The Secret Society

I belong to a secret society. It is a not-so elite membership of individuals who have whispered or shouted confessions of childhood abuse. Sadly, our ranks continue to grow.

What makes it a secret society? Well, it is pretty hard to discern who among family, friends, co-workers, or strangers belong to this club. Gauging from our appearances, you would not know who has been molested, beat senseless, emotionally battered, starved, neglected and abandoned.

Few wear their abuse as a badge of honor. There are no ceremonies or purple hearts for surviving the atrocities of abuse. No, we "unproudly" wear the damage.

Surviving the abuse is a cakewalk. One day you wake up and it’s over. No more violent words or jabs thrown in your direction. No more hands where they don’t belong. The perpetrator has either moved on to his/her next victim or you have moved away.

But, the hardest part of abuse is the aftermath. Just when you’re adjusting to your new normal as an unabused person, the damage creeps up and attacks. It never happens at a convenient time. Ultimately, the speech and behavior of secret society members betray us and we are exposed.

For example, a young woman might become promiscuous and careless in affairs of the heart. A young man might turn to drugs and alcohol or criminal activity. Perhaps, she/he will have trouble maintaining employment or a stable lifestyle. Then there is the temper the damaging effects of abuse are as varied as the forms of abuse.

I will always be grateful for the day my grandparents rescued me. Actually, I held a standoff in their attic, refusing to unlock the door until a decision was made: ‘Either you let me stay here or I’m leaving forever. I don’t know where I’m going but I know I’m not going back there! I just can’t put up with another minute of…’

They let me stay.

The adjustment to quiet and safety was difficult. At fourteen years old, I suffered from serious shell shock. I slept rarely and restlessly while in constant fear of more abuse.