I have heard it said that in order to get rid of bad fruit, you must first identify the root. This thought caused me to do some soul searching. My problem is that I have many different kinds of bad fruit so there is a maze of roots like cafeteria spaghetti to sort through and it can be a bit exhausting, but so worth it. One of the bad fruits at the top of my list of elimination is my inability to appropriately relate to men. Here is what my searching has uncovered.
As a child, I wanted my father's attention more than anything, but when I could not get it, I began to search elsewhere. I watched my father and other men very carefully, trying to see what it was that would capture their attention. The only thing I found that men were paying attention to was seductive beauty. I saw it on TV, in magazines, and in the everyday interactions of the men in the world around me. At age of 4, feeling so powerless, I wanted this power more than anything. I remember being ashamed that my undeveloped body did not win me this attention men were so freely giving grown up women. While other 4 year old girls were dreaming of doll houses and ballerina outfits, I was already praying for a bigger bust. This made it awkward to form friendships as you can imagine and it's part of the reason I don't have many close friends today.
My first memory of abuse was at a party when I was 5. While the adults drank and smoke downstairs, an older kid was responsible for watching a group of younger kids in an upstairs bed room. There was about 8 of us and we played for a while. An older boy took my under the bed and pulled the blankets down so we were hidden underneath. He did strange things to me, but I did not mind because all of his attention was on me. I remember thinking that this boy was going to marry me and take care of me now, like I had seen in movies. For the first time in my life, I felt special and valuable, feelings that my home life had never provided me before. Soon after, the other kids in the room lifted up the blankets and started laughing and calling me names. I was just frozen, imprisoned by the shame of their words, and the control this boy had over me because I wanted his attention, no matter what disgusting form it was in.
I was abused next at age 9 by an uncle, and then again at age 13 by two older boys. I had developed a psychotic crush on a Senior named Greg, who was very popular and drove a low rider truck he had customized. In my desperate search for self worth, I had internally decided that capturing the heart of someone that everyone valued would automatically give me value. I literally stalked this guy, observing what friends he had, what parties he went to, and even going as far as stealing his attendance records from the school office. That last one got me beat up by Greg's best friend who was actually meaner that he was and so I gave it back. Apparently he was absent so much that he was accused of stealing it to wipe out his bad attendance record and they would not let him graduate without it. I stole it because it was as close as I could get to him at the time. The abuse happened after a party I went to because I knew Greg would be there. I was living in foster care at the time and had snuck out and taken the bus to be at the party. Everyone else had friends to go with, but I was a vagabond and the friends I had who were strange enough to like me would just get in the way of my quest to conquer the impossibility of Greg choosing me. I did not drink very much at the party and tried to be casual and fit it. I tried to find a ride home, but as everyone began to leave and Greg's options got limited, he asked me to stay and hang out. After everyone was gone, he and his friend made me drink hard liquor, then took turns doing things I would not expect High School aged boys to even be interested in. They threatened me each time I resisted and put a bucket in front of me when I got sick from all of the alcohol. Many hours later they took me outside and dropped me in the street in front of one of the other boys house while his parents were asleep inside. They spit on me and told me that if I told anyone what happened that they would say I wanted it and tell the whole school that I was a slut. I was so sick that I passed out for a while. When I came to, I walked to a gas station and had no money and no one to call. The family who ran the foster home who I had known for about a week would surely not drive this far to pick me up at this hour, and I feared calling my Dad who I was not on good terms with more than I feared the threat from the two boys of forever slandering my reputation to the whole school. Nonetheless, I called my Dad because he was biologically obligated to pick me up and I knew sleeping on the street was a dangerous option that I was too tired to brave. The things he said to me as we drove home were worse than the previous events.
The lie that sexual abuse had seared on my soul early on was that I was nothing more than an object to gratify the lusts of men. I don't remember exactly when this lie entered my subconscious mind, but I felt the lie present as a very small child. Since I felt like nothing, this lie was the something I had to hold on to. I lived out this lie all to well for the first 25 years of my life. I am proud to say that I don't live this lie anymore, all thanks to God. I believe that the devil unlike God, is very unoriginal. In his defense, he doesn't have to be original since we fall in the same silly traps so easily, over and over again. In our culture, parents are too busy and too self consumed to consider how the words they speak over their kids will play out over time. The devil sets up traps of rejection, and abuse in early childhood that forever rob many of their true identity. That is why the song Israel wrote called, "I know Who I Am" speaks to me so deeply. If you know who you are, and what you are worth, you will not accept any less than what you deserve. If you do not know who you are, or what you are worth, you will accept far less than you deserve. For this reason, the devil robbed my identity early on and I am still trying to figure out exactly who I am. But I know that I am NOT the girl I was, and that is a start.
I hope what I have shared helps someone else who has been robbed of their identity realize the truth of who they are through the power of the love and forgiving mercy of God. If He can forgive me for the wretched life I have lived, he can forgive you. If He can heal me of all the pain I have carried, He can and will heal you. God is the only person who accepted me at my worst and I will never forget what He has brought me out of. This is why I am pursuing a love affair with God.
-V-
