someone.  With my stories, my imaginary friends? I already had a reputation as a child who made things up.  Telling someone obviously never even crossed my mind. 

As an adult who began understanding her memories and working on her healing at the ripe young age of forty, I had many opportunities to ponder the “Tell or Not Tell” question.  I kept lists in my head for years:  who knew and who didn’t.  I never moved anyone from one list to another without long, careful consideration.  I made some mistakes.  I lost a client by confiding too much too soon.  I made some of my old friends cry.  I declined invitations to fundraisers I should have accepted, and attended some I should have passed on.  Even though it was always easier to tell new friends than it was to tell old ones, it never got easy. 

I accepted some speaking engagements.  I usually found myself sitting alone at my table afterwards, receiving some token thank-you’s and support before I left early.  It always seemed that I was meeting needs other than my own.  I have learned that podium time, at events, is a very scarce commodity.  People may be listening – for about thirty seconds.  There’s a lot of competition for ear time at events. 

My writing about childhood sexual abuse, specifically, peaked during the years I was running Awakenings.  I wrote for our literary magazine.  I wrote fund-raising appeals for Giving Tuesdays and other events and initiatives we put together.   I was interviewed.  I had a book signing.  I wrote blog posts, newsletter articles, and book reviews.  I wrote and wrote and wrote.  I have no idea how many, if any, of those words found ears. 

These days, I write a lot of proposal requests and grant reviews, because I am one of the very few sexual abuse survivors lucky enough to have the financial resources to back up some of my words.   I have a solid professional reputation as a corporate communicator, even though I left the for-profit field in the late 90’s.  I continue to post and blog, and write occasional memoir pieces, articles and essays, for my own postings and those of other advocates in our mission area.   

And I ask myself every day if I should just stop.  But the abuse keeps happening, people keep finding their way to me to share their stories, and I can’t do nothing.  I don’t know how to do nothing. 

So I write, and post, and sing, and podcast, and do everything within my tiny power to shed a light on the huge and terrible issue no one wants address.  Is it any wonder I continue to ask myself if I’m actually talking?