Survivors' Voices: Grief
Grief was the discussion topic for our Awake Survivor Circles in November, and the conversations were both powerful and painful. While what is shared in those sacred spaces is confidential, I asked the In Spirit and Truth Survivors’ Voices Panel to share their thoughts on the topic, to give you a small peak at what grief can look like in the aftermath of abuse in the Church.
I didn’t understand grief for a very long time. At the worst of the trauma, I just felt sorrow that didn’t have a name. Once grief became part of my language, I allowed myself to slowly write a list of losses. It began as just a few things and now fills two typed pages - one loss per line. Years later, consequences continue to connect and other losses are added. To only see the loss is a hell that I sometimes despaired of ever being able to get through. With time, there is now a complementary list of gains beginning, and I look forward to each loss listed eventually having a victory over it.
Grief has been a bain on my consciousness, an unyielding presence in my now ordinary existence, wagging the finger of judgment, of failure, of blame. Grief keeps its talons firmly anchored to my memory, my heart. / Grief is my teacher. I greet her now with acceptance, acknowledging her gifts and kindness that I would not have known had this tragic experience and life circumstances not occurred, grateful now for those who nourish me, for the uniqueness of individual survivors that bring awareness that I am not alone, my heart that is being shaped and reshaped by the prayers and generosity of others. I am not the remnants of a crime scene, but an ever-evolving miracle of survival, rising now in a momentum to shine gratitude for the gift of this body, this life.
Grief is a very hard road to walk. It means facing the pain. “If we don’t transform our pain, we transmit it.”
I continue to grieve pretty deeply in the aftermath of the abuse I experienced. I grieve the loss of innocence in my view of the Church, of clergy, and of religious. I grieve the loss of the joyful enthusiasm for the traditions, liturgies, prayer, sacramentals that I used to have. I grieve the loss of my favorite ways of praying and listening to God, which I can no longer trust and are now often too triggering. I grieve the loss of a sense of being loved, with a personal calling and vocation from God. I grieve the loss of trust in my own ability to discern well, to trust myself and my gut, and even sometimes to know what is real and what’s not. I grieve the way the abuse I experienced has caused me to hate myself and to think I’m stupid. I grieve that I am now constantly afraid of others “finding out” that my abuser was right about me and my stupidity, immaturity, irresponsibility, and incompetency. I grieve that I now can’t handle having others even look at me or my body without being terrified and ashamed, without wanting to hide. I grieve the loss of my mental health and of the ability to trust others easily. And I especially grieve the profound loss of a sense of connection, safety, and belovedness when it comes to my relationship with God: I no longer trust him or feel safe with him or even feel very close to him anymore, I no longer see him as gentle or loving or as someone who cares about and will protect me. That relationship used to be (and to some extent still is) the center and most important part of my life and—although I clearly grieve many things deeply—I think that’s where the grief hits the hardest.
So, ‘which’ grief should I reflect on? The grief of what I experienced during - and in the wake of - the abusive behavior, or the grief surrounding the losses to which it led... my children and ultimately my grandchildren? My reputation? My well-being and self-image? Just today I chose to share my story with a therapist I’ve been working with for about a year and a half, because after 11 years I finally accepted that I have lost my children (and subsequently, my grandchildren). I realize that I have not addressed the core issues resulting from what I experienced and how it impacts me today. Because 25 years is long enough to grieve - not just what happened, and not just the obvious consequences, but also the self-loathing, self-blame, and shame that has seeped into the deepest parts of my psyche.
We understand it is a colossal act of courage for any adult to separate from an abusive relationship to protect themselves and heal. I was a child, and I had to end my own abusive relationship with the priest in order to protect myself from further harm. Nobody helped me. Not my parents. Not any other adult. Nobody. I grieve the horrible isolation and deep soul crushing despair I felt. I was still a child, and I carry this wound with me still to this day.
The monastery sent a representative to me when I reported my abuse, and she tried her absolute darndest to get me to say I forgave my abuser and thought he could go back into ministry. She gave me the pretty distinct impression that whether he got to reenter ministry depended on what I said in that meeting. I didn’t give her what she wanted, and from what I’ve heard, he was kept out of ministry and died a few years later at a relatively young age (in his 50s) from a heart issue soon after, possibly caused by emotional turmoil and stress. I know that his actions brought him there, but I still feel grief and a burden over that decision being put on me. Even when someone has done wrong to you, and ultimately brought pain onto themselves, it can be a heavy thing for your word to be what drives the final nail into the coffin. Whether it should be or not, that’s still an ache.
I do experience grief related to my abuse. The losses I grieve include my sense of safety, trust, and a portion of my youthful innocence. At different stages of my life, this grief has shown up in various ways—sometimes as sadness, anger, or difficulty connecting deeply with certain institutions or people. Over time, the grief has shifted; while its intensity has softened, it sometimes re-emerges with significant events or anniversaries. Today, I recognize grief’s presence but also find that compassion and reflection have helped me integrate it into my story, rather than letting it dominate my life.
Thank you for listening to both the sorrow and the wisdom in these voices. I will share more survivors’ reflections on this topic next month.
Peace,
Sara
PS: If you have experienced abuse by a Catholic leader and would like to share your own thoughts on this or future topics, I would be grateful to include your perspective. You can find information about joining the Survivors’ Voices Panel here: An Invitation for Survivors.