Content note: frank discussion of (surviving) sexual abuse.
This edition of THS GRLS Write Back is about the author’s life-long journey to heal from childhood sexual abuse. It contains descriptions of the physical, emotional and psychological effects of sexual violence against a young child, as well as clear but not graphic flashbacks. Please be considerate of your experiences and those of others as you read and share.
Surviving sexual violence is extremely difficult; we send love and healing energy to all in our community who may be able to relate to today’s newsletter.
I was sexually molested when I was five years old.
It was a rainy morning in the small town of Kagoro, in the southern part of Kaduna state. My mother’s quaint one-bedroom apartment was nestled afoot Kagoro Hill, which was only a few minutes walk from the palace of Sarkin Kagoro. She worked as a lecturer at the nearby College of Education, which was closer to the city centre and some twenty minutes from home.
I vaguely remember my mother getting dressed and leaving for work that morning. After she was gone a while, I remember my uncle looming over me like a shadow. To this day, I never really see his features in my mind’s eye, but I know it was him because that wouldn’t be the last time he loomed over me.
I remember my clothes coming off while I stared quietly. As an adult, I now realise I was very likely frozen from the shock of what was happening to me. I was not more than six years old but I understood that something was happening that shouldn't be and, very uncharacteristically of the child I was, I never told my parents about it. I also never told them of the time he repeated his actions as I laid in their bed, the time on the living room couch, or the time in my bedroom.
As an adult, I often wondered why my brain did not come to my defence by repressing these memories as it is known to do sometimes when we experience traumatic events. And so, from the tender age of five or six, I was saddled with this dark, heavy burden I could never share with anyone.
I am now learning to accept that the abuse I endured as a child has greatly impacted who I am. This is not an easy thing to accept about myself because I do not want to place a horrible experience at the centre of my origin story. Besides, my childhood was fantastic and perhaps even idyllic to some extent. Coming from an all-girl home, my parents shielded my sisters and me to the best of their abilities.
I was active in school and made decent grades – that is, until depression became my constant companion as a teenager. But, like any child I can think of, I enjoyed playing. And when I was alone, I was pretty great at entertaining myself, often by enacting plays for an imaginary audience, poring over books, or even watching music videos from the shiny DVD player that never lost its appeal to me, even when it became old and worn. I also had the best times with my sisters, and while we fought like siblings tend to do, we always made up and found our way back to each other. To this day, my sisters are still my closest friends.
Given all this, it’s hard for me to condemn my childhood entirely or even feel like I can properly situate this horrible thing that happened to me in the midst of an otherwise happy life. Still, it happened. And almost 30 years later, I am still unravelling the pieces and calling home all the fragmented parts of myself that split when the abuse started.
Sometimes when a person speaks out about being a victim of abuse, they are less likely to be believed if they are considered well-adjusted. To that, I want to say that many seemingly well-adjusted folks carry the heaviest emotional burdens you can imagine. Some of us have become so good at hiding because facing the memories can feel like being revisited by shadows looming over our small, fragile bodies. Moreover, these memories often re-ignite the terror we originally experienced when the traumatic events happened. So it is no surprise that many adults who don't know what to do with their terrible feelings never want to revisit them, even to learn how to manage and possibly overcome them.
My maladjustment began after I left for boarding house at age 10. Whatever sense of security I got from being at home with my parents and siblings was ripped out from under me, and for the first time in my life, I felt alone and afraid. If my parents could not protect me in our home, how could they protect me while I was away from them and in a new place with some strange and very harsh people?
Until my first term of SS1, shortly after I had turned 14, I couldn’t fully adjust to life in boarding school. The adjustment to that life came only after I realised, perhaps a bit too young, that the safety and protection I desperately needed, first as a child and then as a teenager, was something I had to give myself.
I never wanted to be someone who failed a child in the ways my caregivers and other authority figures did, so I quickly learned to become tough. In attempting to become tough, however, I became mean to my classmates and junior students. However, my new toughness also meant that I could stand up and run out of the Physics lab when Mr Musa lured me under the guise of wanting to learn about my father while really only wanting to put his hands on my 15-year-old breasts. I experienced my first panic attack that day.
In hindsight, I believe the attack was related to the fact that, for the first time, I successfully removed myself from a familiar unsafe situation which I had long been forced to endure in silence. The pride I would feel from successfully protecting myself wouldn’t come till much later. What did come up in the moment was a deep sense of shame, fear, and loneliness because I was saddled with yet another secret.
Many, many years after my uncle first abused me; after the sad realisation that I was solely responsible for my safety; after repeatedly protecting and removing myself from people and spaces that only sought to harm me; after a shit ton of therapy – many years after all of this, I now know that somewhere deep within me, that little girl who needed protection still exists. That little girl who never seemed to have complete safety at home still longs for the attention and protection she never received. This has led me to find safety in the arms of people who are themselves similarly wounded. Alternatively, I’ve gravitated towards people who were merely interested in taking advantage of the traumatised person I was, a person who gave too much and expected little in return in hopes that this would make me more lovable and worthy of protection.
Now, on the verge of my 33rd Year (the Christ-Year), I am armed with knowledge, newfound independence and fierceness I never thought I possessed. And from this place, I am offering grace and forgiveness to myself for all the times I betrayed myself as an adult instead of loving and protecting myself. I am sitting daily with the child I was and, in many ways, assuring her that she is loved and can be safe – because I will keep her safe.
This process is a homecoming back to the self. It is an awakening of a power I have always possessed but was never quite aware of. This is the acceptance that, as a child, there was very little I could do to change my circumstances. I was afraid, and rightfully so. I didn't have the tools or the language to tell the other adults around me. This is a reconciliation of the grief and anger which often presented as depression because I didn't understand what I was feeling and didn't know what to do with my emotions. This is a laying down of all the pain and rage I harboured towards the people who should have protected me but failed. I make no excuses for them, but their failures will no longer be mine to carry. The shame of their actions and inactions is now theirs alone.
I don't know yet what will replace all of this junk I am putting down, but I already feel myself becoming freer. I already feel the unblemished joy I had as a child returning to me, even in the face of adversity in my adult life. Most importantly, I can feel the light that I have always embodied bursting through despite my fears, illuminating the path ahead of me. I may not know exactly where this healing journey will take me, but one thing is certain: I’m never going back to the powerlessness, fear or silence that crushed me for so long. I’m home now, in my body, in my mind, and with myself.
Further reading:
The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma Bessel van der Kolk
Jessica Lanyadoo, Ghost of a Podcast “The Christ Year!”
Wow. This is an incredible piece. And I must congratulate you for allowing yourself embrace freedom of spirit-lift. Cheers to the light coming forth
I don't know if the right words exist, or maybe I just don't know them, to respond to such a theft, but know that you are loved. And it makes me so happy to see you overcome.
Ps. The body keeps the score is such a wonderful, insightful read.