I was raised Catholic, a religion where you must confess your sins at least once a year, but in my childhood my parent’s edict was once a week. If I couldn’t think of any sins I had committed, even venial ones (for which you must go to purgatory after you die, so what’s the point), I would make some up. My mom always told me, “Young lady, I’m sure if you think on it long and hard you’ll find some sins you committed”. Not knowing the meaning to some of the words in the Ten Commandments, (which was supposed to be a guide for us to identify sins, such as adultery and covet ─ I thought adultery had something to do with farming and covet meant wish) I confessed to such silliness as I wished I weren’t so skinny as one of my sins. The primary thread that went through all of these wrongdoings (it took me decades to start calling sins, wrongdoings; the word “sin” almost traumatized me) was guilt. I loved anything to do with words (The first two lines of one of my poems is A love affair with words I’ve had since I was three, when first they marched out of books to tempt and pleasure me) so, wanting to understand the whole sin business better I headed for my friend Webster who said that guilt meant the state of one who has committed an offense, especially consciously. Then I had to look up “offense” and it meant something that outrages the moral or physical senses. After that I had to look up “outrage” and it meant an act that violated accepted standards of behavior or taste. By this time, now thoroughly confused, I had narrowed it all down to a very fuzzy definition, allowing me to let a lot of sins slide.
A regular occurrence while growing up was guilt following me throughout the day, prompting me to learn which was a sin or not a sin that I had to tell Father Sudbeck. I grew up in a small town and it took a lot of courage for me to confess my sins, even the ones I made up (now I had another sin, telling lies, to add to my next week’s list of sins) as I was afraid he would let slip one of my sins to the nuns. I always pictured Father Sudbeck horrified that I had done so much coveting and how ashamed of me he must have been. Years later I found out from Sister Julie that she could tell by listening to Father Sudbeck’s sermons that the main sins in that little town were alcoholism and fornication.
Once my father began to have his way with me sexually, when I was thirteen, my guilt grew like a stampede of elephants. Now, even though I had no idea what was happening, I had to add, 1. I disobeyed my father, (since I fought back) 2. “sexual misconduct” (even though I wasn’t sure if I had done that or not). 3. the ever dreaded “shame.” and 4. Making up lies about my father (my mother told me to confess that one).
As an adult, feeling guilty over the stigma of sin became a large part of my life. I’ve probably said, “I’m sorry” more than anyone I’ve ever known. I still apologize every time I do the smallest wrongdoing and no matter how much I try to stop I can’t seem to. St. Francis Xavier originated the nostrum “Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man.” Some behaviors from your childhood are more difficult to part from than others. My first communion was prior to the age of seven and my mother’s sexual abuse began when I was three. My guilt programing was already formed by that age, an early form of mental abuse.
This is a look into the brain of a victim of childhood sexual abuse. In their deepest heart of hearts they know they are the guilty party. They must be; parents aren’t capable of that kind of sin. When I was fifteen my father forced my mother and I to listen to him read aloud parts from a current bestseller, Lolita, a book about a middle-aged European’s obsession with a 12-year-old American girl. It was that era’s version of Fifty Shades of Grey. In it the middle-aged man puts the blame on the young girl. I remember sobbing as he read it. After my father finished, he had my mother and I follow him into the bathroom while he ceremonially tore the book to pieces and flushed it down the toilet, his version of Pontius Pilate washing his hands to indicate he bore no responsibility. Decades later when married to my third abuser I again sobbed hysterically as he forced me to listen to him (I had told him what my father had done) read the same parts out of Lolita. This so clearly shows how long we carry our guilt, our belief that we were the perpetrator. It is a twisted and cruel part of the perpetrator’s plan. First you seduce the child you want to sexually assault, then you convince them it was their fault.
Trying to rid yourself of the shame and guilt associated with your sexual abuse is one of the most difficult tasks in recovery. In the program, REPAIR, you literally go back to that time before the abuse happened and reprogram yourself with new and healthy messages. You are not the guilty party in any child sexual abuse. Someone telling you that you were guilty of theft if you were in a liquor store when it got robbed makes more sense. The guilt for child sexual abuse needs to fit squarely on the shoulders of your perpetrator. You don’t own it; they do.
