From Isolation to Community
Survivors of sexual abuse can cast off the cloak of secrecy
I am infinitely grateful for the community of survivors that has grown exponentially in recent years --- our tribe, our raucous, healing, feisty, sassy tribe of warriors carving out a field of safety for all of us to sit in and breathe.
My belief gets stronger and stronger that survivors need to be in community with each other for a robust healing to happen. The two main barriers to being in community are survivors not feeling ready to share their identity and/or not prepared to receive others' stories.
I’ve been dreaming of us, this gathering together of survivors, for a very long time. Somewhere between today and 40 years ago, when I first came out as a survivor, somewhere between when my nightmare became a whispering question, this question has become a dream.
Opening the littlest of windows
Once I let myself enter the nightmare of my experience, opened my eyes, unzipped the bulletproof vest, and let my experience step out of hiding, I was only prepared to face my own terror, my own pain, my own abuse. A big fear I had back then was about being around other survivors. All my strength had to go to holding on to me – protecting me from any further knowledge of anyone else’s harm.
About 10 years in, I'd finally healed enough, cried enough, raged enough to open the littlest of windows to L – a sister writer in my writers’ group with my mentor Genie. We were in L’s car. She was driving us home from group. As I was getting out, she pulled a little white square out of her pocket. “You can read this if you want – or not.” She dropped it in my outstretched hand. It was actually a piece of 8”x11” paper folded over and over into a one-inch square. I started to unfold it, but she said, “Not here. Wait till I leave.” I squinted my eyes, scrunched my eyebrows. She was looking straight ahead over the dashboard out the window. "OK, I will. Hey, thanks for the ride, buddy." And she took off the minute I closed the car door.
I sat down on my front step staring at the little square pinched between my index finger and thumb, wondering what the heck this was. I unfolded it slowly like it was a piece of treasure. And then the truth radiated off the page and into my heart. How I wish I knew where that piece of writing was today. I'd frame it and put it in a place of honor in my studio.
She shared with me that she was an incest survivor, and she had a sneaking suspicion I was, too. And we didn't ever have to talk about this if I didn't want to. How deeply grateful I will always be to L for pointing me onto the healing path of being in connection, in relationship, in community with survivors.
About 10 years in, I’d finally healed enough, cried enough, raged enough to open the littlest of windows
Today I belong to a vast network of survivors. I couldn’t have said that back when I started my healing. I didn’t know then how remarkable and necessary a sense of belonging would be for my recovery from the abuse.
Melting the massive walls of isolation
This is in itself such an ironic surprise because from 1971 on, I’d started countless support groups for women --- support groups holding the fundamental belief that it would be liberating for women to join together, tell their stories, support each other’s struggles and successes. This was my message to so many groups, including single moms, divorced women, women of color, battered women, artists, Jews, lesbians, adoptive moms. This list is evidence of how clearly I understood the power of being in a support group with others you share an identity with, a life experience with. It was a fundamental. That is – all but sexual abuse survivors.
My God, how slow I was to see, that we, just like every other grouping of humanity, needed our sisters (and, yes, our brothers when they showed up) --- how much our healing depended on an enrichment of care from peers. I'm convinced it took me so long because of the very nature of the oppression of sexual abuse. ISOLATION. It permeates the experience because most of these crimes are committed in private, hidden from the rest of the world, from potential witnesses. And the culture locks in the isolation by refusing to address it, acknowledge it, expose it, and refuses to listen to, let alone believe, survivors. So, isolation is the cloak we wear, making us feel we not only can't but shouldn't lock shoulders with, march beside, offer solace, and tell our lived experience to each other.
Yes, this insidious isolation is a crucial component to the status quo to remaining static – the more we melt down the massive walls of isolation surrounding each of us, the closer we'll come to unraveling the web of abuse choking us.
Learning the language of new generations
Being in community also helps us learn from each other and grow. A little over a year ago, I met a new sister survivor: a creative, smart activist. Recently she said, “Can we talk?” I suspected something was up.
She said, “So, I want to talk about how we’re supporting Queer culture.”
“Great.”
We started into an easy conversation about the value of using proper pronouns for everyone to claim their particular gender identity.
She continued, “Firstly, and this is just my thoughts, I say with all due respect, but we should be inviting people to put their pronouns next to their names in the participant list when we gather in Zoom,” (which is our only and best space right now).
I say, “Great, let’s do it.”
Then comes the bombshell, “And I think we should stop using the phrase “coming out,” it’s an appropriation of Queer culture.”
BAH Boom. In a flash, my inner child, Molly, is screaming, “Please, don’t take that away!” My inner teenager, Jessica, is asking, “Does she know who she’s talking to?” And my inner critic, Pacasandra, chortles, “That’s what you get for bein’ an old broad, Jenson.”
I reply, “Tell me more.” A phrase I learned eons ago to give me time to take a few breaths and stay present when I’d just as soon head for the hills. See, I’m very aware that the phrase “coming out” came out of the Gay and Lesbian movement (that precursor to LBGTQI) in the 80's. For Christ's sake, I worked with five of the leaders at the Gay and Lesbian Center on 14th street in NYC – helping them navigate the plague of AIDs while running social service groups. I’ve written of this widely; I’ll have you know. Oops, let me climb down off my high horse here and just try to make my point.
I witnessed time and again how powerful that phrase – coming out of the closet - was for the Queer community, both as a beacon and as friendly marching orders.
My inner child, Molly, is screaming, “Please, don’t take that away!” My inner teenager, Jessica, is asking, “Does she know who she’s talking to?” And my inner critic, Pacasandra, chortles, “That’s what you get for bein’ an old broad, Jenson.”
As I gradually, cautiously, approached this beacon of my own, Ruby and Amber and Eli and Ken – who'd been following their own beacon out of their Queer closets, put hands on my shoulders and nodded a welcome to a fellow traveler. One who would be risking, just like them, the anger of their families, the potential shaming, the possible banishment. We were different, and we had something huge in common. This risk of truth-telling could ignite terrible loss but also incredible gain.
I so believe in the power of language. This phrase was like a set of fresh batteries to my lighting system. I knew about keeping an exhausting secret; I'd been hiding one deep in my guts for decades.
One of our differences, my new survivor sister and I have, besides Queer culture, is the half a century of years between our ages. Our conversation continued with her saying, “Well, I've talked to a bunch of people, and they agree it’s appropriation.” And I responded, “I hear you, and many in my life think this works. So, I suspect this is somewhat a generational thing.”
She subsequently shared with me an important observation: “Queer survivors come out twice: once as Queer, and a second time as survivors. Often, our sexual orientations and our abuse experiences become convoluted and seen to have a cause and effect relationship (i.e. believing that someone is not homosexual because they were abused by someone of the opposite sex or believing that someone is queer because they were sexually abused.)
I told her I want to keep thinking about this together – she and I and whoever else is interested, especially Queer survivors, to come up with something new, something fitting for sexual violence survivors, something that’s as good as, as powerful as “coming out.” Let’s keep talking.
An invitation to community
Lastly, I want to tell you about a remarkable community experience we had last month. Jackie Humphreys, the clinical consultant to Time To Tell, is leading a terrific project, Survivors’ Voices: Works of Resilience Written and Read by Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse. The big event is happening in January 2021 – read all about it here. On Sept. 12th, we did a practice run-through, a pilot, on Zoom, where nine survivors, including Jackie and me, each read a five-minute piece of our writing. We also had a practice audience, some survivors, and many allies. It was a resounding success. Here are some comments that people shared in the dialogue we had with the audience after the readings:
A Survivor: This was absolutely incredible – it really broke my sense of isolation.
An Ally: I felt I was witnessing something important
A Survivor: I was so, so nervous, and then I was so, so glad to be here.
An Ally: I felt included, given a voice, too.
A Survivor: I felt a huge growth spurt for myself.
An Ally: I was honored to be invited.
A Survivor: It felt so powerful to be in community with all the other survivors.
An Ally: The stories were so powerful! They are going to stay with me.
The banner to this piece is a collage created by the pilot's highly skilled tech Moderator, Beth Siegling. She selected images reflecting what was said in each of the readings—yet another excellent result of being in community.
The main event will take place in Jan. 2021 — for more information visit the Survivors’ Voices webpage
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