The word “vulnerable” gets thrown around a lot in discussions about abuse in the Church, so I thought I would ask our Survivors’ Voices Panel to share their own responses to the word and idea of vulnerability. Their responses remind me why I deeply value sharing the words of victim-survivors in this simple, unvarnished way - I think we can all learn something from their honesty, self-reflection, and wisdom.
My dysfunctional family most likely contributed to my vulnerability and abuse as a child. The once-welcomed hugs turned into nightmares. One of the lasting effects of the abuse is my lack of trust, so I have built walls of protection. Once I let someone in, it is with complete openness. Over time, my walls have lowered which has allowed me to build relationships leading to good and positive experiences. With time and intention, I now allow myself to be cautiously vulnerable which I find safe and healthy.
Survivors of childhood abuse can take years before they are ready to deal with their abuse. For me, I was in my 40s when I turned to the Church for help to deal with my childhood experiences. (Research shows Christian churches are the number one place individuals go when they start experiencing mental health challenges.) A Catholic priest saw me as an easy target - easy to manipulate and easy to discredit if I reported him. The Church leaders played right into his plan - labeling me crazy and the problem. The Church labels adults as consensual relationships. Affairs. "We don't want to infantilize women." So instead they discount anything we say.
When I read how the church is struggling with a definition for vulnerable adults, I feel frustration. The idea of being vulnerable is even seen by the church as something undesirable to be considered. Like it’s something to be ashamed of….
My childhood definitely rendered me vulnerable to abuse and exploitation as an adult. It wasn’t my “fault.” However, I did work hard as an adult at trying to heal what caused the vulnerability. It isn’t a quick easy fix. Recently I composed a letter painting a picture with words of how that vulnerability connected to my experience with clergy abuse and sent it to the institute in Rome overseeing the abuse issue. Whether or not they read it or it has any impact is beyond my control. What matters is that I took the time to write and send it. At least I did something. That matters to me.
As I develop a healthier sense of self with healthier boundaries, the walls are slowly coming down. Knowing who I am, no longer in need of being validated externally, I feel less vulnerable to the effects of grooming. I discovered self love through recovery and how much I invested in myself, which meant I must be of value to place such restorative attention into developing a healthier relationship with myself. That effort was the first time I felt love coming from myself. I never knew love outside of abusive exploitive situations. I thought I needed to find my value and love from someone outside of me because of childhood survival strategies. I had to focus on the needs of those in power over me while losing a connection to self. I found that I can’t wait for the church or any one outside of me to protect me. I had to learn how to be less vulnerable and learn how to listen to my gut instincts over what I am being told. Self awareness is key. I know that it’s not only acceptable but necessary to place my safety and wellbeing ahead of the desire of another that violates my boundary. I had to give to myself what I wished early care takers had given me as a child. It’s the best investment I have ever made.
I came from a background with some issues in my extended family and with a poor sense of boundaries due to some dysfunction in my immediate family. Many other survivors I've met have similar issues in their backgrounds that were exploited-- but not all. A healthy family background or history doesn't make you immune.
Vulnerability used to be a normal word to describe an emotional state to me and I never thought much about it. Now, it hurts to see this word and I can’t imagine it will ever not hurt. The priest who abused me and other adult women arrived at the parish giving homilies about how beautiful vulnerability was and encouraging everyone to be vulnerable. He would regularly make it sound like he was holding back tears as he talked about how beautiful our wounds were. As I look back, I realize that he never had actual tears, it was a performance of emotion that he enjoyed utilizing to emotionally manipulate. He was grooming the community. In addition to his many homilies and talks encouraging vulnerability, he also preyed on the vulnerability of individuals within the sacrament of reconciliation. He started a healing ministry in which he sat in a little corner with 1 chair next to his as (mostly) women lined up to tell him their deepest wounds. This was how he felt out who would be good targets for grooming sexually. It really still makes me sick to remember it. Vulnerability is not something I like to think about.
As a seven, eight, and nine year old, I was completely vulnerable. The priest, in a sense, controlled the sisters at the school I attended and controlled the faith life of my parents and the congregation. The power bestowed upon him through the church, and the title Father made it easier to manipulate and violate children, either individually or in group settings. The doctrine that named him another-Christ and the subsequent praxis of that doctrine, messed with our psyches as he messed with our bodies, making us more vulnerable. Most of us had not yet reached the age of reason, we couldn't figure it out, and we didn't have the language for what was happening. When I began to wake up to the abuse my vulnerability heightened. I became a seven year old in a forty-two year old body. I believed clergy and the church people and latched onto their god, praying 24 hours a day. I was a walking prayer. All that prayer did not keep me safe from the church's unethical, uneducated, and sometimes manipulative responses. In fact, prayer heightened my vulnerability to injury. After the re-injuries and abandonments, I learned how to protect myself and create boundaries, something nobody in the church ever taught me. Grieving my naivety didn't come until I was fifty years old. Grieving naivety and befriending shame led to healthy vulnerability, meaning I choose when and how to be vulnerable, knowing full-well that I may face consequences for speaking.
I was extremely vulnerable in the aftermath of my experiences of abuse. One wrong word or even a wrong look could make me dissolve in tears, and I was so raw that I was prone to be vulnerable with anyone who showed even a modicum of kindness toward me. I've slowly recovered my sense of self and have built up more healthy boundaries. I've gotten to a point now where I no longer feel the need to share everything that happened to me with most people. I can freely choose what to share and what not to, and I can even share about many things that used to make me feel extremely vulnerable without having much of a reaction emotionally. I'm grateful for that level of healing.
I will have more reflections on this topic next week. If you have experienced any form of 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.
Thank you,
Sara
"As I look back, I realize that he never had actual tears, it was a performance of emotion that he enjoyed utilizing to emotionally manipulate. He was grooming the community. In addition to his many homilies and talks encouraging vulnerability, he also preyed on the vulnerability of individuals within the sacrament of reconciliation. He started a healing ministry in which he sat in a little corner with 1 chair next to his as (mostly) women lined up to tell him their deepest wounds."
Thank you to whoever wrote and shared those words. I see you and I am with you. And thank you, Sara, for sharing them here.