What’s a book or movie that genuinely scares you?
A book of life. The Bible.
Her-story. Birdanity.
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An anonymous someone has begun leaving comments on my posts here, insisting that I remove them. He or she claims they are false and defamatory.
I have also wondered whether this person has sought assistance from local law enforcement to ensure those requests are followed. I have no confirmation of that.
The truth is, I am not willing to be silenced for fear of him.
This is my book, life and history; however fearful it may seem.
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I’m scheduled for surgery in a month to remove several organs. With that knowledge comes an uncomfortable awareness that complications are possible, including death.
To be honest, I keep pushing the necessary surgery to next month and even next year. I know my symptoms are getting worse, and there is no possibility that the need for surgery will simply disappear.
Still, my history with similar surgeries has been less than I hoped. The fear of waking up with fewer organs than I anticipated is very real.
I understand the perception that my writing is only a minuscule website and a tiny part of humanity.
Still, it matters.
I matter.
What happens to me, and what has happened to me, matters, too.
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Fear the Bible?
The last card my Mother gifted me reads:
“The Lord will fight for you. All you have to do is keep still.” — Exodus 14:14
She wants me to be quiet. She also worries, as I do, about the upcoming surgery and my physical safety from a former partner. He is a physically violent man who also carries concealed weapons and has, on occasion, followed me while I’m on my daily walks outside.
She believes that God has everything under His control. That it’s best not to provoke him and to stay quiet.
To carry pepper spray.
To be still.
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Is writing being still?
Is being quiet the same thing?
Most of my body says yes. My fingers and mind are holding up protest signs.
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The thing is, I keep remembering a story from my youth. It’s a difficult one to write about, and perhaps a difficult one to read.
Content warning: Childhood sexual abuse.
When I was ten years old, I was molested by my schoolteacher on more than a few occasions. That man was also a church leader at a Baptist Church.
After being molested by him in a swimming pool, and knowing I was scheduled to stay at his home for the weekend, I felt I could not remain silent.
Instead, I had an emotional fit, and there was a fight with my parents to share why. At first, I simply refused to stay at that teacher’s home overnight. They demanded an explanation.
Eventually, I told them why, even if that meant revealing what had happened to me and feeling that I was somehow tainted.
The result
The pastor of the church allowed my teacher to resign so he could teach elsewhere. I was told that the pastor already knew the teacher had molested at least ten other girls before me, yet did nothing to prevent him from continuing.
It was my Dad, who was also a leader in the church, who demanded that the teacher leave his educational post and the church.
My parents instructed me never to tell anyone what had happened. They said it was to preserve and protect me. I felt dirty, hurt, and even as I lied about not knowing why he left mid-school year.
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My Dad has since passed away. However, two years ago, my Mother wrote an email about the incident and in reply to a conversation about what happened. It read:
“This happened more than 30 years ago and you still suffer from what that teacher did to you. Our pastor knew and then tried to hide that man’s sin. He let that teacher move away quietly without any responsibility for what he had done to you and those other girls. As a leader in the church your Dad tried to be quiet to protect you and not to hurt you. In hindsight that was wrong. Who knows how that teacher went on to hurt others!”
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The questions about the similarities in my life abound.
If I am quiet today, will I follow a repeat pattern of silence? And how long will that silencing affect my future?
How is the more recent physical violence and sexual assault by a former partner fundamentally different from what my teacher did to me?
Why should I remain silent until “the Lord” finishes any fight on my behalf?
Will my former partner learn a different way to handle conflict than violently beating people, animals, and attempting to strangle any person whom he cannot silence or control?
Is my former partner also moving forward quietly and without any responsibility for what he did?
Will I look back at this situation and, in hindsight, realize that I did relatively little when I had the right and opportunity to seek justice and accountability?
Do we allow my former partner to do and say whatever he wants without addressing his threats of legal action, court proceedings, and past abuse?
Is justice truly served that way?
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If my Mother’s written words continue to be true, “Who knows how he went on to hurt other girls?”
I still wonder that, too.
We know that even my former teacher lived in an alternate reality where he had done nothing wrong. He wrote my parents a letter denying what happened before he left the church and school.
And there is something particularly troubling about the knowledge that someone can deny wrongdoing, move elsewhere, and continue with life while those who were silenced and harmed carry the consequences.
Yet I was not the first. According to what I was told, there were at least ten girls before me.
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Sin by silence may be an internal killer in the long term.
If I’m honest, I tried to commit suicide a few years ago out of desperation that I wasn’t being heard, properly defended or believed.
These are truths I will remember for the rest of my life. I am also convinced that I will not live in fear of what another man may do.
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As of last week, I received the Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault (DVSAC) forensic files and records. They provide all the documentation of what I endured.
I wasn’t provided these files until last week. Oh God, there lies the documentation, forensic file and story of my trauma.
Now, I feel a responsibility to understand my legal options and determine what steps I can take to pursue accountability.
But perhaps there is something more fundamental here.
I have spent considerable portions of my life learning when to speak, when to remain quiet, and when my voice might make someone else’s life more uncomfortable.
At ten, I spoke because I was afraid of what would happen to me if I didn’t.
As an adult, I am once again confronted with the possibility that silence might protect someone other than me.
I don’t know what the legal process will uncover, what accountability will look like, or how much of my remaining energy I will need to devote to it.
I do know that I cannot go back and change what happened when I was ten. I cannot give that little girl a different childhood, a different response from the adults around her, or a different ending to that story.
But I can make a different decision today.
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Perhaps being still doesn’t mean being silent.
Perhaps faith, if it is to mean anything to me now, must leave room for truth, boundaries, and the pursuit of justice.
I can let God fight His (or Her) battles without surrendering my own voice.
And I can acknowledge that protecting myself does not require protecting the people who have hurt me from the consequences of their actions.
I have been quiet before.
I know what that costs.
This time, I choose not to disappear, be quiet, or fear other people’s perceptions of my sanctity.
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p.s. On a positive note, my former partner’s recent complaint to law enforcement only served to solidify that he may not contact me again.
I assume that Anonymous someone will also refrain from posting comments here.
I will not be silenced.
Not that sin again.
Signed,
Stephanie Bird, Birdanity
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