“Little girl, welcome!” (House of God; House of Horrors)

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TRIGGER WARNING: The following poem contains graphic words and content related to sexual abuse of a little child in a religious setting.

*****

Back and forth. Up and down. Little fingers tracing the grooves between the block. Feeling the smooth and rough parts.
Blocks. Concrete blocks.Painted blocks. They made up the big building called the church.
“House of God” they called it.
“Sacred” they told me.
To the child, it was a house of horrors. More like hell.


Crouched beside the wall, running fingers along the blocks.
Unconsciously trying to feel some normalcy and safety.
Up and down. Back and forth.


Sometimes the bushes beside the block walls offered a little protection. I knew which ones offered the best cover.
Slipping between the wall and the blocks or inside the bush itself, I could listen and watch the shoes of members walking by.
Waiting till it was safe to retreat.
Plucking and pinching the red berries while I waited.
Eventually the bushes were taken away.

Exposed.
No place to hide anymore.


The building with block walls was where went to to hear about “god.”
Many songs sung about God’s love.
Lots of words concerning Heaven.
Being taught we were the only way to Jesus.


Up and down, back and forth.
Little fingers on those block walls.
Feel the bumps on the block.
Don’t feel the pain.


Inside those walls, good sounding words were spoken.
Inside those walls, hell broke open.
Jesus loves me upstairs.
The devil killing a child’s soul below.


Jesus loves me.


Grown men closing in. Trapped.
Tight grasp. Fierce struggle.
For one so small, I put up a good fight,
Finally breaking loose.
Force flung her against those blocks walls.
Cold, painted, concrete block walls with the tracing lines.
Ugly, painted walls.
Jeering and laughter.
She’s feisty. Too feisty.
Adult men closing in again.
Tight, painful grip.
A handkerchief to the nose and face.
That’ll teach you! Calm you down.
The block walls with tracing lines start spinning.
Blackness.
And pain.
Shuffling noises.
Presence behind me.

Restriction.
When will I ever be free?
Crossed legged on the floor in so much pain.
Ears ringing.
An adult male body blocks the doorway in a big X shape, making sure
We aren’t detected by the wrong person.
Behind him are seen- those block walls.

Dizzy, confused, in so much pain.
Being forced to walk back upstairs alone.


Jesus…loves me?


If no one protects me, there’s only me to do do.

“You’re to strong willed.”
“You’re rebellious.”
“You hate men.”
“You’re a feminist.”
“You’re bitter.”
“You need to forgive or you’ll go to hell.”
“You need to submit.”
“Your will needs broken.”


It all came from behind those “sacred block walls.”
They taught a child less than a whole handful of years old that
An adult male ultimately loved a child through sexual encounters.
Oral sexual encounters.
Any sexual encounters.
Rape.


Up and down. Back and forth. Trying to make sense of it all.


There was no good sense to be made. None.
There was no “God” in all that happened there either. None.
She turned and walked away from hell.
Screaming,begging if there was
A true God, could she please experience Him?


Words from inside those block walls:
No. You’re walking away from truth. You’re headed for hell fire.
No matter what happened to you, God’s will is for you to accept
It and forgive. You’re bitter. You’ve turned on God.
You’re deceived.
Have you forgiven yet?
How do you even give God another chance?
How have you not given Up on it all?
I did. I gave up on their “god.”
That god is a lie.
That god is not real.
That god is the devil himself.
I gave up on the god thrown at me behind those block

Walls. He wasn’t there in “that” at all.
She knows now that Jesus does not abuse.
Neither does He endorse abuse.
The real Jesus doesn’t force her to be mistreated.
I haven’t given up on God.
No.
I’m finally learning Who He really is.
Do they say I’m lost?
Yes.
Do I care? No.
The God I know now set me free from the
Imprisonments of those hellish block walls.
No justice on earth could ever repay what happened inside those block walls.
Some day all will be made known.
Justice is in the hands of the court of higher powers.
I walk free.
Free to find truth.
Free to pursue healing.
No more block walls.
Only freedom. And healing

~ Little Girl ~

No child should ever, ever have to experience this hell in the name of any god. And the True God will never bless the house that overlooks, enables, or protects the perpetrators. Justice is coming, via the One True Advocate.

Little Girl, you are worth so much more. You are cherished. You are precious. Your courage is the hope that every other little girl needs.

Little Girl, you are loved.

As always…
Love,
~ T~

© Trudy Metzger 2024

Happy 30th Anniversary, My Love

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On this day, 30 years ago, we said “I do,” and the officiating bishop, who had known me much longer than Tim, presented us to our guests as, “Mr. And Mrs. Tim Harder.” We had just started to walk out, but stopped and, in sync, swung around in surprise. The bishop corrected himself, and everyone erupted in laughter.

And so began the adventures of a lifetime.

Tim and I are different as day and night. The following pics illustrate this well. In the first pic we are both smiling and normal. Well, he’s outdoing himself a little for the pic. But you get the idea. In the second we are both being silly. you will note that his silly is less obvious than mine. That’s been life from the start.

Thirty years later, how does a person sum up what it means to do life with someone like Tim? His kindness. His gentleness. His complete acceptance of who I am. So much of my life, outside of this relationship, I have been “too much, too loud, too outspoken, too rebellious, too religious, too liberal, too too much.” With him, I am accepted. I am enough. I am honoured. I am cherished. So, so cherished. I am embraced. I am completely loved and graciously supported.

The past 4.5 years have thrown things at us that have tested every part of who we are individually and as a couple; emotionally, physically and spiritually. But, if it has accomplished anything at all in us, relationally, it has solidified our love even more. When the concussion changed my personality, he leaned in and got to know the new me and my new needs, adjusting to all the changes. Though I welcomed him into every part of my life and heart before the accident, and we made decisions together, I was also fiercely independent by nature, with his blessing. Suddenly I felt lost and uncertain. Before, physical touch was a strong love language and I was very affectionate. He knew me so well that he opened his arms to welcome me in his embrace before I made a move toward him. Somehow he just knew. Suddenly, physical affection wasn’t even on my radar. It didn’t occur to me to hug or kiss him, or to welcome him home. I had to retrain myself, and consciously remind myself of the importance of affection. He stepped out of character — physical touch is not his love language; acts of service is — and helped me learn again, initiating affection for my sake. Where I instinctively spoke encouragement and sincere admiration, I became wordless. He did not let his ego rule or take it personal. He walked gently with me and awakened that part of who I was, never commenting that he noticed. As I processed with my therapist the ways the concussion and the accident had changed me, I realized that it had been a long time since I told him how much I value him. This part of me is awakening again. Before that professional help in processing, it got pretty hard before it got better.

The day I told him that I feel lost in our relationship, but didn’t know how to put into words what it was. I acknowledge how kind he was and how much I appreciate it, but that I feel like nothing is normal and we are so far apart. He assured me his love had not changed; that he loved me just the same, and is in it with me. That began the process of unravelling the losses. When finally I was able to piece together what was happening, he went to the doctor with me to see what we can do. Soon after this is when I got the therapist to help process the accident and the aftermath. As they helped me walk through it, he supported me and learned with me.

As the harm to my spine invaded every part of our marriage, he took on things I can no longer do. When the pain leaves me shivering, and the tension is unbearable, he gets lotion and works out the tension and the knots so I can sleep. Sometimes night after night, and in between. When I cannot move myself in bed because of pain, he moves me. When I cannot walk alone, he takes my arm and supports my shoulder. When I lost much of my vision and especially the peripheral, he warned me when there was a step or elevation change. When we are in a new space, he still does this because I can’t always see (or process) elevation changes or things (like walls) in my peripheral.

Tim is not perfect. But he is perfect for me. Life with him is more than I ever dreamed marriage could be. He rolls with the punches and always holds me so that the punch lands on him.

*****

Tim, my Love,
I am so grateful God brought you into my life. Today, I honour you. And I thank you publicly for loving me so well. Life is hard at the moment, with many limitations, many unexpected changes, losses and expenses. We are not celebrating 30 years the way we hoped and dreamed. Still, I would rather suffer and be with you, than to be pain free anywhere else in the world without you. There is no one I would rather do life with. And there is no one whose life I would rather live than ours.

We have us. We have a loving and beautiful family; our children and grandchildren, and our unofficially adopted children and grandchildren. That is more than many will ever have. More than pain-free living can offer. Sometimes I lose sight of that when pain is at its worst and it all feels too hard. But I always come home to that truth. My heart is yours. Always. And in all ways.

Thank you for being my safe place.

Thank you to all who celebrated our wedding day with us 30 years ago. A special thank you to Florence Sauder who stepped into a ‘mom’/wedding organizer’ role and coordinated most of the wedding for us. We couldn’t have done it without you. (My event planning skills had not yet been discovered). And to all who have walked with us and supported, counselled and challenged us on the way, helping us to be the best that we can be.

As always…
Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2024

JAMES’ STORY OF CHILDHOOD ABUSE AND RECOVERY

Splsh4Ripls

In this blog, I share the story James sent to me. He is from an entirely different culture than my upbringing, and what I generally share here; stories from within Anabaptist community. James, who served in the military, reached out via my blog to ask if I would share what he has experienced, and the abuse he has had to overcome. Abuse is in every culture, religion and country. None excluded. I share James’s story because it deserves to be told. And because abuse is not only ‘among us’ in the Anabaptist culture. To verify his identity the best I could, I found some articles online that tell parts of his story. (Read here: Mental Camauflage I especially like what he writes at the end. It will resonate with survivors of trauma who have been called crazy, bitter, holding on to the past, etc.)

Since it seems to be happening more frequently, that individuals send me their stories to read and share, I want to address this for others interested in sharing. I welcome your story. Stories of overcoming. Stories of struggle. Stories of the impact of the abuse, or the trauma after. Your stories are welcome here, as long as my blog is up and running. I cannot write much right now, due to my spine injuries, but am happy to give you that opportunity. The amount of detail you share is yours to decide. However, before I post, I do need to be able to validate your identity, ideally in the form of some kind of ID. That is true whether your story is anonymous or you choose to identify yourself. Since it seems to be happening more frequently, that individuals send me their stories to read and share, I want to address this for others interested in sharing. I welcome your story. Stories of overcoming. Stories of struggle. Stories of the impact of the abuse, or the trauma after. Your stories are welcome here, as long as my blog is up and running. I cannot write much right now, due to my spine injuries, but am happy to give you that opportunity. The amount of detail you share is yours to decide. However, before I post, I do need to be able to validate your identity, ideally in the form of some kind of ID. That information will be deleted upon validation. That is true whether your story is anonymous or you choose to identify yourself. Everyone who suffers abuse should have a safe place to tell their story. I offer that place.

It is a terrible thing when a child has to choose between being with their best friend, and being abused, or give up their best friend. At an age where there is little to no understanding of what that abuse really is, and there is only the anxiety and fear — or other feelings — telling the child something is wrong, options aren’t even on the table. Some children will withdraw from their friends, others look back years later and see what it all really was. This is the story James shares with us.

*****

I was born in a beautiful little town in Belfast, Northern Ireland. The first nine years of my life were wonderful. However, in beginning in 1967, my childhood was abruptly changed forever.

Often, when I would go to play at my best friend’s house, his older brother would be home hiding in the shadows waiting for his opportunity to abuse me. I remember being there and hearing a door locking, knowing I was in trouble. I would get this sinking feeling in my gut, dreading what was in store for me. My friend would hold me down while his brother attacked me. 

At the time, I did not know if my friend’s brother held power over him too, forcing him to cooperate, or whether my friend willingly participated. All I knew was that it was wrong, and it made me feel sick. Afterwards, I would run home to shower, desperate to wash off this filthy feeling of utter guilt and shame. 

Experiencing this abuse from him for nearly three years — and wondering why my friend did not come to my defense and stop the abuse — made an impact on me and my mental health. Decades later, I think back, wondering how I could possibly have considered this boy to be my best friend. 

Sexual abuse is a kind of trauma that carries intense feelings of shame and fear. I remember that I just wanted to hide. 

My mental health deteriorated; the shame was eating me away inside. I felt obligated to keep this secret — to hide this terrible knowledge from everyone around me. The ever-present shame convinced me that I deserved to suffer from the hurt I felt. 

Looking back, I now know that it wasn’t even my shame to carry. What happened wasn’t my fault. But reaching this conclusion came from a long recovery process. My healing took time.

Needless to say, I never brought charges against my friend’s brother.  At one point I tried to find him in order to confront him but found it too painful to continue on that journey.  I never told my parents nor my children.  It took me over 50 years to disclose that I had been sexually abused as a child due to the mis-founded shame and guilt I carried.  By the time I did, I was just about non-functional and it was obvious that I needed proper medication and professional counseling. It was hard, and it hurt, but it’s what I needed to do — get it out in the open. It affected me so much emotionally. As time went by this trauma kept getting worse.  In order to get better I needed to seek help.  My local doctor referred me to what is now my mental health team at the UK’s National Health Service (NHS).  My problem had been building up for so many years.  Once I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD (CPTSD) and was taking the proper medication and had one-on-one appointments with my assigned psychologist I was able to open up and tell my experience of being abused as a child. 

Finally talking about it forced me to face and deal with the long-term effects of the mental trauma caused by being abused as a child. Time and help from the right people brought healing.  I am no longer at the mercy of this mental trauma and am now able to identify what happened and understand that none of this was of my own doing. I can see how I carried this trauma into adulthood, and I can identify with others who have been through similar experiences. 

Trauma needs to be dealt with, and we must prioritize our mental health for healing to begin. If you have been through childhood abuse of any kind, please, please, please seek help.  If I can go through that long, dark tunnel and reach the other side, so can you. It can make all the difference in your life.  It did mine!

My deepest desire for anyone on their healing journey — remember, you are worth it!

*****

James has done some hard healing work. Healing he was not able to do without help from professionals. Which leads me to address the common belief among Christians that “All you need is God. All you need is to trust more. All you need is to repent. Professionals will lead you astray… or they will fill your head with anti-God nonsense.” In reality, good professionals in therapy and counseling are trained NOT to do these things, the same way a heart surgeon wouldn’t go poking around the pancreas mid surgery. And I have yet to see the Christian community (broadly) tell someone fighting cancer that they should not speak to a professional. Or looking at someone having a heart attack and telling them to read their bible and pray. God is part of the healing, and He uses avenues such as professionals and medication for the mind, just as he does for heart patients and other illnesses.

Take a bit of time to research how meds work, because there’s a lot of overlap in their function, yet somehow we demonize some and embrace others. Or embrace them for one thing, but when treating the mind would demonize them. Metoprolol, for example, is a beta blocker used for heart patients. It also affects the mind and is used for stage fright and decreases anxiety, for some.. Gapapentin is used to treat seizures and nerve pain. It can also trigger severe psychological issues, or escalate pre-existing ones. The list goes on. It is either all around demonic to seek medical help and medication, or it is not demonic.

Why are we ok with professional help in every crisis except mental health? Why are so many Christians, at least in our Conservative Anabaptist community, on medications to treat depression but still advised not to get counseling. It is a mystery to me. Because I know first hand the incredible harm that medications can do to the body, having had two heart attacks due to meds. Some doctors won’t prescribe antidepressants *unless the person is also getting counseling/therapy, because both are needed. It is not that medication is evil, or that therapy is the sole solution, or that therapy is evil. It is about working with professionals to do their part, finding support within the respective community — whether Conservative Anabaptist or other community we find ourselves part of — and being treated with kindness and respect.

There are no easy answers. For the unwell individual, there is real and hard struggle. There is fear. There is anxiety. There is hopelessness. There is a sometimes a desperate cry for an end to come. (And before you judge too wildly, go read your bible; 1 Kings 19, specifically, in which Elijah asks God to kill him. Frankly, the prophets were a bunch of weeping depressed spokesmen for God).

From the community, there are a variety of responses. There is judgement. There is easy answers. There is the “God told me… and God showed me…” solutions, that sometimes include ‘enlightened’ Christians telling the depressed or struggling person what triggered the depression, such as repressed memories of abuse or Satanic Ritual Abuse and the like. The unwell mind then sometimes adopts that ‘revelation from God’ as their ‘reality’, creating a whole new set of problems. Or there is throwing more information at a fragile mind than what they can handle, escalating the unwellness.

Other times there is kindness. There is compassion. There is respect. There is support. There is giving space. There is love. These support healing. I can’t imagine anything worse than being in a fragile state and then being further pressured and beaten down, as some are. And I can’t imagine anything more healing than acknowledgement that the mind — the human brain — is part of the human body, subject to a fallen world, while supporting the journey to healing, whatever it takes. And, let me assure you, it often takes more than a few bible verses and a prayer. I have lived long enough, experienced enough, worked with enough trauma survivors to know that this mentality does more harm than good.

The best gift you can give is support. Not feeling sorry for. Not trying to fix. But honouring the individual and their journey, while supporting their path to healing, without easy answers, even if their healing looks different than yours.

As always…
Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2024