Part 8:  Another Therapist

I am going to change the name of this blog from ” From Child Prostitute To Child Advocate” to ” From Sex-Trafficked Child to Advocate”.   The first title seems to indicate some complicity on my part.  Many people ignorantly believe that prostitution is something that women do of their own volition.  That is rare and never the case with children.  And I  know some of you are wondering when we will actually get to the part where I was trafficked.   I believe we have already gotten there.  At the time I was retrieving these memories neither one of us understood this, but now it seems most plausible that the men and women who came to the secret pineapple meetings in Hawaii were paying participants. They received drugs and sex and in exchange paid cash.  My dad sold his daughter and got sex and drugs for free.  This first cult experience in Hawaii did not have much ritual and little Satanism.  But this memory was mixed with others where the ritual of Satanism was more dominant.  At the time  Jody and I did not have any other way of giving it a name and we were inclined to think there was some continuity between the various memories.  And there was some ritual–like the act of killing yourself if you told and the brainwashing that went along with that.   ”Child-Sex Trafficking” are words that started in the 21st century and more accurately describe my experience.

We began reading everything we could find on Ritual Abuse and Satanic Cults.  Always before I had thought of this as science fiction or the occult and not quite real, but there was something very real happening.  The palpable fear that Vicki was experiencing and radiating throughout the house was not part of her normal character.  Neither Vicki nor I understood it and there were few books on the subject; it was something very new. 

After networking for several weeks Vicki managed to find another therapist with experience in this area.  Joe was two and half hours away in another direction.  Before he would even meet with Vicki he peppered her with questions:  “Do you find that you sometimes lose time and don’t know what happened over a period of several hours or days?  Do you meet people who seem to know you but call you by a different name? . . . ”  Vicki answered no  to each question.   “Basically I’m trying to figure out whether you’re a multiple or not.  I’ve already got one such client and I can’t handle another.” 

In addition to Ritual Abuse we added several  new words to our lexicon:  Multiple Perpetrator Abuse; Dissociation; Multiple Personality Disorder; and PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.   There was another whole vocabulary that went with Ritual Abuse because it was of a much more severe order than sexual abuse or incest.  The word “ritual” came for the ceremony that went with much of the abuse.

Joe belonged to a group of therapists and could only barter one-half of his fee, which was almost exactly how much her father was sending her each month.  But Joe was more than willing to do that.  Like Isaac he seemed to have a heart for the work that he did.

The nature of Vicki’s memories did not bother Joe.  He had heard it before and that offered a form of validation to Vicki—apparently other people had been through these kinds of experiences before.  It was real.  But he did have a strict rule about not calling him after hours.  “This memory work is going to be very difficult,” he told Vicki in a form of understatement that we didn’t appreciate at the time, “and you need to get together a support team.  People you can call day or night to listen to you and help you work through this.”                            

I was especially grateful for this dictum because I could not handle much of Vicki’s reaction to her memories.  She would get angry and then nasty as if I had been the perpetrator and she blamed me for everything she was feeling.  This altered state of personality was called dissociation.  Joe said Vicki’s reaction to me was partially due to the fact that I did much of the actual memory work with her—what a therapist might normally do if she were close enough to do multiple sessions a week.  This conveyance of feelings was called transference and was supposed to happen with a therapist but it was too late to change since she could only do appointments every other week.  Joe wanted her to make a list of five or six people who would volunteer for this role as telephone counselor and bring it to him.

After several sessions Vicki brought up the subject that worried us most:  Was Vicki’s father still involved with these groups?  Was there reason to fear?  At that time Joe was uncertain.  Vicki had not had any memories beyond simple incest while she was in her teenage years.   Her father had left the military and moved to their present home when she was fourteen years old.   It appeared from her memories that the ritual abuse had only occurred while he was in the military and traveling from one assignment to another. 

“To be safe I think you need to assume that he is still involved.  Based on my experience that’s what I would guess.  Not seeing him is a good idea–let’s continue that.”  Because of Vicki’s high level of fear Joe also though that Vicki should write him another letter saying that she had finished therapy and no longer needed him to continue sending money.   This ruse would throw him off and he would assume that she had not remembered anything beyond incest.

This part of my life was not happening in a vacuum.  Less than a month before Hannah was born I made a trip to Florida with Jody  to see his mother who was dying of cancer.  She died a week later on Memorial Day.  A few weeks after Hannah was born word came that his father was in the terminal stages of melanoma.  He would die unexpectedly early in the beginning of September.   Life at this time was extremely hard.  Jody remembered a dream that he had had earlier of twin tornados that might best describe the devastation those two events caused.  Our life during that season was a wreck and we were just surviving.  Hannah was my saving grace.  I wouldn’t dare stab myself when I was pregnant–there was a baby inside!  And afterward she was totally dependent on me; it was imperative that I stay alive.  The sweet spirit of that tiny baby was Heaven sent.

Donate or Learn More About our Work

If you would like to see the ongoing work we are involved with in Guatemala, please visit our website at www.safehomesforchildren.org.  Our child advocacy work there is designed to keep families together which is the foremost deterrent to exploitation of children.  Vicki does public speaking on child trafficking in the United States, and if you would like to support this work, you can make donations to Safe Homes and note its specified purpose.  In the near future, you can submit donations or learn more about trafficked children at our new and specially dedicated site (launch and new address to be announced in an upcoming post).

These new memories came more slowly and took much longer to process.  One of the hardest parts was determining whether they were real.  Sexual abuse was easy to understand and it was validated by the men she knew in her men’s group.  Even though people did not want to talk about it, everyone knew it was going on.  Estimates ranged from 25% to 40% of adults were sexually abused as children.  But this was something different; it stretched credulity.  Aside from the one group leader–no one we knew had heard of ritual abuse; it wasn’t real.

The emotional strain on Vicki was certainly real—much more so than the memories of sexual abuse.  To be raped by half a dozen men at a gathering was not unusual.  And the fact that she had been handed over to the group by her father invoked more shame.  But there was also torture and violence in these groups.  In another memory of the Hawaii group, she witnessed the leader call one of the women into the center of a circle of members.  “You told!” he railed at her, “you know what you must do.”  The leader handed her a large knife and she stabbed herself in the stomach.  “This is what happens to people that tell,” he intoned to the group.  With the hindsight of twenty years on this memory work,  I don’t  know if this happened for real.  I know it seemed real to me as a child and that was the terror that I remembered some thirty-five years later as an adult.  Real or not it was meant to instill fear and it certainly did that.  It was a potent form of brainwashing.   The feelings of needing to stab myself in the belly were so dangerously real.  But my maternal feelings of needing to protect my unborn baby were stronger and I knew I could never hurt her.  After this memory Vicki, more than once, was grateful for being pregnant.  While an incident 35 years old in a very dimly lit past seemed to hold an immense amount of sway on her present life, there was no way she was going to kill her own baby.

As winter deepened Vicki was unable to make therapy sessions in either direction.  With spring she made a couple more sessions with Isaac before closing down therapy for the birth of her baby.  Isaac was initially puzzled by these new memories and seconded her notion to postpone any memory work until after the baby was born.   But her memories had their own schedule.  As a present to herself after the baby was born, she bought a set of expensive cotton sheets for our bed.  They had a rich and colorful tropical floral print and as soon as she put them on our bed she knew she had made a mistake.  She was reminded of Hawaii and the jungle where the meetings were held.   A series of flashbacks came and more horrific nightmares.   Those sheets went off our bed and were not used for several years.

When she returned to Isaac in mid-summer, his attitude was different.  He had been reading about ritual abuse because another of his clients was revealing similar recovered memories.  He did not want to work with Vicki anymore, ending the relationship of over two years abruptly.  The truth was that Isaac was afraid.  Like Vicki, Isaac wondered whether her father was still involved.  Therapists were often a target of these groups.  And when Vicki came home with that bit of startling information, she was more terrified than ever.  Isaac had been her trusted talisman and now she didn’t have a counselor to help and guide her.  Besides, if Issac was scared enough to drop me, I knew there was good reason to be afraid.  Isaac was ex-military and packed a gun.   Life was so hard at that point, surrounded by fear–it was part of every waking moment and impossible to explain.  Also, I was taking care of a houseful of 8 kids and getting little sleep at night, becoming more and more undone.   Jody, angry and confused that things were getting worse and not better, was always there to do memory work with me, no matter how strange, but he could not do night duty–and that was the time I dreaded.   The routine of housework and the love of family kept me going.  The kids were always needing love and attention and giving lots of love in return. 

One of the main differences between the incest work and this new memory work was the level of fear.  According to her memories it had been programmed into her from her childhood.  If she ever told, she needed to self-destruct and if she didn’t they would come after her and do it themselves. And now she was telling.  It was usually only me she was telling as I listened to her remember out of the forgotten abyss of her childhood, but she was breaking the silence.  Fear swept through our lives.  While I was less fearful than Vicki, she had enough for the both of us and more.  Was her father still involved?  We didn’t think so but we didn’t know for sure.  For the first time in our lives she locked the doors each night and paid careful attention to where the kids were at all times.  Could our phone be tapped?  These men from her past were her father’s age.  Had they been keeping up with her all these years?  How much did they know about our lives?  Were our kids in danger?

Photo Image Credit:  ”Burning Man” by Herby.

By October Vicki recognized she was pregnant again.  This was a miracle after a series of miscarriages and for sure would be her last.  It was special even in Vicki’s busy life, but at 40 years old she recognized that she would not be able to make the long trip to see Isaac every other week, especially after the winter weather arrived.  Vicki loved her group therapy and with Isaac’s approval found another group of sexual abuse victims that was only an hour away.

Things were still unsettled at home but not as bad as when the memories were surfacing regularly.  Our regular family activities like hikes at the park, which had been sparse, were again in our schedule.  But  on the whole we were disappointed:  With all the memory work and therapy she had done we had expected a healing curve to begin—for her fears to attenuate.   But even with the new insights that Vicki had about her past she was unable to feel safe in her present –and it was puzzling.  Why hadn’t she been unable to let some of these things go?  Sadly, our church had been of little help.  Any mention of her abuse brought gasps and withdrawal from these people we had worshipped with for years.  Finally, the clergy had come to tell her personally not to talk about it in church.

“It was hard for everyone including me to understand, but my fears were worse not better.  I felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown all the time.  Not that I had ever had one, but I knew how strung out I was.  I desperately needed someone to talk to and Jody was mad at me much of the time for not having conquered “my problems.”  Therapy once a week brought up more issues than it resolved and the only other people I associated with were at church.  It was an emotional downer to not be able to talk about what was happening with folks we were supposed to be sharing our burdens with.“

Vicki’s new therapy group was led by a social worker with her MSW and  her co-facilitator husband who was equally educated.  All of the victims were women and it was designed to support them in their healing.  General topics included flashbacks that might have occurred since the last session and strategies for dealing with the emotional deficits that were common in victims.

After attending several meetings, Vicki reported that he leader’s husband was in pretty bad shape.  She felt he was actually in worse shape than she was.   If certain topics come up, he quickly exited the room.  Vicki later found out that he too was a victim but it was a more severe type of abuse his wife referred to as ritual abuse.   Neither one of us had heard of the word before and soon discovered it had to do with the practice of Satanism.  We didn’t know whether to believe in it or not.

After a dearth of memory work, Vicki had a strange new one:  She was in Hawaii, driving alone in the car with her father at dusk.  She was anxious, sitting in the back seat as they traveled out into the country past the huge pineapple fields, past the stand where they often stopped after church on Sundays to eat fresh pineapple.  Her father turned off the paved road onto a dirt path that took them into an increasingly isolated area.  Soon there were bonfires and as their car slowed there were frightful animals peering into the car windows.  Her father got out and animals continued staring inside.  These were strange, exotic animals and it was terrifying.  Next, she was an unwilling participant in wild group sex.  Sorely abused and crying, at the end of the memory she sat before the leader who chided her saying that real women like this.

To Vicki this memory had the same quality as all the other ones she’d had previously.  It was the content that was so bizarre.  We decided that the animals peering into the car might have been adults wearing masks, but to a fearful five year old they could easily appear real.

“I realized as an adult that the animals were really people with masks.  I am sure they wore masks because they knew I would recognize them as co-workers of my father.  The women at this meeting did not wear masks but wore revealing clothing and heavy make-up–I  think  they were probably prostitutes.  They were meaner than the men.  Imagine me, a 5 year old brutally raped and a quivering mass of physical and emotional pain, being told I was not a “real” woman because I did not enjoy sex like these “real” women did.  To this day, I cannot stand to be in the presence of skimpily clad, painted- up women.”

Where did this memory come from?  Had she been subconsciously been picking up information from her new group?  Was she somehow making all this up?  When she reported this memory to her new group, the co-facilitator quickly exited the room and did not return.  Vicki later learned that he had had similar experiences.  Where was this going?  And was it real?  This was the most upsetting thing of all for Vicki.

Several weeks later Vicki remembered an incident when she was three years old and lived in Atlanta.  Her father brought her outside behind the car and showed her the dead family cat.

“If you ever tell, the same thing will happen to you.”   My father, apparently had killed my pet cat.  My sister had a white one and I had a black.  The black one was laying dead in his arms.  I got the message and it had stayed bottled up in me.  The easiest way not to tell was just not to remember and that’s what I had done all those years.  But suddenly I was not only remembering but also telling and I’m sure that was the root of much of my fear.”

Photo Image Credit:  By Sarah Jane

♥  Did you know that revelation from Heavenly Father did not end with the Bible?  Listen to the messages from the living Prophet and Apostles here.

♥  Has it been forever since you’ve heard this one?  Fill your soul with this rendition of Les Miserables “Bring Him Home”.

♥  Woman have and integral and central role in the plan of the Creator.  James E. Talmage said it best when he said, “The world’s greatest champion of woman and womanhood is Jesus the Christ.”  Read more about the sacred nature of womanhood and your divine potential here.

♥  Many of us endure true hardship and difficulties in our lives.  There are times when it would seem the only escape from such suffering would be to vanish, or give up.  Put your problems into perspective by reading true accounts from real American pioneers.

]]> http://standing-for-something.com/2012/03/sunday-dinner-2/feed/ 0 http://standing-for-something.com/2012/02/from-child-prostitute-to-child-advocate-part-4/ http://standing-for-something.com/2012/02/from-child-prostitute-to-child-advocate-part-4/#comments Tue, 28 Feb 2012 03:34:58 +0000 VickiDalia http://standing-for-something.com/?p=3127 Continue reading →]]> Our story is meant to aid in understanding the dynamics of human trafficking and child abuse—both victim and perpetrator—and especially to give insight into the violence of this particular kind of abuse.  In the process of writing this—as you will see—it became obvious that sexual trafficking is one of the most violent of crimes against children.  It creates shame and darkens the soul more than almost any other type of human desecration.  It is told from my perspective as Vicki’s husband, with Vicki’s own words in subparagraphs throughout.

Part 4:  The Men’s Group

Because of the distance Vicki was driving, Isaac recommended that she attend a group therapy for women.  There was no cost for this group and it would give Vicki more therapy time to help compensate for the long drive.   A different kind of healing takes place with group therapy and Vicki was interested.   The group met once a week in an old church building, but from the beginning Vicki didn’t like it.

It was all about anger for those women.  They couldn’t even function; they hated men so much.  Their lives were a wreck and I couldn’t identify with any of them.  None of them could even hold a job; in fact, they were so angry they had to meet on a different hall than the Offender’s Group.  They threatened to claw the eyes out of those men if they passed them in the hall.

After several sessions with the Victim’s Group, Vicki decided to quit.  Therapy was hard enough without getting depressed being around those women.  They talked about anger and retribution, not about forgiveness and that’s what our religious beliefs stressed.  That’s the direction Vicki  wanted to go in.  Then she had the idea of attending the Offender’s Group.  These were men, accused or convicted of incest or sexual abuse of children, that were court-mandated to attend.   It would require  special permission, interviews and the consent of the men’s group, but Vicki thought it might be helpful in understanding her father and his motivation.  She hoped it might eventually lead to forgiveness.

Although the men were initially wary of having a victim in their meetings, Vicki was tentatively accepted into the group.  On average about twenty men attended the once a week meeting.  If they missed a meeting, they were immediately sent back to jail.  This was a mandatory part of their probation.  There were also one or two other women—a wife and a girlfriend of two of the offenders—at the weekly meetings.   Much like an AA meeting trained therapists helped the men acknowledge and come to terms with their crime.  Whenever a new member came into the group, each was required to “tell his story”.

Vicki learned that all of the men were sex addicts and sometimes had gone to great and crazy lengths to get that rush.  They had almost all been molested as children and some had thought that it was just part of your initiation into life:  even though it was illegal, it was like speeding—everybody did it.  They had been convicted of molesting girls between the age of eight and twelve, usually their own daughters.  Each man had already spent time in jail and was doing individual therapy with a counselor like Isaac, Vicki’s therapist.  It was embarrassing for them to be in such a group and almost all of them wanted to get out of it and put this behind them.  But the truth was that their lives were a wreck.  Inevitably their wives divorced them and they lost contact with their children.

When Vicki did not castigate the men for their crime, a healing, reciprocal acceptance entered the group.  To her surprise Vicki came to like most of the men.  They had much in common; they were both damaged goods and spent too much time thinking about sex.  Some were able to compartmentalize their behavior out of consciousness.  One man, who reminded Vicki of a younger, heavier version of Archie Bunker, told the group that he would get irate with stories of rapists and child molesters on TV:  “They ought to cut their-you-know-what off!”  he admitted ranting, oblivious to what he was doing to his own daughters.

“Sex-offenders” quit being a category for Vicki, but a group of individuals, each with their own heart-rending story.  She learned that sex offenders were not born but made.  Much like an alcoholic they probably had a proclivity but fed it until it became a full-fledged and out of control addition—not that hard to do in our sex –saturated society.  Empathy replaced hatred as she got to know these men and their tragic backgrounds and the uproar that their malicious behavior had caused in their own lives.  Many had destroyed their own families and it was just plain sad to see them struggle to rebuild on those ashes.  But it also created hope for her relationship with her own father because she had seen that repentance and restitution was possible.

One of the things that struck me so much in this group was how hard it is in our society to deal with a sexual addiction.  The men spoke of it often:  How TV, movies and bill boards were always in their faces and how children were sexualized.  Children’s clothing, even costumes copied after Walt Disney characters, was often sexual.  And that was 20 some years ago before the internet. I have seen a sickening increase in sexual crimes against children.  Then it was said that 6% of the male population becomes addicted to porn.  Now, with the Internet and the increased availability of pornography I am sure it is much worse.  So we have men (and sometimes women) who are molested as children and then go on to molest more children and we have a vicious cycle.  Everyone wants to blame the perpetrator, but I feel sorrow, as well as anger, towards them.  It is the public tolerance of the sexualization of children and our sex-saturated society that leads to child rape and child trafficking.

While Vicki’s father rarely talked about his childhood, we did know a little.  His father had owned a burgeoning auto parts business but had drunk himself into bankruptcy and then died.  At fifteen years old Vicki’s father had to quit school and work to support the family.  Vicki’s grandmother had lived with Vicki when she was a teenager and was obviously mentally ill.  Vicki saw that her father’s childhood had been at least as dysfunctional as many of the men in her group.  From Vicki’s perspective there was room for reconciliation but her father first had to acknowledge his trespasses.

Since these long biweekly trips to therapy took so much time and energy, Vicki decided to start making business contacts.  Before long she was doing drapery estimates and making the trips profitable.  She would leave around noon on Tuesdays and do any business she had.  Her session with Isaac lasted from four to five-thirty.   And then she went to economical restaurant with the three older girls and the nursing baby.  After dinner it was group therapy with the men’s group.  It would be around midnight when she returned home.

Donate or Learn More About our Work

If you would like to see the ongoing work we are involved with in Guatemala, please visit our website at www.safehomesforchildren.org.  Our child advocacy work there is designed to keep families together which is the foremost deterrent to exploitation of children.  Vicki does public speaking on child trafficking in the United States, and if you would like to support this work, you can make donations to Safe Homes and note its specified purpose.  In the near future, you can submit donations or learn more about trafficked children at our new and specially dedicated site (launch and new address to be announced in an upcoming post).

Follow this series on Tuesdays of each week (read previous posts, 1-3 here).

Photo Credit:  “Anger” by Paloetic and Dancer by Jenks 75

After a 1 ½ yr search for new employment our prayers were answered.  Finally, Husband was able to secure full-time employment, the dream job-with a university, not all that far from where we had previously lived.  We moved this past summer.  The job, better than anything we could have imagined, embodying the best from his past two.  The past years of hell had been preparing us for where we truly were to arrive.  Husband would only have to commute 4 minutes to and from work, fantastic management, new facilities and a positive work environment with room for advancement!  I landed my dream job and only have to commute 4 minutes as well and have an equally great work environment!  Oh yes, pinch me please.

While watching the final episode of Oprah, she made mention of keeping a gratitude journal and to record our “aha moments” and to most importantly “dig deep to find your sense of self and to find you”.  This struck a chord with me.  In all of our family drama I had lost myself.  I had stopped taking care of me.  With this revelation I began to allow myself the things I used to.   I became an active participant in the autumn change around me and craved the colorful canopy of fall leaves and crisp fall air while on outings around the lake with the puppy.  I began to plan outings for me and the kiddos.   Husband began to plan outings with the kiddos.  My “aha moment” has I think been gradual in its evolution yet a moment none the less.

I am pleased to report that Husband has reached a point where all of his wellness resources have come together, all working in harmony with each other.  Depression was officially diagnosed “in remission” and the anxiety is successfully being managed allowing the sun to shine in our home, most days.  The gaming console has taken a much, much lesser role in our daily lives and his ability to place himself  in social situations such as church is improving and regular.  Although the anxiety is still present, the crushing grip it had in our lives has been broken.  Husband asked if I would like to attend his work Christmas party!  We went, stayed and actually enjoyed the entire event…including the socializing!  Only with the guidance of a loving Heavenly Father and our love for each other could we have come through this as we have.

We mastered the gluten-free diet, finally.  To our surprise, recent blood tests indicate that he does not have Celiac and that he may have never had it.  Two separate tests done months apart both resulted the same findings.  With all that was going on at the time; results could have been produced causing a false positive.  Only time will tell.

Despite our trials and tribulations, Husband and I recognize that our plight could have been much worse than it was.  I have a husband who is alive; I have children who are healthy.   For me, if my family is happy and healthy, I am happy and healthy.   Having a renewed interest in myself comes as a bonus, a refreshing one at that.

I am grateful for the many health professionals whom we have worked with.  We expect that along our journey there will be setbacks, as there are with everything.  However, we are now armed with the tools needed to work through the bumps and get ourselves back on the path forward.

I am eternally grateful for a husband who strives to choose the right and that he was able to recognize that he needed help.  Recognizing there was a problem was half the battle.  I am grateful for honesty and good communication and that my husband will listen to the counselors and professionals that are part of his wellness team and that he listens to me.   I am grateful that he seeks to improve himself…for himself, for me and for his children.

I know that God lives, He is our Heavenly Father and He loves us very, very much.  I know that His son, Jesus Christ died for us, so that we could return to live again in His presence.  I am grateful that He has made up for all that I am lacking.  I am grateful for Holy Scripture and that I can bring myself closer to God through reading them.  And I am grateful for prayer.

Finally, I would like to share a letter that I wrote to my husband shortly after the final Oprah show, just before we moved.  I don’t know quite what inspired Miss O to say the things she did, but on that day, she said everything I needed to hear.  I took meticulous notes of her words and reworked some of her thoughts with some of mine into a letter I shared with Husband feeling they were words he needed to hear too.

To my Husband,

I, more than anything, wanted to write down a few of my thoughts and express to you my love and appreciation for you, our marriage and all that we have together.

To reflect upon our 13 years of wedded bliss, I couldn’t be more proud of you and all that you have overcome, conquered, fought and won.  My heart has ached to watch you struggle and find your inner happy and sense of worthiness.   I have often begged of the Lord to “strengthen you up so that you may find your path, your calling in life, and to feel worthy to own the life you were created for.   Your calling will light you up letting you know that you are exactly where you are supposed to be and that’s exactly what you are supposed to be doing”.  I feel, for the first time, that you are exactly where you are supposed to be and that you are on the path to where you are supposed to be going.

I have heard it said that “There is a difference between thinking you deserve to be happy and knowing you are worthy of happiness.  We often block our won blessings because we don’t feel inherently good enough, or smart enough or worthy enough.  You are worthy because you were born and because you are here.  You alone are enough”.

“I see and hear God speaking to you, whether you hear it or not.  Wait, and listen for the guidance that is greater than your meager mind.  God is love, and God is Life, and your life is always speaking to you.   Subtle whispers.  What are the subtle whispers in your life whispering to you? And, will you hear it?  What is it saying?  What will you do with it”?

I feel that we have arrived at the place where we are to rest our family for a time, that all may grow and shine.  You are a light, a bright light, to me and to our daughter and son.  We look to you for guidance, comfort, cuddles and hugs.  And back rubs.  As your wife, my heart delights and tears swell to see you engaging in life, playing with our kids and showing them tender kindness.  Be it helping our son ride his bike or endlessly rebuilding Legos or counseling our daughter about boys or making friends.

Newton’s 3rd law of motion says, “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”.

I love that our little peoples delight in spending time and learning from you and that they want more. I delight in spending time with you and learning from you, listening to you laugh and find your “inner happy”.  You are the Patriarch of our family, you teach and guide us and you receive inspiration, and you receive in direct proportion to how you give.  I will strive to give more and follow your example and guidance as we follow the Lords example.

I have heard it said that “everyone wants and needs validation, wants to be heard, wants to know…do you see me, do you hear me, does what I say mean anything to you”?   I need you to know that I see you; I hear you and what you say means everything to me.  I thank you for the small and simple acts of kindness you provide;  I thank you for the large ones too.  I thank you for being flexible, even when you don’t want to be.  I thank you for remembering that I love flowers and for making them appear on our anniversary eve and that no bouquet of flower, no matter how grand or small, would be complete without the appropriate chocolate to accompany them.  I thank you for the nightly pillow talk and words of encouragement.  I am thankful for many things.  Mostly, I am thankful that you were brave enough to make secret plans with my dad and drive across multiple states, just so you could ask me to be your wife.

Finally, at the end of the day, after you have come to bed and fallen asleep, thus waking me up…I will lie quietly and offer up thanks that I have been blessed with a husband as wonderful as you.  Then, you will start snoring, very loudly.  And I will smile to myself, and give thanks that I have you, alive, safely by my side.

I love you with all that I have and we will move forward, together, forever.

Photo Credit:  “Love Locks” by Wanderlinse and  “Love, Amor, Aimer, Amore” by Camdiluv

Walking into a psychiatrist’s office is slightly un-nerving.  “Those” places are for crazy people, right?  There is a definite stigma associated with receiving mental help and we were no exception in feeling this.  As we walked down the hall towards the clinic office I found myself looking around to see if anybody would see us walking in.  Heaven forbid!  Much to our relief the hall was empty and we were able to slip in, undetected.  Whew, crisis averted!  Husband filled out the paper work and provided the insurance info (all on his own I might add) and we found ourselves a seat while waiting for the big moment.  Finally, “Mr. Husband, we will see you now” was announced by the office assistant.  The other patients waiting in the lobby looked us up and down, trying to figure out what our problem was and why we were there.  I suggested he act crazy and they would stop staring.  In reality, we were all probably in the same boat, normal people just trying to work out the kinks.

We were ushered into a tidy but smallish room and asked to make ourselves comfortable.  We had barley been seated when our mental health professional entered the room and introduced herself to us.  As it turns out, husband had previously attended high school with her and I became instantly nervous that this would not go well because he would be afraid to open up to her.  Surprisingly, he was very relaxed.  She was a cheerful person, very non-threatening and proceeded to ask Husband a series of questions.  I was pleased and found I liked her very much.  She was encouraging and supportive and gave some much needed reassurance!  She did not feel he was a danger to himself.  And with this we felt calm.   She asked how his meds were working for him, he replied, “not so well”.  She suggested we make a change and we liked this.  He was to switch gradually over a designated period of time and then switch over completely to the new stuff.  At the end of the appointment we left.  Again we proceeded… day by day, week by week and slowly, life began to not suck so much.

We returned for a follow-up visit a month later and were able to report that the depression was much better.  Let the heavens open and the angels sing!  With this visit, she increased his dose to target the anxiety.  We left and again returned in one month.  This time with even better results…his anxiety was down too!  We continued our weekly therapy and our monthly psych visits for the next 6 months and life improved.  Husband was getting better and we were getting into a healthy pattern, finally.   Life continued to not suck so much.

I began to leave little daily notes of encouragement for Husband to find, usually placing them on the kitchen counter, alongside the happy pills.  I wanted them to be one of the first things he saw in the morning, hopefully to give him an extra boost for the day.  Sometimes they were a love note expressing my lust for him, other times a scripture or quote I had found.  I did this for quite some time.  Husband collected these cards and kept them with him so when he was feeling down he could grab the stack and flip through them as needed.  It wasn’t uncommon for Husband to have difficulty about mid-day, while at work.  On occasion he would hide in the bathroom and cry, afraid to come out and face reality, a deep wave of sadness overcoming him.  He shared with me that the note cards gave him encouragement and were a lifeline for him.  They gave him strength to draw upon.  They were uplifting for me as well.

Surprisingly, through all we had been through, our respective families knew relatively little about our personal battle.  Certain family members knew more than others but most remained in blissful naivety.  My mom asked me why I never shared much of our situation.  To this I replied that I didn’t want to burden others with such depressing details.  Who wants to sit and listen to something, so depressing?  It was rather unpleasant to live it and I was pretty sure it would be rather unpleasant to hear it.   I was determined not to be a Debbie Downer!  Besides, in my mind, what would they have done anyway?  Most of my immediate family lived miles away and everyone had their own problems to be occupied with.

I often turn to the scriptures and prayer for comfort and guidance.  Equally as often I turn to nature, Gods creations, to find comfort and inspiration. The earth is a living testament of the love our Father has for us, which he has provided for our benefit and well being.  Sometimes all I need is to surround myself in its beauty, His beauty, to feel refreshed and ready to start anew.

I love the sound of rain, tap tapping atop the leaves and the sweet smell of the ocean breeze.  I find it immensely therapeutic tending to flowers and sinking my fingers deep into fresh, cool, potting soil.  I find joy in watching horses play in the field, they turn to race along the fence, tails proudly flagging behind them, heads held noble and high, gentle horsey snorts muffled in the cool morning air.  I love fuzzy Cavalier puppies romping in the grass, they roll over, exposing fat delicious puppy tummies, freckled and soft, begging to be rubbed and loved upon.  I love walking through the forest along mossy trails, the soft light filtering through the rich, leafy canopy above, rays from heaven wafting down.  I enjoy walking along the beach when the tide has receded far into the sea, exposing miles of coastline for my exploratory enjoyment.  My favorite time of day is just before bedtime when I am safely cuddled up against my husband for pillow talk, the puppy snoring softly beside us.  Husband will lovingly twirl at my hair as I am about to blissfully pass into a deep sleep, the kids safely tucked into their respective rooms, innocently unaware of the grown-up worries that plague their parents.

We knew, even though Husband was healing that we would need to change jobs if we wanted to continue to improve.  We were barely hanging on.  Against all odds, we spotted a position not too far from where we had previously lived.  Hopefully we could land it!  We would be sad to leave family, again, but thrilled for our family and the opportunity this job presented.  Potential was there for everybody to come out a winner.  We crossed our fingers and hoped that this was what we were supposed to do.  We trusted in the Lord, He had been refining us in the fire for something much greater than we could have imagined.

Follow this series on Thursdays of each week (read previous parts 1-7 here).

Photo Credit:  “Horses Playing” by Big Grey Mare and “Rose Raindrops” by Lisa Yallamas

Our story is meant to aid in understanding the dynamics of human trafficking and child abuse—both victim and perpetrator—and especially to give insight into the violence of this particular kind of abuse.  In the process of writing this—as you will see—it became obvious that sexual trafficking is one of the most violent of crimes against children.  It creates shame and darkens the soul more than almost any other type of human desecration.  It is told from my perspective as Vicki’s husband, with Vicki’s own words in subparagraphs throughout

Part 3:  Therapy with Isaac

Besides being an excellent mother, Vicki was skillful at networking.  After years of dallying with the idea of incest therapy, Vicki had  made up her mind earlier that spring to get serious.  After several calls she had found a therapist with an outstanding reputation and to our astonishment Isaac was willing to barter because his fees would be far beyond our affordability.   The problem was that he was two and half hours away.

With the long drive and our busy summer Vicki’s trips to therapy became hit and miss.  As summer receded in autumn the misses began to outweigh the hits.  As the turmoil at home increased, the hits became even fewer.  In those sporadic sessions with Isaac during the summer and fall Vicki had begun to flesh in the one memory from age eleven and because of its brutal nature Isaac suspected that there were probably more.  He wanted to use hypnosis but Vicki resisted.  She was afraid of the loss of control.  She already hated the sessions with him.  He pushed for details, wanting to trigger her memory, but when the session was over, it was over.  She often felt like a basket case when she walked out the door and still had to drive home for 2.5 hours.

Although the long trip and our busy lifestyle were her usual excuse for canceling sessions, both Vicki and Isaac suspected that her aversion to therapy was the fear of more memories.  With Isaac’s help she did come to understand the root of her need to intervene between our oldest daughter and me.  It was a simple primitive maternal emotion of protection -the protection that she hadn’t gotten but needed as a child.  But that didn’t change things at home.  Isaac did promise her that as she rooted out her past, those feelings would subside.

Finally, in late November, Vicki called to cancel one more appointment.

Isaac told me bluntly, “I can’t work with you on this kind of basis.  It’s obvious that you’re running away.  Either you come every other week like we originally agreed or I’m going to drop you.”  I knew Isaac was right;  I was running away.  I didn’t know what from, but I was running.  The feeling was not unlike giving birth.  When I got to the hard part of labor, I wanted to quit and forget about having a new baby and walk out of the hospital, but it was too late.  I had to keep going, no matter how painful because the process I’d already started was irreversible.  Now I was too far gone to quit, but too scared to keep going.  It was my love for my family and especially my  daughters that pushed me to recommit and to make the long drive to therapy that next Tuesday and each long drive after that.

Vicki rarely missed a session afterward.

A few weeks later Vicki was heading toward Roanoke in the early afternoon with the sun warming the van.  Suddenly she remembered another pleasant afternoon living in Hawaii at five years old.    She could clearly recall the military base housing where she lived that surrounded the playground and the cabana in the center.   In the next scene the pleasing ambiance was ruined as she fought and kicked against her father in the cabana while he was trying to remove her underwear.

Soon the memories came tumbling out like ripe fruit from a cornucopia.  And they never seemed to wait for a therapy session; instead, she got in the habit of interrupting my work at the sewing room.  With a background in psychology I was fascinated with this process of bringing to light buried memories.   I would listen, ask a question or two if needed for direction, and then write down the memory when she was finished.  I was impressed with the clarity of Vicki’s memory work as was Isaac.  There was a sense of release with each memory, and Vicki and I both had the feeling that we were cleaning out her subconscious.  And we patiently (and occasionally not so patiently) endured this sometimes explosive process that would usually upset our home for a few days before and after because we believed that when Vicki was finished with the memories, the reconstruction and healing would begin.

Memories were not just things that popped into my head.  They caused me tremendous physical and emotional feelings.  I was overwhelmed with feelings of horrible shame, sweats, shaking, panic attacks, feeling like I was going to pass out, dizziness, feelings of being suffocated.  The words “my father molested me” turned into many, many times of him sneaking into my bedroom at night even from a very young age.  The word molested turned into what it really was “rape of a child”.It hurt both physically and emotionally and spiritually.  My body relived everything and there was a certain amount of uproar around our house.  And then I would review what I had learned in my next therapy session with Isaac and he would push for more details.

These memories had lived behind a wall of fear.  When I was three years old my father killed my cat and brought him to me.   He said that if I ever told the same thing would happen to me.  So I did what he said, I never told and eventually large portions of my life were placed beyond that wall.  This allowed me to survive and be “normal.”  But at this point in my life I finally felt safe enough to venture beyond that wall.  I was motivated by my love for my children and husband.  But I had to traverse that wall of fear.   That’s what entering into therapy meant for me.   The fear was overwhelming and even now twenty years after remembering these buried traumas, I am afraid to talk about it.  My father has been dead for two years and the fear of telling is still palpable.

Neither Isaac nor I ever doubted the veracity of Vicki’s memories.  They were clear for Vicki and occasionally I would ask her questions later to see whether she remembered the same facts.  I came to the conclusion that she wasn’t making things up; she was reliving her past and from that point on she remembered as any person would.  Over the years I had observed enough of her father to recognize he had a seedy side; it was just more than I could have imagined.

Donate or Learn More About our Work

If you would like to see the ongoing work we are involved with in Guatemala, please visit our website at www.safehomesforchildren.org.  Our child advocacy work there is designed to keep families together which is the foremost deterrent to exploitation of children.  Vicki does public speaking on child trafficking in the United States, and if you would like to support this work, you can make donations to Safe Homes and note its specified purpose.  In the near future, you can submit donations or learn more about trafficked children at our new and specially dedicated site (launch and new address to be announced in an upcoming post).

Follow this series on Tuesdays of each week (read previous posts, 1-2 here).

Photo Credit:  “Pandora’s Box” by Christiaan Botha

♥  LOVE this amazing article by Brad Wilcox for BYU Alumni Magazine on the concept of Grace!  It really clarified and put this principle in perspective for me.  With Brad Wilcox as the author, how could you go wrong?

♥  A new video from Al Fox!  She is so fun, fresh and uplifting.  Listen to her bear testimony of Christ.   Watch here!

♥  Listen to this gorgeous cover of Bruno Mars, Just the Way You Are by The Piano Guys!  Super cool.  What do you think about these guys in general?  Love it or hate it?

♥  How has the spirit comforted you?  Love these beautiful testimonies of those who have found peace through the spirit.

Photo Credit:  “Brandy Apple Pie” by QuintanaRoo

We all have “particulars” when we are honest with ourselves.  Both good and bad.  They make us each unique and different.  Heavenly Father created us this way and thank heavens he did.  If we were all the same, had the same opinions and hobbies what a boring world it would be.  We are created in the image of our Heavenly Father and possess a “spark of divinity” within us, but the particulars are what makes us individuals.

I learned a lot about “particulars” from dear friends of my Mom and Dad.  Growing up Dee and Dave would have us over every Thanksgiving and we waited for this day with great anticipation.  When Dee cooked, it was nothing short of manna sent from heaven.  Green beans never tasted so good or looked so lovely in a bowl.  Turkey was never moister and desserts were nothing short of beautiful.  She was creativity in human form and everything she touched became a work of art.  Martha Stewart had nothing on her.

The Thanksgiving when they moved to a new house was the most memorable.  Their new home had dark velvet couches, claw foot bath tubs and a dining room that sent a little girls future house dreams into a tailspin.  Dee called us over and asked us to do her a favor in the dining room before we could eat.  She handed us a roll of wallpaper boarder and some Elmer’s glue and asked us to neatly put the border on the walls.  She said she would fix it later, but she couldn’t eat in her new dining room without it.  To ask two pre-teens to put up a wallpaper boarder up straight with glue was a gutsy move on her part.  We were a little nervous, and our little hands put piece by piece up as straight as we could.  After about an hour we were done…project complete.  Dee walked in and said she could now set the table.  The room looked amazing with its long dark curtains, cozy fireplace and now wallpaper boarder lining its edges.  The huge turkey, beautiful decorations of purples and green flowed down the table.  She could see what we didn’t.

After we moved, we still heard from Dee every holiday.  She would send us intricately cut cookies for Christmas filled with jams and chocolate.  Each a culinary small piece of perfection.  In each cookie I could see her…her face, her weathered hands and her heart.  She was particular and I wanted to be her because of that.

I look back upon the childhood memories made with Dee and Dave and now realize that my parents could see something in Dee and Dave that I didn’t.   You see Dee and Dave weren’t exactly the same as us–they had their “particulars” -and we loved them for it.  Our families had a lot of differences, including religious beliefs.  But I never knew or cared, nor did my parents.   My parents loved them, served them and both families enriched each others lives throughout the years.    Their love for one another extended past the imaginary “borders” we all create for ourselves.   They were our brothers and sisters and my parents focused on their commonalities instead of their differences.  President George Albert Smith, the eighth Prophet of the LDS church said this about loving our neighbor:

“What a happy world it would be if men everywhere recognized their fellowmen as brothers and sisters, and then followed up by loving their neighbors as themselves.  Let us evidence our conduct by our gentleness, by our love, by our faith, that we do keep that great commandment that the Savior said was like unto the first great commandment.”

Wouldn’t that be a great world if we applied this to everyone we came in contact with?  It would be a gift to be able to look past the “particulars” and reach out to all in charity, friendship and love.  I believe that is the way Christ would want us to treat all, be it neighbor, stranger or friend.

The particulars are really just a way to distinguish us all as Heavenly Fathers sons and daughters.  And how we love and serve each other, particulars and all is really what life is all about.  So my thought to you this day, is reach out to someone.  A call, an email, a cookie or just a simple smile.  Get past your own particulars and see others the way a loving God does, as his children.

And maybe this particular person will make some French Toast for someone else, or just plain leave the sheets messy today.

 Photo Credit: “Chai Masala French Toast” by L. Richarz

January is “Human Trafficking Awareness” month.  Our story is meant to aid in understanding the dynamics of this kind of child abuse—both victim and perpetrator—and especially to give insight into the violence of this particular kind of abuse.  In the process of writing this—as you will see—it became obvious that sexual trafficking is one of the most violent of crimes against children.  It creates shame and darkens the soul more than almost any other type of human desecration.  It is told from my perspective as Vicki’s husband, with Vicki’s own words in subparagraphs throughout

The Indian Summer

The year was 1988. Vicki had turned 39 years old that spring and I was a year and a half behind her.  Our youngest, number eight, was a year old and we were incredibly excited because we were moving into the house I had been building for the past four years.

Prematurely pushed out of a small rental house, we were half camping in our dream home.  With no kitchen, Vicki was cooking all of our meals outside on an open campfire while I put in a few hours of carpentry work into our new house each night after a long day at our drapery workroom.  We had moved in with only an upstairs bathroom and a couple bedrooms; gradually I finished our bedroom and then the living room—dining room area.  We both have fond memories of sharing and decompressing after those incredibly long days, days of dreams coming true, days of camaraderie and cooperation.  We talked around the outdoor fire into the night, relished the Indian summer and enjoyed the kids, equally excited, racing around the flotsam of a house under construction.

The weather cooperated enough to get the kitchen in and we settled into a house that was 90% finished.  But it was soon obvious that something was wrong as we sat down to eat dinner each evening at our new harvest table.  Vicki sat at one end and I at the other, but to save her life, my wife could not find the right spot for our oldest daughter who was eleven.  There wasn’t a right spot.  If I would look in that daughter’s direction, Vicki was certain it was with a lecherous eye.  In our brand new house, with the first table that fit our entire family, dinner often erupted with accusations and heated arguments.  Our poor daughter was humiliated and sometimes ran from the table while Vicki and I slung recriminations back and forth ruining the meal we had so long looked forward to having as a family.

I did not understand my own behavior.  I am not really sure what I was feeling other than a compelling need to protect my daughter.  When I would try and be rational with myself, it did not help. I did not believe Jody was or would molest our daughter.  I knew my behavior was bizarre, but I had a physical, overpowering need to jump between him and them any time he got physically close.   And that is what I would do especially with the oldest.   I was protecting my daughter, which my mother had not done for me—I was the oldest daughter in my family.  To save my life I couldn’t explain my behavior but the compulsion was powerful.  As it would turn out my body was already remembering things that my mind was not ready to accept.  Even though I did not remember any details I knew the word “molested” applied to me.  I knew that my father had molested me when I was eleven years old.

The information about Vicki’s childhood was not new.  From the beginning Vicki had let me know that it came with her—a kind of package deal.  She felt in some way that she was damaged goods and that I needed to know that.  But the truth was that we both came from dysfunctional families and there had been an undertone of discord in our relationship from the beginning that occasionally erupted into scrimmages.  Getting along was often difficult and we suspected it was, at least, partially due to our childhoods.  We did way too much fighting and we knew it; we just didn’t know what to do about it even after several years of professional therapy.  For her part, Vicki had started incest therapy that spring, but with all we had to do moving into the house it was only half-hearted.   What we didn’t know was that her strange behavior regarding our daughter was merely the visible tip of a huge iceberg that we would yet learn about.

With our house flaring up almost every night at dinner, Vicki and I both saw the need to get serious about her therapy.  And that turned out to be like opening a door and walking into a world that neither of us had known existed.  In our wildest imagination we could never have dreamed it.  We would go from the sordid further into darkness to raw evil and beyond into another world that strained credibility. It was hard to believe that Vicki could not remember some of the things that had happened to her as a child, but then upon further reflection, it easy to see why she would not want to remember her childhood.  Who would want to live in that kind of world?

This chapter of my life is a really hard one for me.  I have always loved kids partly because my mom did and partly because I saw so many hurt when I was growing up (but I didn’t know this at the time).  I considered babysitting as a teen to be an honor, much better than dating.  So it was not surprising that Jody and I had 5 kids in 6 years.  That made 6 kids with my oldest from a previous marriage.

I did not recognize how much my oldest daughter looked just like me at age 11 until I began probing my inexplicable behavior.  With only the vaguest memory of being molested at that age, I had promised myself growing up that the same thing would not happen to my daughters.  At all costs, I was going to do it right this time; I was going to protect my daughter.

Donate or Learn More About our Work

If you would like to see the ongoing work we are involved with in Guatemala, please visit our website at www.safehomesforchildren.org.  Our child advocacy work there is designed to keep families together which is the foremost deterrent to exploitation of children.  Vicki does public speaking on child trafficking in the United States, and if you would like to support this work, you can make donations to Safe Homes and note its specified purpose.  In the near future, you can submit donations or learn more about trafficked children at our new and specially dedicated site (launch and new address to be announced in an upcoming post).

Photo credit:  “Autumnal Walk” by Tricky

SFS:  Tell us a little about your service mission and the Alzheimer’s Pilot Program.

Becky:  Recently, I have been called as a Church Service Missionary for the Latter-day Saint Family Services “Alzheimer’s Pilot Program“.  Our main focus is on helping people care for themselves while caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s.  Working with the local Alzheimer’s Association, we gather information about what Alzheimer’s care centers are available and their level of care, day care centers for patients, geriatric doctors, and other pertinent information that would be helpful force a caregiver to know.  Workshops and training are also available for caregivers to learn how to maintain their own temporal, physical, and spiritual needs.  Finances, support groups, and legal advice are also concerns that caregivers face which are addressed.

It may not be on the mountain’s height, or over the stormy sea;
It may not be at the battle’s front my Lord will have need of me;
But if by a still, small voice He calls to paths I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in Thine,
I’ll go where You want me to go.

(LDS Hymnal  #270)

SFS:  What is LDS Family Services?

Becky:  No one is immune from the current conditions that face our world.  Sometimes we need extra help.  It may be as simple as just needing a listening ear, reading a particular article addressing our current situation, or speaking with a professional counselor.  To help meet these immediate needs, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has created an organization called LDS Family Services.  Available on their site are many resources including counseling, recovery programs and information designed to help keep families strong and together -one of the main emphases of the LDS faith.  With provident living as the goal, the services offered at LDS Family Services help people help themselves.

SFS:  Besides Alzheimer’s, with what types of scenarios might LDS Family Services be able to help?

Becky:

• My cute little child has turned into a teenager and now hardly ever talks to me!
• I’m 16 years old, unmarried and pregnant.  Should I keep my baby or get an abortion?  What are my options?
• My husband and I hardly talk to each other anymore.  I don’t want our marriage to end in divorce, but what can I do?
• My Dad’s dementia is getting worse, I’m afraid to even leave him alone anymore, but if I take him to a rest home, I feel like I’m a failure as a child.  Where can I go for advice?
• My teenager has been hanging around with the wrong crowd.  I’m concerned that he may be getting into drugs, how can I be sure without offending him?
• Pornography is ruining my ability to have normal relationships.   But I am so addicted I can’t stop.
• I get so tense over the simplest things.
• This deep dark hole I seem to be in is just getting deeper and darker…Is there any way out?

SFS:  How can one contact LDS Family Services if they have a need?

Becky:  If a family or individual is struggling they can go directly to their local LDS Family Services (current members may receive a referral from their Bishop or Branch President).  The Family Services Counselors and Service Missionaries are trained to address people’s needs in a professional, loving, non-threatening private manner.

SFS:  How can one help and where do they begin?

Becky:  Helping in large or small ways can make a difference in your life and in the life of someone you help.

Anyone can donate financial resources to help:

Latter-day Saint Charities

Anyone can volunteer service by contacting an LDS Family Services center nearby:

LDS Family Services

OR~ Contact your local Alzheimer’s Association and volunteer or donate.

Alzheimer’s Association

 Photo Credit:  “Elderly Sister Looking Down” by Ronn Ashore

Sitting on the cozy sofa it was discussed how I was feeling.  For the first time in all of the roller-coaster drama it was brought to attention how his actions affected me.  It was as if a flood gate had been opened up and I was allowed to expose my raw, worn-out soul.  I was tired.  Overwhelmingly tired.  We talked about how his illness affected the kids and that it wasn’t all about him and how he was doing on any given day.   Also, I needed to stop enabling him.  A nurse by trade, I find it difficult to step back and let him manage.  My first reaction is to try and “do” something.  How can I help, what do you need, what is wrong?  Knowing he has anxiety I just stepped in to the “doing” roll, to try and make things easier on him.  I ended up making it worse, for us both.  The majority of the time I made the appointments, took the car in, attended to the kid’s social engagements, attended to the grocery shopping, etc etc etc.   He did some of this sporadically but it was left for me to do regularly.   I was given the assignment to back off and with this I felt a huge weight lifted from my shoulders.  He was now in charge of making his own haircut appointments, and going on his own.   He now got to call in prescriptions and pick them up.  And he rose to the challenge!  Things were again improving now that we had Santa.  In addition to the article, Santa gave us two books to read.  The first entitled The Peacegiver, by James L. Ferrell touches on depression/anxiety and the second was called Bonds That Make Us Free, by C. Terry Warner and touches upon marital relations.  Both are excellent books and would help us immensely in the coming months.   I was thankful.

Husband continued to improve and then we hit a setback.  Husband was going to be home soon and I hurried to get dinner on the table and ready for his arrival.   I am not the best cook or even remotely regular about having well planned meals prepared.  However, on this night I was going to make him a longtime favorite of his, a simple taco salad. Everything was ready when he arrived home except, upon sitting down to eat, I realized I  had completely spaced getting lettuce.  The day had been long for him and when he walked in the door I could sense right away that this was not going to be a pleasant evening.  He sat down to dinner, noticed the absence of lettuce and proceeded to protest my last minute omission.  Forget the fact that it would take 5 mins to run to the store and grab some.  The tirade began about how I didn’t do this right or that right and this was wrong and that was wrong.  I couldn’t provide for him something as simple as lettuce.  I recognized immediately what was going on and recognized that he was venting frustration from the day at me and that I was a safe place.   That being said, it didn’t make it right and my feelings were hurt, and I was mad.   How dare he treat me like that!  Husband was running on very little sleep and with this we had a recipe for disaster. And disaster is what I got.

He had removed himself from the table and was now perched precariously, sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion in the front room.  I knew he was being unreasonable and that his tirade towards me was unwarranted.  So I did what any reasonable wife would do when needlessly attacked…I pushed it right back at him.  I remained calm, of course, and used a nice even tone of voice, so as not to show any signs of alarm or dismay.   And as he continued to verbally poke at me, I gently pointed out the error of his ways and asked if we could fast forward to the point in the disagreement where he realized his mistake and apologized.  Because let’s face it, he and I both know how much I really do and just how much slack I really take.  When I brought up his gaming, his blatant disregard for healthful sleeping habits and his shoddy church attendance that resulted from said gaming and sleeping habits, he cracked.

He sat, rocking back and forth on the edge of that cushion.  His eyes staring me down with a black, piercing coolness I had never seen in him before, empty and cold.  He looked like a wild animal that had been cornered and was about to lash out in a last ditch effort for survival.  He had been upset over the stupid lettuce and I had touched a nerve in areas he knew he was lacking in.  He couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed the car keys and left the house.  He had never left the house like that before, ever.  I was nervous.  Where would he go?  What would he do?  Did he have anywhere to go?  I found my mind racing to all sorts of irrational thoughts.

An hour later Husband came in, visibly shaken.  I had spotted him sitting in the car, in the driveway, and felt for a short while relieved that I could at least see him.  That is until I saw what he had been doing.  Husband had a knife in the car and had etched, deep into his left arm the words “I hate me”.  I started to cry.  He started to cry.  As he crumbled into a heap on the floor, I immediately went to the phone and called his counselor and within 15 minutes I had him sitting in Santa’s office.  Thank goodness for smallish towns and everything being in close proximity to our home.  I wasn’t about to take him home unless Santa gave the OK.  And even that made me nervous.

I sat quietly on the couch hugging a throw pillow as Santa and Husband talked.  It was comforting to be settled on the sofa, also my safe place.  I was relieved to have somebody else in charge.  Husband proceeded to share what he had done and with a little prodding pulled his arm out for us to inspect.  Tears ran down his cheeks as sat kind of hunched over like, sinking back into the couch.  He looked beaten and heavy, deeply sad.  Empty.  He despised himself and what he felt he had become.  They discussed many things over the course of the hour.  One of the main things was his immediate safety and a definite need to change medications.  We all agreed they were not performing as they should for his needs.  Husband had been on one particular medication since the beginning and it was obviously no longer serving its purpose.    He wanted us to see a Psychiatrist for med management, gave us a referral and we had an appointment for the next day before ever leaving the office.  Deep sigh, relief.  Husband committed his safety to his counselor and me and with that I felt comfortable taking him home.  An interesting note…while in nursing school, a psychiatric nurse once told me that, if a suicidal pt will commit their safety to you, they will most often keep that commitment.  A suicidal patient does not want to end their life; they want to end the life they are currently living and that most often, they will indeed let you know of their intentions. I again left the office offering up thanks and gratitude for a counselor that was in tune to our needs.  It meant everything to me that he was deeply concerned for our well being.  He was an answer to our prayers and at that moment our lifeline.

Follow this series on Thursdays of each week.

Read previous posts 1-6, here.

Authors Note

It should be understood that I am telling the bulk of this story from my perspective as Vicki’s husband, although Vicki is actively engaged in the writing  and you will see her hand in italics.  She is much more of a talker than writer and we feel the story is more understandable when narrated by someone with one foot inside her world and the other in everyone else’s.  And I have one additional purpose, which is to tell the story for its own sake.  It’s an incredible story that I entitle “The Long Shadow of Darkness” because it invites you into an understanding of evil and its effects that I am sure is beyond your present ken.

It is also important to mention that this story has been a long time coming, primarily because we have had to mature and gain perspective on something so out of the ordinary that it boggles the mind.  This is a synopsis of a struggle that has taken years to digest and then comprehend and finally gain the understanding that we presently have.  And this perspective too, may evolve over time.  This is an introduction to Vicki’s story…

In Her Own Words

To be used as a child prostitute at the tender age of 9 and 10 and in kiddie porn throughout your childhood does something to the brain that is hard to undo.  I thought the rest of the world was living a “Brady Bunch” type life while I was caught in a hell that was mostly “how am I going to survive this next hour?”  My parents presented as normal functioning people. They were both college educated and my dad was a military man.  We lived in middle to upper middle class homes and spent summer afternoons at the pool.  I was a Girl Scout and an honor roll student by day, but at night and on many weekends I was taken by my father to his little “parties” with his friends.  The Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) I now suffer  from as a result of what I went through is difficult on a day to day basis.  For instance, to this day, most photographs of me reveal the haunted, terrified look of a little girl being photographed in a porn show.

I hope by telling this story that three things will be accomplished.  First, to personally heal as I speak out to a general audience.  This produces a certain kind of validation that is cleansing.  Second, to help people who live in the USA understand that between 200,000 and 300,000 children domestically are being used in the commercial child sex trade each year.  This is a national tragedy and sadly not a well-known one.  We all lose when innocence is robbed from our children and I can’t help but think that we are all accountable—if only by our ignorance or inaction.  Third, I would like for my own children to better understand what’s behind my PTSD and to more graciously accept it and forgive the lack of normalcy it created in their lives.  It is my prayer that maybe—just maybe—they might understand that they, like myself, have developed a greater capacity for compassion because of their experience.

Donate or Learn More About the Cause

January is “Human Trafficking Awareness” month.  Our story is meant to aid in understanding the dynamics of this kind of child abuse—both victim and perpetrator—and especially to give insight into the violence of this particular kind of abuse.  In the process of writing this—as you will see—it became obvious that sexual trafficking is one of the most violent of crimes against children.  It creates shame and darkens the soul more than almost any other type of human desecration.

If you would like to see the ongoing work we are involved with in Guatemala, please visit our website at www.safehomesforchildren.org.  Our child advocacy work there is designed to keep families together which is the foremost deterrent to exploitation of children.  Vicki does public speaking on child trafficking in the United States, and if you would like to support this work, you can make donations to Safe Homes and note its specified purpose.  In the near future, you can submit donations or learn more about trafficked children at our new and specially dedicated site (launch and new address to be announced in an upcoming post).

Follow Vicki’s story in this 13 part series featured on Tuesday of each week.

Photo Credit:  “Not for Sale:  Human Trafficking” by Ira Gelb