My Journey: Healing from Sexual Abuse
Video Transcription
Hello, my name is Laurie Tucker. Recently, I published a book, What Odd Things I Thank You For: Discovering Grace in a Shattered Life. In this time of shared revelation in the #MeToo Era and Catholic Church scandals, I have seen the power and healing that comes when victims find the courage to go public. What Odd Things I Thank You For is my contribution to the growing collective story of surviving abuse. It is a story of how abuse affects and shapes every aspect of my adult life—something that is often discounted when abuse occurs in childhood. I am privileged that my story also includes happy memories of marriage and children. What Odd Things I Thank You For is also a diary of my healing journey and a chronicle of my expanding faith.
For 18 years of my childhood, from ages 3 to 21, I was the victim of weekly sexual abuse and torture at the hands of my grandfather, his friend, and my father. The trauma I endured was horrific. Although my mother and grandmother knew, neither intervened.
Through God’s grace, and I now know, presence, during my childhood, I grew up mostly intact, married a wonderful man, and had two children. I was a stay-at-home mom, church volunteer, scout leader for both kids—things were cooking along pretty well as I stayed busy and involved in their lives.
When the kids left home for college, my life fell apart. I could not get in a car some days; going to the grocery store brought on panic attacks; a trip to the vet with our cats would make me fall apart. I suddenly could no longer take trips, not even to see my children. This was not typical empty nest syndrome!
I went into therapy to try to figure out what was happening. It took me several tries to find a good fit, but Ron Rothschild, a holistic psychotherapist, fit the bill. Each of the therapists I worked with suspected abuse, but I had no memory. As a body will faint when in too much pain, my brain had shut down in the midst of horror and pain too much to bear. No cognitive memory of abuse was retained, but my body held the memory. It was time to go into my body where the memory was stored and bring it into the daylight.
I couldn’t just say, Ok body, tell me what happened. I needed a way to connect to memories too painful to be remembered. I was able to do this by contacting the younger parts of me—my inner children--who knew what had happened and, as they began to trust me, were willing to tell me. These inner children, Little Laurie and Lockie, gave me the means to learn who I really was and what had really happened.
Even with their help, it was not easy. The trauma I had endured was massive, and I couldn’t bear to look at a complete memory. I would dissociate, or leave my body, as I had during the abuse. But I found I could write the bones of the memory, and then using that script, work each week with one sentence. You can imagine how long it took to work through a two-page, single-spaced memory, one sentence at a time. Retrieving memory required me to experience in real-time what I had endured as a child—the pain, the terror, the burn of a cold table in a basement, the feeling of abandonment when no one helped. For four years, weekly, I reentered the horror chambers of my childhood. It was like receiving chemo—a violent assault on the body, a couple of days of being sick with a terrible headache and fatigue, a couple more of assimilating what I had learned, then a day or two or normalcy before it began again. Hard on me, hard on my husband, hard on everyone who loved me.
Little Laurie and Lockie told me that they felt safe when dissociated (or in the black void as they described it) because God was in the black. They felt loved and safe. Knowing God had been present during the abuse, I wanted to ask God to be present in the healing from it. I began to write prayers that I would offer before we began the return to memory, inviting God’s presence in the room.
The prayers became the foundation for the book. Each prayer has an essay that describes what was happening on the day I wrote that prayer. In the coming days, I hope to share some of those prayers with you. Today, even as I step forward to share my story, I am aware of how many women, men, and children cannot speak because of fear, shame, or the risk of even greater harm. To them, I would like to offer this blessing in closing:
For Those Who Cannot Speak
When fear keeps you silent and hidden,
We will speak for you.
When the shouting voices demand your compliance,
We will whisper your truth.
When society and culture blame you for cruelties endured,
We will illuminate your reality.
When fear keeps you trapped,
We will share your story as our own.
When you exist in a life not of your choosing,
We will not forget you.
When we demand justice,
You will demand justice, too,
For we are one in our suffering and in our strength.
We carry you on our shoulders as we stand in the light.
Amen
Thanks for listening. Goodbye.
For 18 years of my childhood, from ages 3 to 21, I was the victim of weekly sexual abuse and torture at the hands of my grandfather, his friend, and my father. The trauma I endured was horrific. Although my mother and grandmother knew, neither intervened.
Through God’s grace, and I now know, presence, during my childhood, I grew up mostly intact, married a wonderful man, and had two children. I was a stay-at-home mom, church volunteer, scout leader for both kids—things were cooking along pretty well as I stayed busy and involved in their lives.
When the kids left home for college, my life fell apart. I could not get in a car some days; going to the grocery store brought on panic attacks; a trip to the vet with our cats would make me fall apart. I suddenly could no longer take trips, not even to see my children. This was not typical empty nest syndrome!
I went into therapy to try to figure out what was happening. It took me several tries to find a good fit, but Ron Rothschild, a holistic psychotherapist, fit the bill. Each of the therapists I worked with suspected abuse, but I had no memory. As a body will faint when in too much pain, my brain had shut down in the midst of horror and pain too much to bear. No cognitive memory of abuse was retained, but my body held the memory. It was time to go into my body where the memory was stored and bring it into the daylight.
I couldn’t just say, Ok body, tell me what happened. I needed a way to connect to memories too painful to be remembered. I was able to do this by contacting the younger parts of me—my inner children--who knew what had happened and, as they began to trust me, were willing to tell me. These inner children, Little Laurie and Lockie, gave me the means to learn who I really was and what had really happened.
Even with their help, it was not easy. The trauma I had endured was massive, and I couldn’t bear to look at a complete memory. I would dissociate, or leave my body, as I had during the abuse. But I found I could write the bones of the memory, and then using that script, work each week with one sentence. You can imagine how long it took to work through a two-page, single-spaced memory, one sentence at a time. Retrieving memory required me to experience in real-time what I had endured as a child—the pain, the terror, the burn of a cold table in a basement, the feeling of abandonment when no one helped. For four years, weekly, I reentered the horror chambers of my childhood. It was like receiving chemo—a violent assault on the body, a couple of days of being sick with a terrible headache and fatigue, a couple more of assimilating what I had learned, then a day or two or normalcy before it began again. Hard on me, hard on my husband, hard on everyone who loved me.
Little Laurie and Lockie told me that they felt safe when dissociated (or in the black void as they described it) because God was in the black. They felt loved and safe. Knowing God had been present during the abuse, I wanted to ask God to be present in the healing from it. I began to write prayers that I would offer before we began the return to memory, inviting God’s presence in the room.
The prayers became the foundation for the book. Each prayer has an essay that describes what was happening on the day I wrote that prayer. In the coming days, I hope to share some of those prayers with you. Today, even as I step forward to share my story, I am aware of how many women, men, and children cannot speak because of fear, shame, or the risk of even greater harm. To them, I would like to offer this blessing in closing:
For Those Who Cannot Speak
When fear keeps you silent and hidden,
We will speak for you.
When the shouting voices demand your compliance,
We will whisper your truth.
When society and culture blame you for cruelties endured,
We will illuminate your reality.
When fear keeps you trapped,
We will share your story as our own.
When you exist in a life not of your choosing,
We will not forget you.
When we demand justice,
You will demand justice, too,
For we are one in our suffering and in our strength.
We carry you on our shoulders as we stand in the light.
Amen
Thanks for listening. Goodbye.