I Can’t Tell My Story Without A Trigger Warning: Elizabeth’s Story
HA note: The author’s name has been changed to ensure anonymity. “Elizabeth” is a pseudonym.
Trigger warnings: this story contains graphic and detailed descriptions of rape, physical abuse, the physical results of abuse, and religious apologisms for both physical and sexual abuse of children.
I can’t tell my story without a trigger warning. I try writing it without describing physical and sexual abuse and it just doesn’t work. It could get graphic.
I just spent the last half an hour sitting in the corner, hugging my knees, and bashing my head into my wall because I dared to post a link to the HSLDA petition. I’m nearly 40, but I’m terrified of getting into trouble.
I can’t use my name–call me Elizabeth. This name I write with isn’t mine. I picked a name that I think is the sort of name that a typical white, protestant American would have. I hope that some homeschooled kid with that name and a similar story won’t be tortured or shunned on account of my speaking out. I just hope that anyone who reads this and sees someone they know knows that it wasn’t really them. It’s just an eerie similarity. Please don’t punish them for speaking out, because I’m someone else.
I can’t tell my story exactly. I’m afraid my family will recognize that it’s me writing. I only feel safe writing anything at all, even vagueing up the details, after reading the lawsuit filed by survivors of abuse covered up by sovereign grace ministries. It’s sad when the text of a lawsuit reads like your biography, but there you have it. It made me realize that this culture of abuse is sufficiently widespread that my parents could just read my personal story of our nightmare family and assume it comes from any anyone anywhere.
It at least gives me some plausible deniability. Not that I need plausible deniability–I have no contact with my family or anyone from my childhood. I won’t even be setting foot in a church again. But I’m so terrified of repercussions that I need a crutch. The brainwashing runs deep. I know I’m safe intellectually, but the rest of me doesn’t believe that safety is possible.
What lets me comment on the differences between homeschooling and other kinds of schooling? I’ve done it all. We started in a religious homeschooling coop–we did PACES first, later A Beka. Then my parents homeschooled us by themselves in a Northern European country–the rest of my education was in the United States. When we homeschooled in Europe there was no curriculum: it was closer to unschooling. Then they sent us to a private fundamentalist Christian school. Then they sent us to public school.
My parents’ reason for homeschooling us was ostensibly religious. We never heard that we’d get a better education than in public school. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that public school would corrupt us. There’d be peer pressure. We’d risk getting caught up in a bad crowd and imperiling our immortal souls.
This seemed plausible at the time. After all, our church was very isolationist. You know that Emo Philips joke about the Baptists on a bridge? That was us. Everyone else was wrong. We spent hours learning about other denominations and how they got it wrong. Maybe some other Christians would still get into heaven, if God was extra merciful, but we were the only ones who actually had it right!
Did I mention that I basically had zero friends?
We were taught that children had to obey all adults unconditionally and instantly. We were taught that good Christian children who don’t want to burn in hell submit to their parents. They submit to discipline from their parents, other adults, or older children. They submit to spankings. They do not talk back. And so on. If you are wrongly accused you should still accept your punishment because you are a worthless sinful being and the punishment is probably good for you anyway. If you don’t accept punishment when you’re wrongly accused, that’s a sin, so you need to be punished for that now. Catch 22.
And we were taught that good, Christian children do not ever let anyone find out that they aren’t completely thrilled with their lives. We should never complain to secular authorities (or anyone, for that matter, but especially secular authorities) about anything. It makes us bad witnesses. It makes us bad Christians. And we might also be selfishly risking the destruction of our families because CPS will come and take us away. And there isn’t anything better, so after CPS destroys our families, we’ll still be disciplined so destroying our families and our parents’ good names will have been for nothing. If your bottom is sore from a spanking, you’d better not wince as you sit down. If you’re in pain down there, you’d better not let it keep you from walking normally. Don’t talk about your punishment. Don’t let anyone see you cry.
And we weren’t taught about sex, or wrong touching, or children’s rights. Most kids would get this in public school. At a young age, they’d learn that there are things adults aren’t allowed to do to them. They’d learn that they have the right to say ‘no.’ They’d learn that if something is wrong they can tell their teacher or call the police or something. Later, they’d have sex education and learn what sex is.
Here’s what I thought the word “spanking” meant when I was a kid: if your dad is home, usually it happens right away in your bedroom or his. If your dad isn’t home, you get sent to the guest room, where there’s nothing to do in the meantime, to wait for him to get home. Then the spanking commences. Maybe he’ll go for the big wooden paddle. Maybe he’ll pull off his belt. Sometimes he gets them both out and makes you chose. If he makes you choose, he’s feeling particularly sadistic.
Just the paddle is better. Then he sticks to your unclothed bottom and thighs. The pain is excruciating, but it’s a good sign if he doesn’t take his belt off at all. He’ll probably just finger you a bit when he’s done. Ditto if he bends you over his lap instead of over the edge of the bed. If he just breaks out the belt, he’s lost his temper. You’ll get hit everywhere that can be covered by clothes. The individual strikes aren’t as hard as with a stick, but the beating goes on forever. Sometimes your body just shuts down. Maybe that’s better; if you wet yourself the spanking might stop there because you’re now too gross and dirty to rape. But usually he’s going to finish the “spanking.” The whacks stop coming and then he’s inside you, crushing you with all his weight and ramming into you over and over until he’s done with his business.
I was told that all kids got spanked. I didn’t understand that ‘spank’ meant a bit of a beating for most people and not an extreme beating followed by rape. I didn’t even know what rape was, as I knew nothing about sex. I had no idea what was going on.
Spanking was how my dad got access during the day. If he wanted it and I hadn’t done anything wrong, he would make up something wrong. Notably, he’d wait for me to look at the telephone. Mind you, I was too short to actually reach the telephone up on the wall, but he needed to make sure the message was ingrained. He’d wait for me to look at the phone then punish me for thinking about making a phone call. For thinking about lying to people that I was being abused. It was part of his way to drill into my mind that there was no way out. That this way of life was all there was or ever could be.
I only remember a few instances of explicit training. I remember a gruesome rape when I was too young. I can see my baby fat hands in my memory. I can taste blood. I wonder if that was the first time. I think the ripping might have caused some nerve damage. I can’t actually feel much on the surface, which might have made me the perfect victim in the future. He could do whatever they wanted and I wouldn’t react much. I remember one day when I was older–maybe 3ish–getting taught to relax properly, to stretch out, to be able to take in something larger. Being told that this is what big girls are supposed to do. This is what good girls are supposed to do.
Compared to a spanking, simple molestation didn’t mean much. There was a ‘monster’ that came at night and did his thing. I was told that I had nightmares. And I had to comply instantly with any demand made by an adult. I had to do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. So if I was running around at church and an adult said I had to come give him a hug, I had to. And if his hand slipped up under my skirt, I was supposed to relax like a good girl and ignore the uncomfortable pressure filling me up. I guess it got out to anyone who was interested that I was groomed for complete submission and wouldn’t make a scene. I don’t know if he shared me on purpose or if all the perverts attracted to the good cover of a patriarchal church found me independently.
The violence was most extreme when we were at the cooperative homeschool. The school and the church reinforced the message. We only came into contact with other kids in the same situation. The probably weren’t all being seriously abused, but some of them sported regular bruises–new dark blues and purples in a new pattern over the fading browns and yellows from last week. Even the ones who weren’t abused weren’t told that they had rights. None of us was going to compare notes and discover that rapes weren’t a standard part of spanking. It was Orwellian. We didn’t have the words or concepts to address any of it.
No one at church would question my dad’s authority. He was a well respected member of the community. He was all godly and stuff. The benefit of the doubt extended to someone in his position was endless. By homeschooling us through this crucial period, my dad normalized abuse and kept me from finding out that I had rights. I literally had no idea until I was an adult that there was anything else out there, that this was not the natural order of things, that everyone wasn’t raised with this sort of abuse. Insofar as I ever heard about child abuse, I was taught that abuse was something that happened to other people.
When we homeschooled in another country, the abuse stopped almost completely. My dad was away from the comfort and safety of being an established pillar of the community. The monster still came at night, but the daytime abuse was drastically curtailed. I spent huge amounts of time being free and happy. The only punishment I recall was being yelled at.
I was only punished for one thing: speaking the other language. Somehow I’d picked it up, although my parents and other siblings hadn’t. My dad could use English at work and didn’t need to know it. Everyone spoke English in the shops anyway. My mom didn’t have a problem with it, but my use of the other language outraged my dad. If I uttered a word in front of him, his face would turn red and he would explode with anger.
How dare I speak another language. I couldn’t know what I was saying if it wasn’t English. I could be insulting someone and not know it! Because I couldn’t possibly know what I was saying if he didn’t know what I was saying. I couldn’t guarantee to him that I wasn’t saying something inappropriate because he couldn’t speak the language. So the act of speaking the other language was deceptive: I was hiding things from my parents by not speaking English. I never knew that I wouldn’t be spanked after these outbursts; I only connect the dots with the illegality of spanking in the other country now, as an adult. Looking back, I realize that he was afraid of getting caught in a country that cared about its children. He needed to make sure that I didn’t trigger any alarm bells there and get rescued by their child protection agencies.
When we returned to the US, we went to a fundamentalist Christian school. The ‘spanking’ resumed but it was much less frequent. Partly the training had kicked in and I was a good little robot. It was very difficult to find a reason to spank me. Partly we now lived in a bigger house. I had my own room and was far enough away from my parents room that it was unlikely for it to wake anyone up when he came in at night. Partly he couldn’t assume that he’d get a free pass at the new school. Teachers were from other denominations who might be just as distrustful of us as we were of them. Some students were just there because their parents thought they’d get a better education at a private school. Some students were even there because they’d been expelled from every other school and their parents couldn’t find anywhere else to take them. While I was guaranteed to not get any sex education or get told I had rights by the school, it was less clear that I wouldn’t exchange information with peers who knew stuff.
The fundamentalist Christian school went bust over doctrinal differences (surprise, surprise) and I was allowed to finish out high school at the local public school. It was the most supportive and loving environment I’d experienced in my life. No one made fun of me, as they had at the Christian school, for having zero social skills. People, not just teachers but students as well, put up with horrific ideas from my upbringing and gently taught me tolerance. Even people who didn’t like me were still patient and cordial with me. And my dad had to stop the ‘spankings’ altogether.
He still came in at night. He suffocated me so I wouldn’t wake up. I only woke up to absolute terror a few times. Rape is a thousand times more terrified when you fade in and out of consciousness from lack of oxygen. When I asked the youth pastor at church he said it was a demonic attack. I tend to trust my gut; I don’t know if that’s good or bad. But he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. I think he was just gullible and never got any sex education himself either. He was a relatively young adult who had never dated. I don’t think he had any idea that he was passing on a lie used to conceal abuse.
Unfortunately, I got to public school too late to get sex education. It would have been covered in junior high. I’d learned about periods the day my first one started (I was at the Christian school at the time). A neighborhood girl who went to public school found out how little I knew about it and tried explaining the facts of life to me, but she was several years younger than me and hadn’t learned all the details herself yet. I am grateful that she noticed something was wrong with my complete lack of education and did her best to step in and fill in my educational gaps. But there was so much she couldn’t tell me.
So I didn’t know that periods were supposed to happen regularly, about once a month. I didn’t understand that it wasn’t normal to go months between periods. I didn’t understand that that much pain and that much blood was abnormal. I didn’t understand that something was very wrong if you had to spend several hours bleeding into the toilet and passing chunks. I didn’t put two and two together until I had my first miscarriage as an adult. Then it hit me that my period got regular after I got married. I wasn’t in so much pain. The flow was lighter – a pad was enough instead of having to spend time on the toilet because it was too much. And it hit me that while I’d had a few odd periods in high school, I’d mostly just had a succession of miscarriages. I still can’t have kids. I wonder if it’s from too much violence to my reproductive organs at such a young age. It’s not something I can face having a conversation with my doctor about.
I didn’t understand that I was experiencing rape until we had to read a short story in 12th grade advanced English about a girl being raped. That’s when I learned that that’s what rape was and, by extension, that’s what sex was. But I was too afraid to tell anyone. The programming to pretend everything was fine persisted. Teachers and counselors noticed and asked if something was wrong and I instinctually lied every time. I didn’t know how to do anything else. I didn’t believe anyone could help me, just that it would get back to my parents that I’d told someone. And then I’d be in for another spanking; I’d rather have died than risk another spanking.
I tried reporting my abuse to the authorities once as an adult but the law wasn’t on my side. If I’d been a minor, they could have gotten CPS involved. But as an adult, the law is written for specific instances. You can’t charge someone with years of violence and rape where there are so many memories jumbled together. You need a report of a specific instance. And remembering a specific instance with all its details when it happened all the time is like remembering what you had for dinner on March 12, 1986. What time was dinner? What did you eat? Did you have company? How was the food arranged on your plate? Who sat where at the table? Good luck with that.
Having been rebuffed, I tried getting out but it didn’t take. The economy was in shambles and I couldn’t find steady employment. The U.S. has a patchy safety net. One of the things that we as a society assume is that people’s parents don’t suck. If you’ve very lucky and your abuse is caught and you end up in the system, there are programs for young adults who have aged out of foster care. These programs aren’t perfect, but it beats the hell out of choosing between starvation and going back to an abusive family. After you’re an old enough adult (I think it varies by state), you are eligible for things on your own. But there’s an awkward gap between 18 and 20 something where your eligibility is determined by your parents income. Long story short, I ended up homeless. I had to go crawling back to my parents, tail between my legs, and enduring several more years of abuse before I married my husband and escaped.
I firmly believe that if public school teachers had gotten to me before the brainwashing set in that I might have told them the truth. I think the brainwashing would have been harder if I’d been getting a counterbalancing affirmation from public school that I was a human being with rights of my own. And you know what? Maybe my dad still would have found a way to abuse me, but he either would’ve had to pull me out of public school to keep the abuse hidden or he would’ve had to abuse me a heck of a lot less.
That’s what bugs me the most when homeschool parents bring up the fact that kids in public school get abused too. They act like that’s evidence that regulating homeschool is pointless. From where I’m sitting, that’s hogwash. I’d take rare beatings over frequent beatings. I’d take beatings severe enough to leave obvious marks during just summer vacation over getting those beatings several times a week around the year. I’d take just being raped over having the crap beaten out of me then being raped. I’d take being brutalized for the first 7 years of my life over being brutalized for the first 20 years of my life. I could go on down the line.
It’s clear to me how the abuse I received changed with the amount of control my parents had over the other adults in my life. When it was just them and church, the abuse was horrific. When it was public school teachers who weren’t going to give them a pass just for being Good Christians, the abuse was relatively minimal. I guess it reads as pretty extreme still, but that level of abuse required that they already have the prior controlled environment in which to make sure I never found out about my rights. And it’s way less than the baseline level of abuse they established when they had complete control of my environment.
But the more I think about my upbringing, the more I think the church and homeschooling were just convenient. In the wake of the ohio kidnap victims’ escape, an article in the guardian addressed the issue of girls and women being trapped in long-term situations where they were kept as prisoners and raped repeatedly. It quotes Prof. Sherry Hamby of Sewanee and journal editor of Psychology of Violence as saying “I don’t think there is any question there are other victims in similar situations. We are only catching the dumb ones.” It’s the first time in, well, ever, that I’ve felt like I wasn’t invisible. Usually situations like mine are invisible to mainstream media that is usually so desperate to maintain our societal illusion that abuse is a rare thing that is done to and by people we don’t know.
There are victims in similar situations. And we do only catch the dumb ones. My dad is extremely intelligent. It doesn’t matter what his personal beliefs might be: the perfect place to isolate his prey was in a patriarchal religious sect. The perfect way to avoid letting his kids encounter mandated reporters is through homeschooling. The perfect way to keep me from going to authorities was to lie to me about my rights and to surround me by other kids who didn’t know their rights. I don’t think I’m special. I don’t think I’m unique. I think odds are high that there are plenty of other people who grew up just like me.
“Elizabeth”, thank you for trusting us with your story. It is probably the saddest I have read, and I’ve been following this kind of stuff for too long. 😦 I am so sorry it is your story, but I hope it will make a difference in saving and protecting children who are vulnerable like you were.
Sweety I too was abused but it wasn’t my mom or step dad that treated me so mean it was my uncle. He used me for a baseball I got hit every day when I came home from school or if i missed the bus out came the 2×4 he swing for the fences my mom lost me when I was just two years old because my granny reported her that we ( my sister and brother ) ate pb andj twice in one day well I went. to my uncle and aunts and they raised me the batting practice started when i turned five I failed first grade twice he beat me for the next two months I turned eight by then I had rack of curls well a honey got stuck in my hair my eyes swelled to the
point I couldn’t see two foot in front of me
he sent me to school like. that I couldn’t see to do my school work the nurse brought me home and yelled at. him after. she left he rolled his fist up and punched me never said a word just let me have it it was later the same year I got smart I came in the house like nothing happened my aunt yelled duck I. ducked and the 2×4 meant for my head smashed my aunt’s mirror I looked at him I said. dad I love you but I ain’t a baseball when you can appollogise I’ll be at my friends home. he dumped me off in new Orleans with just the clothes on my two years later
I know you know this, but the more you hear it, the easier it will be. What was done to you was wrong. It is ok for you to share your own story. It is ok if your parents read your story and see the word abuse over and over again. It is ok for your dad to see the word rape. He raped you and he deserves, at the least for that abuse to be named. He should be in prison. Most importantly, they can’t hurt you any more.
I am so sorry. Your dad is pure evil, and you were unfortunately born to evil people. This was not your fault. You were just a helpless child, who should’ve been loved and protected. But by writing this, you have shown strength and resilience and courage. He is weak, he is a coward, he is nothing. You are brave and you have the integrity to stand up for truth and right.
The parts about conditioning you to believe that it wasn’t abuse and that abuse was something that happened to other people – oh, what a familiar chord that struck. There are simply evil people in the world, and sometimes they get pregnant or get others pregnant. Those of us unlucky enough to be the resulting baby have a whole lot of crap to deal with and an emotional mess to clean up, but we can do it. They will not win. We will.
I am shocked and saddened by all the horror you experienced. I hope your life today is safe and secure and has lots of happy moments. It is heart-breaking to read of all you endured. You deserved to be loved and cherished, and you still do.
As another person raped by her father I know the hideous fear and self loathing. I also understand the need to just leave and not seek legal remedies. However, if you think he has access to any other victims please consider a confidential call to the cops or CPS in his area.
Oh boy… that was hard to read. Having been raised in a bizarre Christian Cult myself, I wonder if some of the kids I knew weren’t enduring similar abuse. Thank you for sharing your story and please get the help that you need.
Some people don’t deserve to be on this planet. What a sick MONSTER. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I hope you’re doing ok now and have plenty of support – thank you for having the guts to share your story.
I’m so sorry you went through this. It wasn’t your fault. Your dad raped you, that was horribly terribly wrong and evil of him. The shame is his to bear, not yours. Thank you for being brave enough to speak out. I was sexually abused by my mother, and your bravery is helping me to find a voice too.
My real name is Ray and I cried the whole way reading your story I am now 50 years of age and it has taken me 41 year to tell my brothers and sisters the abuse I suffered at the hands of my local priest. It took a
breakdown and 24 months with depression to try and sort myself out. I can relate to everything that happened to you. May you find peace and love in the future.
My (real) name is Ian, and I am 17, homeschooled (secular, atheist in fact), a pacifist, and an outspoken opponent of torture. I am quite possibly the gentlest person I know; I’m the sort of guy who cries over dead squirrels in the road and once fished a half-drowned robin out of a pool and dried it by hand.
Your story made me sick to my stomach. My immediate gut reaction was an intense desire to find that loathsome excuse for a man and torture him to death. That was after 5 paragraphs. By the end, I have to say that words cannot describe the sheer volume of burning, unreasoning hatred that I have for your father.
The sheer horror of your story is more emotionally wrenching to me than anything I have ever read before. I feel nothing at this point except for cold hatred for that awful man, and hope that you will find some love, care and friendship now that you are free. You are an incredibly brave person, and I wish nothing but the best for you.
As Yoyo said upthread, the best thing that can be done at this point is ensuring that this sick monster cannot access more victims. CPS in this country is usually very quick and effective, although the police will probably be more likely to give that odious rat bastard some long overdue comeuppance.
Elizabeth, I ‘liked’ your post because it is so honest and true. Goes without saying that I don’t like what your abusers did to you. I hate that. Thank you for your courage.
No words – just rage – how to brave to write about this – so so very brave…thank you.
Sorry – that comes across badly To clarify – not because of some repercussion (yes that too, as understandably the fear must be indescribable – but you are free now to tell it tell it and tell it again)but the actual PROCESS of having to find the words to say all you wanted to and needed to say…surly must have been excruciating and for THAT – thank you again for writing this.
Elizabeth – I am so sorry. I hope you find some kindness and consolation in the world outside. It was not your fault.
Would you ever consider bringing charges against this monster? Surely something can be done. I would love to hire some big guys to beat the living crap out of him! I am a pacifist and don’t kill spiders! But this is too much!
I am soooo mad at this moment!
He really needs to get some of his own treatment!
Hi Elizabeth…wow. You just kicked my guts out. I am so, so shocked and horrified…I have been raped twice in my life and I know how horrific even the physical pain of just one incident is. To have had it day in, day out for every day of your young life…I have no words. I cannot believe that could happen. I wish you peace and healing.
This story reminds me of Korn’s song falling away from me. now i wanna go re listen to it.
I don’t know you but I want to tell you that you are incredibly brave for having survived all that toture and moved on. I hope you have a great life ahead. I salute you
Elizabeth…. You are incredibly brave. I hope that you have a great life ahead. You made me speechless with your story.
I am so sorry all this happened to you! I am so sorry there was no one to step in and help you out. We are about the same age. I am so sorry that your childhood was stolen.
It is good for you to share.
This tops what you read about North Korean gulags. I cannot even find the words to tell you how sorry I am that you were abused that way. My God, do not let the abuser(s) get away. Find a lawyer and bring that monster down. If you go via GoFundMe, you’ll have 20 k after a week. I would certainly donate.
What has become of this wicked man? Catholic priests who raped 30 years or more ago are being brought to some degree of justice.
I am in tears as I write this. I came across your story as I was doing research for a novel I want to write about abuse and its effects. Now more than ever, I want to write this novel and get it out there, and I hop to sensitize people through it.
Thank you for sharing your story. You are an amazing lady and your my hero :).
I’m so sorry you had to endure a childhood of abuse, The law may not be on your side but that doesn’t mean the monsters that raised you won’t face justice. Expose them, by name. Expose the church by name as well. Demons don’t go away just because you lock them in a box. You will spend the rest of your life standing on that box to keep them from escaping and that’s not a healthy way to live, You have to let those demons out and kill them once and for all, Expose them for the monsters they are, I bet you find support from many of the children you knew growing up, Even if both of your parents are dead, many who knew them might not know how evil and depraved they really were. Same with the church. Their evil is likely ongoing, It survives because the abused are too afraid to expose themselves and their torturers. I know it’s a lot to ask but you have shown you’re fearless and stronger than they are, You were able to escape them, Now take that final step and expose them by name. If the monsters responsible for your pain are still alive, maybe someone will hear your story and blow their miserable heads off for the good of mankind.
Hi Elizabeth my real name is Katie, I too was a victim of abuse but mine was not rape but physical abuse and mine was also my father and I despise him so much and never want to see him again and have not seen him in almost five years. I hope that your life is better now with your new husband and sue your father and never talk to him again, that’s what I did.
This is the most painful thing I have ever read. To read that you’d been raped, then see “older” described as *3 years old*…that’s nightmarishly cruel behavior by your father and those other men.
I wish there were a way to wipe such harmful people from the face of the earth, I really do. Since that’s not an option, I hope that you and all other molestation victims can heal physically AND mentally from what was done.