Survivors' Voices: Shame
It took some time for me to realize what an important issue shame is for many people who have experienced sexual abuse. And even after recognizing that, I was a bit reluctant to raise the topic in this blog, because I don’t want any survivor to feel for a moment that I believe they deserve to feel shame. However, multiple survivors encouraged me to ask the question, and I’m glad I did. Their reflections are both vulnerable and thought-provoking.
Before we go any further, I want to speak directly to any abuse survivors who are wrestling with shame. Please know this: I am so sorry for what you have suffered. What happened to you was not your fault, and I believe that you bear no shame for the evil choices of another. I hope that someday you will come to believe this yourself as well.
If you have experienced sexual abuse in the Catholic Church, I would be honored to include your perspective in this “Survivors’ Voices” series. You can find more information and express your interest here.
Shame is heavy... like cement, not like a weighted blanket. It drowns its unsuspecting victims as it tows them out to sea, flailing helplessly against the riptide of its delusions. It shrouds victims' eyes from detecting even a fleeting shadow of truth. It smothers victims' ability to consider other possible perceptions - with their mouths, or even with their minds. It screams lies in unprotected ears, drowning out the voice of reason... and even the distant echo of empathy.
The shame I feel over the whole thing mostly comes from being blind to what happened. The group that surrounded this priest was very holier-than-thou and snobbish; I deeply regret being part of it because I know it alienated and hurt people. When reports first came out about this priest assaulting someone, I initially didn't believe them. It took reading a description of the abuse to be able to realize that it had happened to me too (this wasn't helped by the fact that I was super sexually naive at the time). I'm ashamed of being so stupid and taken in.
The other day, the Mass readings all had to do with David and Bathsheba - a story I'd always been told was about adultery, but is really about a rape that's a lot like the one that happened to me. And when I read a commentary that compared Bathsheba to Mary as another "queen mother" who intercedes with her son, I instinctively felt disgust, like “oh, she couldn't possibly be compared to the Immaculate Virgin!” And that's when I realized how much shame I still have baked into me. Like a rape victim can't possibly be the image of Mary because a rape victim can't possibly be the image of anyone good and pure and holy... I didn't think I still believed such horrible lies, but there they were in my prayer. Fighting against shame looks like that a lot of the time: learning how much shame you still have and letting God's healing truths speak louder. Anyway, if it helps: Jesus chose to be Bathsheba's family and he chooses to be mine and yours, too.
When it became clear to me that he wanted sex, I shut him down immediately. Some want me to claim strength in my standing up to him at that moment, but I know that it was not a heroic moment: I shut him down because I was ashamed. Surely, if he was wanting sex, I must have invited it somehow? This shame is what locked me into six more years with him, when he said that I had broken his heart at my refusal of his advances, and I was the cause for the vast shift in his behavior from loving to cruel. It took me at least six more years to understand that as a priest and man 12 years my senior, he never should have put me in a position to need to refuse him. My openness to his person was not an invitation for him to take advantage of me sexually. For many years, I didn't talk about what had happened and I blamed myself for what had happened, because of the shame.
I was never ashamed of being a survivor of sexual abuse, but I was ashamed of not being able to bring myself to forgive a fellow Christian. At some point I got around to just telling God: look, if my abuser's in heaven, I'm not going. And he responded: finally, some self-respect. So I don't worry about it anymore.
One term that I've heard in therapy, that's appropriate, is the phrase "toxic shame." That's exactly what it is - toxic. All encompassing and affecting. Malignant and sometimes metastatic, like the cancer I was fighting at the same time I was fighting my archdiocese. It's not just about the acts of abuse, it's the cascades that follow on. In large part because, too often, you can't understand or remember what happened. You start acting out and feeling shame as a result. For the problems with your grades. For gender and sexual reactions. But you don't understand WHY you are reacting or to what. And then, when you come forward for help and are not believed or helped, that makes everything worse. I actually felt shame for THEIR not helping me, because I could only believe that I had done something wrong, to keep them from helping me.
Shame: I thought she was the enemy. When she crept into my body, I went limp then hardened into steel or marble like the statues and floors in church. She wasn’t an emotion. She was the opposite of motion. My face would heat up, eyes shut, and voice disappear. I couldn’t escape the diminishment I felt when she entered me. I felt caught in a spotlight with a million laughing eyes staring down at me, deeming me ridiculous, gullible, disgusting, flawed beyond repair, disposable. I wanted to leave her, but shame clung to me tightly from childhood, through puberty, and for decades after, until I came face-to-face with her early one morning. That dawn I unclenched my fists, retracted from the fetal position, and opened my eyes to find a shy and vulnerable teacher. Since that morning, when shame enters me, I nurture her (myself) until shame becomes humility and guides me on my way.
Thank you for reading. More perspectives on this topic next week.
~ Sara
I really appreciate these insights. Deep thanks to the people who shared these experiences. I'm glad to have the chance to learn from you. Wishing you continued healing.