The Art Of Forgiveness

How To Get Past It Without Letting Anyone Off The Hook

Morgan James Publishing

Contents

Denied Reality

The First Incident

The first time I was told I couldn't trust myself, I was about five years old. I had run into my mom and dad's room when my dad got home from work, as I was so happy to see him. He was changing out of his work clothes. When I ran in, he was down to his tighty-whiteys. He took those off and started sort of airing his balls out–massaging them and bouncing them around in his right hand. Then he sniffed his fingers and shoved them under my nose.

"What is it? What's that smell?"

He grinned and said, "Do you like it?"

I felt a shiver go all up and down my little body. I hopped from foot to foot and back again. It was an entirely new sensation that this musty, musky scent had evoked in me. I was tingling "down there;" my body was electrified to the tips of my fingers. It was awful and exciting. He did it again: stuck his fingers under his balls, sniffed them, shoved them under my nose. And then the thing started to wiggle. As if by magic, it went up a bit, down a bit, up and down.

I screamed. "What is it?"

Dad laughed and snorted and I saw the gold fillings in his molars. He said, "Lick it. Lick it."

So I did. I put the tip of my tongue on the tip of the thing. It tasted briny and cool. I looked up at him. "Lick it," he said, more gruffly.

His face had changed and my dad wasn't jolly and fun. I wasn't feeling affection coming from him. I suddenly felt revolted and terrified.

"What is it?" I screamed again. He was rubbing it now. I ran out of the room, still hopping from foot to foot and back again, trying to get the terrible tingle out of me. I ran into the kitchen, just a few feet away, where my mother was standing. She was staring at the wall.

The Complicity

"What's that thing that goes up and down on Daddy?" I pleaded as I hopped around.

"What thing?"

"That thing! That thing! It goes up and down!"

"I don't know," she said, sounding annoyed.

"Yes you do!" I was starting to cry now.

She grunted air. "His penis."

"Daddy made me lick his penis."

"He did not." And there it was.

"He did!" I wanted to tell her what had just happened, what it was like, get a hug from her, and hear her explanation for my feelings. I needed some comfort and to learn from her all about this strange incident.

But instead, I got, "Don't say things like that about your father."

"Ask him!"

She called him out to the kitchen. "Neil! Neil!"

We stood there for a while. She made no effort to comfort me. I walked backward into the hallway between the kitchen and their bedroom, stewing in my tears. Eventually he came out.

"She says you made her lick your penis," my mother said, without looking at either of us.

"What?" he scoffed. "She's lying."

"I am not lying!" I was crying hard now and starting to feel terrified. "I'm not lying! I didn't even know what it was until you told me! Why don't you believe me?" No comfort was coming. The people who I thought loved me the most in the world, the people who I thought would guide me best about every feeling, every fear, every pain, were untrustworthy.

"I told you not to say things like that about your father."

I looked at my father, then, and he looked at me. I suddenly understood my vulnerability. I clearly understood my solitude. And then the moment of clarity was gone. Clarity was gone for a long, long time. And replaced with almost-madness.

The Madness

I went into my bedroom and sat down. My mind hurt. I just felt ... crazy. My understanding of the world had just been turned inside out and upside down. What I thought was true, was not. What I had just experienced taught me that my parents were not going to protect me from absolute horror.

"But that could not possibly be true!" I thought. "There must be some other explanation for this."

Since real parents are not monsters, I thought, the people in my house could not be my parents. That was the only logical explanation. I must be from the faery realm. I had been read some Grimm's fairytales by my Great Aunt that explained changelings. Perhaps she knew and was secretly teaching me about my real identity. Yes. That was it. I was a changeling from the faery realm.

But why would I have been sent to these monsters? It must be some kind of test. But what was the reward? A kingdom! Yes. I was a princess! Yes, of course. I had seen princesses in storybooks, too. They all had a test to pass before they could live happily ever after.

So, from this day on, I had to be good. I had to learn the rules of this human realm and behave perfectly, so that my real faery parents would be pleased with me and come and take me back to rule my faery kingdom.

The (Never) Forgetting

As the days went by, I was a good little girl. My mother's friends always commented, "She's so well behaved! She's so good!"

The experience of that first assault melded into my daily life, and my mind did not replay the incident for a long, long time. I was about 21 when it came back to me.

But my body has never forgotten what happened; my soul has never forgotten what happened. From that moment, I was sad. I was lonely. I was listless. I was bored by everything. I found no joy in anything. I developed terrible migraines that lasted for days. I had crippling anxiety almost 24 hours a day. I had night terrors. I played sexualized games with friends and had sexual torture fantasies. I was vulnerable to other people who could sense that I wanted love and approval; they abused me (mostly emotionally), too.

As the years went by there were other assaults from my father. And always complicity from my mother. The actual touching didn't stop until I was about 14, when I told him directly never to touch me again. But he still watched me in the shower, he still made comments on my body, he still masturbated at me while I slept. Then at about 15, I started drinking alcohol, so I lived in temporary oblivion and it was all much, much easier to forget.

The Remembering

The first flashback came when I was sitting by the pool in my parents' house. The house I had lived in from the age of eight. I was drinking Drambuie with a college friend since my parents were away. It was our first year of law school. We were sitting on a lounger with a very bright blue cushion; the blue was so bright it hurt my eyes. It was a cloudy day with a humid breeze. I had had several large gulps of Drambuie, and suddenly I saw it. A picture in my mind. A picture of my dad and his penis and me and my tongue.

I turned my head sharply to the right and said, "Oh, my God."

My friend asked, "What?"

I said, "I just remembered something. But it can't be true."

He said, "What?"

I said, "I don't even want to say. Don't worry."

The First Step

And that was the beginning of the reckoning. More and more memories came to the forefront of my mind. I suppose my soul knew it was time to deal with it. I felt strangely calm in these first weeks. More madness and despair would come later. But for now, my hatred of my parents, my cynicism, my tough exterior, my wild behavior, and everything else, made sense.

Several months later, I was staying with a crew of friends at a house on the beach. The anxiety had been building. I felt I would burst if I didn't tell. I asked one of them to stay up with me after the others went to bed because I had something I needed to tell him. This guy had always been sweet and kind to me and had never made any sexual overtures even though he loved me. He is still a friend.

We had all been drinking, as usual. He asked me if it was OK if another friend listened too. He sensed what was coming, and he didn't want to hear it all on his own. And he wanted me to feel even more supported.

I said, "I've been having flashbacks. Memories that I had forgotten. My dad sexually abused me."

My love said, "We believe you, Steph. We believe you."

"Really?" I said.

"Yes! And it's not your fault."

It had never occurred to me that it was my fault, really. I was just blind with anger and confusion and sorrow. I understood later that even though, intellectually, I always knew it was not my fault, I had behaved as if it were–I had turned against myself, hurting myself with promiscuity, drinking, anger, and so on.

I said to my two friends, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

I felt relieved. I thought that this might be the cure. I hoped that telling it and crying over it would cure me. It didn't. But it was the beginning of taking care of myself. It was the beginning of trusting my instincts, my emotions, my Self. It was the first step of my spiritual healing.

You Are Not Crazy

I want you to know, dear reader, that I believe you. The abuse happened. It happened as you remember it. Your emotions and your physical sensations happened just as you say they did. I believe you. I don't "believe that you believe it." I simply believe you. You had that experience. Those who told you it did not happen the way you say are protecting their own sanity at the expense of yours. They are selfish and afraid. We will talk about them more, later. For now, know that I understand. And know that you can trust your emotions, your body, your Self.

REFLECTION

• Were there times you were taught that what you experienced was not reality? (for example, your abuser telling you it didn't hurt, didn't happen, or didn't happen the way you remembered)

• How did your body remember and communicate the abuse to you? (for example, headaches, extra weight, sexual preferences)

• How did your soul remember and communicate the abuse to you? (for example, depression, anger, thrill seeking)

• When was the first time someone believed you about your abuser? How did you feel in your body when that happened? How did you feel in your soul?

• Have you ever thought or been told that you "should just get over it"?

Denied Emotions

The Psychosomatic System

Our soul (or mind, if you prefer that term) speaks to us through our thoughts, which cause our emotions, which we feel in our body. Consciously or unconsciously, our mind manifests in various parts of the body. This is not a metaphor. Actual molecules of emotion run every system in our body.

Neuropeptides: The Molecules of Emotion

Scientists call molecules of emotion neuropeptides. Intelligence in the form of neuropeptides and their receptors (which they use to communicate with our cells) are in the brain and all throughout the body.

Each emotion is associated with a particular neuropeptide or combination of neuropeptides. In order for you to feel an emotion, your brain (specifically, the part of the brain called the hypothalamus) has to create and release a set of neuropeptides. Each emotion has its own particular set of neuropeptides, its own chemical combination. The neuropeptides give you the experience of that emotion.

First, you have a thought, like, "Oh no, he's going to touch me," or "That look means she doesn't want me to say anything," then your hypothalamus transforms that thought into neuropeptides and you feel an emotion. Neuropeptides are also released via the "memory" of cells around the body. In this way, your thoughts create your reality.

Specific neuropeptides are involved with specific emotions. For example, norepinephrine, one kind of neuropeptide, flows in happy states of mind. But get this: Norepinephrine uses a certain receptor to enter each cell. The reovirus, a cause of the common cold, uses the same receptor to enter each cell. So presumably, when you're happy, the virus can't enter the cell because the norepinephrine is already occupying the receptors. Cultivate happiness and you avoid getting sick. Cool, right?

All Emotions Are Positive Emotions

It's not just a matter of thinking happy thoughts, though. Since any emotional expression is always tied to a flow of peptides, the chronic repression of emotions results in a massive disturbance of the psychosomatic network. If the energy of an emotion is not released, it will cause damage.

Not expressing emotions–any emotion, whether "positive" or "negative"–creates blockages and slows the flow of peptide signals that maintain function at the cellular level. This weakened system may lead to adverse effects in our bodies, and even serious disease. So letting "dark" emotions flow is just as important as cultivating "light" emotions. All emotions are positive emotions when we let them flow.

We tried to meet the needs of our abusers and their accomplices by not expressing our real feelings about the abuse, by not expressing the feelings that the abuse created. We may have kept our emotions secret to save their sanity; to protect their social positions; to keep the family together; to protect our delicate child's ego, or for many other reasons we were told directly or subtly. For me, it was all of these things. And for all of us, it has adverse effects.

Emotions Drive Behaviors

When the receptors for a specific neuropeptide are stimulated over and over again, the body creates more receptors for that neuropeptide. They replicate more quickly than other cells. Now the body wants that higher level of specific neuropeptide to connect to all the receptors. So, we go in search of it. Our bodies have become addicted to a certain neuropeptide: a certain emotion.

We get ourselves into situations that make us feel the emotion the receptors need. These situations will often be re-enactments of the abuse, because we know for certain that we can get the emotions that way. Other receptors that are not used can die off, so we don't even feel those emotions very much anymore. We can retrain our brain at any age, though, do not despair. Again, the key is to express whatever emotion comes up to avoid blockage and keep the peptides flowing. Accept it, express it, release it.

For example, a common behavior for women who have been sexually abused in childhood is promiscuity and getting into romantic relationships with abusive men. Therapists will call this "acting out." I never quite understood why I was doing that. Why was I acting out the abusive scenario? I was smarter than that!

My client Amanda felt the same way. The explanation is that we are addicted, if you will, to those neuropeptides; we have been conditioned to seek out this nasty kind of sexual and relational experience to get them.

Amanda, in trying to take control of her body, decided to try out being a dominatrix. She figured it was a way to own her sexuality, take out some anger on men, and make some quick money. But it didn't bring her comfort. A small amount of satisfaction, yes. And some money, yes. But it made her feel shame and disgust, like when she was abused by her uncle.

Her boss didn't allow drinking while working with the clients, so, unable to anaesthetize herself, she ended up being aware of these emotions she was having and staying spiritually present for them. I coached her to consciously let them flow in the moment (she could actually use them in her work, so they did not disrupt her potential to earn money). I channeled healing energy to her, to fill the void that releasing the shame and disgust had created. In a matter of a month or so, Amanda decided she didn't want to put herself in that situation anymore; she didn't feel the need to create those emotions anymore.

But shame is powerful. Now she felt ashamed that she had worked in the sex industry! And of course, our society encouraged that shame. As we talked, she accepted the shame that came up, released it, and welcomed feelings lying beneath.

Layer by layer we went. We uncovered anger at being sexualized in childhood–being denied the innocent exploration of sexuality that she might have had. She was angry at not being told about how her body works by her mother; that her early "boyfriends" knew more about her own body than she did. Underneath anger was fear that she might never really be the owner of her own body.

Now, when shame comes up, Amanda notices, accepts, releases, and asks Spirit for clarity about its origin. Sometimes the original conditioning comes to her mind (the abuse from her uncle), and sometimes it doesn't. If it does, it can provide additional clues as to the reasons for her behavior. If it doesn't, she still feels lighter and clearer. And she is now the person who is most intimate with her own body, as we all can be.

When we make an effort to consciously notice our emotions we have a better chance of (consciously) controlling our behaviors rather than have our emotions (unconsciously) control them.

I've described some more examples below of the intense emotions connected to abuse, and the possible effects on body and behavior. You will have your own, similar and different.

Anger

When I was a child, I felt angry over and over and over and over again. Every day, all the time.

"Oh, she's so well behaved!" my mother's friends would say–while inside my mind, I was screaming and yelling and wanting to kill someone. But I didn't. I was a very good little girl. I knew that my mother liked me more when I didn't complain or ask for her attention.

The cells with receptors for my anger neuropeptides were stimulated so often that the receptors for joy were barely used, so they would have mostly died off. I was more apt to feel anger and less apt to feel joy as I grew older.