Surviving Sexual Trauma

It was March 11th, 2004. It was a normal day in our quaint suburban New York home. We were just getting over our recent transition. It was more than 6 months that my grandmother died. She was the glue that held everything together. She always said “Family should never keep secrets from one another”, but she was also the keeper of everyone’s secrets. When she passed, everyone was nervous, because some thought that their secrets would die with her. But March 11th had to pass.

I received a letter from my younger cousin, Randy, that day. He was in prison for over a year now on charges of burglary, sodomy and rape, so everyone told me. We used to be best buddies. I used to take him to the mall, take him to the movies; he was like my younger brother. But I knew in the back of my mind, what happened me when I was 6, 7, 8, 9. and 10 happened to him, too. Before March 11th, I just couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t put two and two together.

Randy used to call my mother’s house to speak to everyone and gain some hope while maintaining good behavior in medium-security prison upstate New York. He wasn’t even 20 years old yet, but he claims a rap sheet bigger than any standard dictionary. I couldn’t understand how the young kid that loved being outdoors and loved to travel to new places, fell ill to the diseases of street life. He dropped out of school before the end of junior high.

I refused to talk to him until two weeks before. He told my mother that he had to talk to me. He just wanted to hear my voice. So I second-guessed myself and picked up the other end of the receiver. “Hello…”, my salutation came with hesitance. He sensed it but reached out anyway. He said what he had to say couldn’t be on the phone, and for obvious reasons, it couldn’t be in person. He wanted permission to write me. I complied. And within the two weeks, it baffled me - what could he possibly want to tell me in writing that he couldn’t say on the phone.

But March 11th, 2004, I understood why. He put the missing pieces of the puzzle in my hand, I connected the dots and I was fueled to bring up my newfound discovery. I charged upstairs to my parents and told them what Randy wrote me verbatim. My mother looked in disgust and rolled her eyes as if it was all buffoonery. When I finished, I told her that believed Randy because I, too, suffered at the hands of the same predator. When she asked me who? I told her my older cousin. She laughed and taunted me as a crazy woman, riled by Randy’s detailed story. I can still remember my blood boiling at her expressions.

I ran to my father, who laid in bed, watching television and relayed my story. He replied “well, if its true. Bring it to your cousin directly. So I stormed to my older cousin, my predator, McGury and stared him dead in his eyes, in the presence of my mother and my father. And I demanded “did you molest Randy like you molested me?” He simply sat there, hands folded across his chest and said nothing. He uttered not even a syllable.

My father said “well, if he said nothing, it must mean he did do it.” Then my father turned around and walked back to his bedroom. My mother shook her head and chuckled at my demeanor. I was left with nothing but fumes. When I returned to my room in shock and amazement at the reaction, my mother called for me in the hallway “Janessa, if that’s how you really feel, maybe you need therapy” and she turned around to shut the door behind her. Officially, shutting me out of the family, like she did Randy.

I immediately call my boyfriend at the time {now my husband}, and told him the play by play. He couldn’t believe it. It was at that moment that I realized that my strength in life wasn’t a culmination of confidence in me; it was a false sense of solidarity due to the shaky foundation built from countless fabricators and posers actually waiting for my downfall. I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, I wanted them to feel the pain, agony, embarrassment and inadequacy that I felt when they ridiculed me.

To McGury, he must have felt validated. Everything he said decades ago, actually happened. My mother didn’t believe, my father didn’t protect me. My grandmother, the only one who really knew the truth, had passed and even when she was alive, she did her best to separate him from me without relaying the details to my parents at that time. So his disgusting behavior went unpunished and he continues to live with my parents to this day. But I refused.

So March 11, 2004 began my hunt. It was a hunt to find me, the real me. There used to be a strength that people saw in me that I no longer found in myself. I had to get back there without using the same means. So on March 11th, 2004, the old Janessa died like a phoenix and was born again to see March 12th and beyond.

You see, I told my parents for the first time, that my cousin molested me. The same cousin who was being accused of molesting another cousin of ours, 6 years younger than me, in the same house that we stood in and had lived in all our lives up until that point.

I scurried enough courage to face my predator and he said nothing. My mother banished my testimony as lies and scolded me for making up stories. So it was only right to denounce him, my “family” and sever all ties to as little contact as possible. My journey was no longer about the hunt for truth about what had really happened, but the hunt for strength and peace within me.

My life changed dramatically since then, abolishing all ideologies of my parents, because none of them were really true. They didn’t practice what they preached, they practiced what was convenient. I spoke up about my past to all those who wanted to hear so that they and I would understand why I used to act the way I did. Many replied with wonderful words of support and outreach. I did most my soul searching alone but it had always baffled me, why did it take so long for me to talk? Why did I protect him? I needed the help of a professional to find this out. I joined a group in New York City and I found out that I suffered from Stockholm Syndrome. Now armed with this valuable information, I emerged into a new realm, where other people’s thoughts of me didn’t matter including family. I began to live my life anew. I began to not only survive, but thrive.

I met many others who also suffered from the same but never told their parents or their loved ones or let alone confront their victimizer. They still question their judgment, their actions, and worst of all, blame themselves.

Today, I am still part of that group in New York City - thanks to the resources at GMHC. I helped launch SurviveStockholm.ning.com, an online gathering of people of all kinds cope, talk and deal with traumatic experiences. And now I realize that March 11th 2004 was about taking one step closer to healing.