The first time we told.

I remember the first time i ever disclosed that i had been sexually abused. It took days, my behaviour was becoming increasingly bizarre and it was obvious that by now we were so weighed down by years of keeping he secrets that it was taking its toll on our young life.

We were on a mission camp outreaching to holidaying youth at a beach town. Perhaps in hindsight our decision to follow an outreach programing and save souls to Jesus was little more than our needing to save our own soul. Nevertheless we had decided on a unselfish way to out see the summer holidays. Our job was as games co ordinator, simple enough task. In the end we got bored and spent m,ore time wandering the streets chatting to the teens of the area.

But all the time we were becoming more and more strained in both our behaviour and attitude. We would spend hours staring into space and losing time lots and lots of time. The mission mother at the time was a counsellor and was observing our behaviour with interest. A few times she had previously asked if there was something we wanted to share with her to help the obvious burden we were carrying. Each time she got a no thanks response. All the time voices in my head were screaming dont tell the secrets dont tell, if you tell we will die.

The headaches were getting worse and the terror was increasing, something had to give. And so one stormy night sitting on a gate with this house mother i shared one of the deepest moments of my life. My heart was beating in my throat i felt like little hands were grasping it wrapping themselves around it so that i couldnt talk. My legs and arms seemed to have wandered away somewhere, in fact my whole body was not actually there. Although i was sitting on the gate i was standing behind the trees watching. Detached wasnt a word we understood at that point, we simply knew sometimes when our body walked we walked separate to it.

Throughout all of this a gentle kind and calm inner voice kept saying its time to tell the secrets its not yours to carry anymore. And so at the age of 23 for the first ever time we said the hardest words we have ever had to share "i think my dad abused me'. Then promptly got off the gate and ran hard ran fast and just ran. Years of being told that we would be struck by lightening and have nothing of ourselves left if we told the secret we didn't want our new confidant to see our imminent death. And yet we also hedged our bets, notice how we said "i Think" that way the universe might not strike us if we placed a maybe on the fact.

When we got to safety we raised our arms to the sky and waited for the bolt of lightening to strike us. All the time the crying the wailing the screaming of we are gonna die was echoing over and over in my head. It wouldnt stop, little voices middle voices deep big voices youve done it now youre gonna die, they gonna find you and kill you. I was later found clutching a cross passed out on the ground. The camp mother tended to us, and although she assured us that we werent going to die and that telling a hidden secret as ours it was normal to react as we did and that she had seen countless other abuse survivors react the same way, it didnt matter to us because we were certain we were going to die.

The rest of the mission trip was a blur, we fell into a deep depression and waited for whatever fate was to befall when we got home. In that time little did we know that although we have only scattered memories of the rest of the mission we were and had already been showing levels of dissociation. We were given a book to read called the wounded heart and as we read this book for the first time we felt appalled that so much of what the book said made sense. As each truth in the book hit us once again our throat enclosed and the terrible nausea came up over and over again.

How can anyone know our secret even though they havent met us. How could anyone describe those feelings of self loathing and disgust how can they write how we felt and yet they hadnt met us. As the first ray of light shone that we werent alone so too came the panic of how can i deal with this who can i talk to where can i go. Thankfully we did find an amazing therapist who for years dealt with us similar to perhaps how rachel does.

But the other day as we sat with rachel and the same feeling emerged. The same dread that we know the burning of needing to share the darker overwhelming secrets was taking a toll on our life. The same feeling that we get whenever we share about anything our father did to us. The same sick twisted feeling in my guilt that something terrible is going to happened us if we share those deeper darker moments. Yet at the same time the visions of what he had done to us has been emerging and seeping slowly over the last few months. A smell here a scream there a taste as it encloses in our psyche we know that only sharing the secrets can stop the memories slowly flooding back. But as always the feeling that we are once again sitting on the gate and waiting to suffocate keep coming back.

Almost as though we want to protect ourselves from him in our life. This lid needs to lifted, i want someone to peel inside and see the terrible things he did, and i want someone to know how much it hurt, but mostly i need to get it better. So even though that terrible feeling of dread is emerging it also reminds us of what we need to do to get better. My only hope is that when we do lift the lid on this ever bubbling secret light can flow in.

Jip-etal