freedom

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

They pray and prey: A story of child rape and assault, at the hands of Luke Martin (Lancaster, PA)

Splsh4Ripls6 Comments

His smile sickened me. Disgusted me.

He attempted to reassure me. “I know the Lord and my life is changed.”

****

BACKGROUND TO SHARING THIS STORY

A friend asked if we could share the following story on my blog. The woman in the story felt compelled to speak out about her horrific experiences with Luke H Martin, of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, (EDIT: born in 1955 to Jonas M and Elizabeth Martin) recently after he approached his victim at an event. He showed no concern for her wellbeing, nor awareness of her lack of safety near him. Many years earlier, when confronted, he acknowledged his abuse of her, but failed to acknowledge the harm done to his victim(s). This confrontation took place after she was an adult.

This story begins with chaos and family dysfunction. There were many adults in this home. Yet, none seemed to notice when a little girl began experiencing the horror that her next 3 years would become. At the dinner table during prayer, in the barn before chores, after chores, and even during chores. In her bed at night, the bed she shared with her sister. 

From age 8 to 11, this little girl experienced hell at the hands of a hired man who was old enough to know better. He simply did not care about anyone or anything, but himself and his vile desires.

****

A WORD OF INTRODUCTION FROM THE AUTHOR

I never thought I would have the opportunity to share my story, my experience, and the nightmare this man inflicted on me. It was after our last ‘accidental’ meeting that I resolved, after some thought, that it was time to share my story publicly. I tell my story so others will know what he is capable of. So others harmed by him will know they are not alone in being abused and deeply hurt by this man. In hopes that others will feel less alone and find the courage to tell their stories. Especially other victims of the man who abused me.

****

A HORROR FROM DAYS GONE BY

Luke Martin was 19 or 20 when he was hired to help on our farm. We shared a house with my grandparents, and two young women between 20 and 30 years old, as I recall. In total, with Luke, there were 7 adults in my home. Not one ever noticed what was happening under their roof, at their dinner table, in their barn. Being the oldest child, I was often tasked with helping Luke with his various duties. It was not unusual to be in the stripping room, stripping tobacco, just me and him. 

Daily life, after Luke entered our home, changed dramatically as he took every opportunity to molest me. Our home wasn’t perfect, but my parents loved me, and they loved each other. With them, I was safe. Luke robbed me of safety in my home. He disrupted my development. He stole my confidence. 

The worst was time spent alone in the barn with him. Luke created a fort in the haymow, as children do, which kept others from seeing what was happening behind those hay bales. He created this sick ritual where he acknowledged that what he was going to do to me was wrong in God’s eyes, because I was an innocent child. He justified his crimes by telling me I must ask him to do whatever evil thing he desired that day. He would then respond with, “Let’s pray.” This was followed by a short time of silence during which time he expected me to pray and ask God to forgive him for the sins he was about to commit. Since I was an innocent child, God would surely hear my prayer. 

After prayer, there in the haymow, he not only raped and molested me, but he also had a dog do it to me as well. He also forced me to watch him commit these acts on our female dog. In the barn, it was just him and me, while all the other adults were doing other things, which gave him opportunity to repeat these horrific assaults whenever he pleased. 

A year after the abuse started, I got my first period. Despite not having an education about periods and pregnancy, I would spend time looking in the mirror, fearing that I was potentially pregnant. Each month I was relieved when my period came. The anxiety and worry about giving birth to a half-human, half-dog being was all-consuming. How would I explain that at 9 years old? What would people think? 

Luke took pleasure in taking me to watch animals have sex. “This is how people do it!” he assured me. He would take me to watch pigs, dogs, cats, and whatever animal he came upon mating. “This is how your parents do it,” he told me time after time. I remember feeling disgusted and ashamed at seeing animals do this and being told my parents did these same acts. 

The fear and the shame built up and I acted out at school. I cheated. I lied. I was disruptive and thought of myself as being the class clown. At home, I was angry and disrespectful. I was very frustrated that no one seemed to notice or care about the pain I suffered, the humiliation I endured, and the shame I constantly felt alongside the crippling fear. 

I first attempted to die by suicide at age 9. I took a handful of Aspirin and went to bed, desperately hoping to not wake up the next morning. I awoke the next morning, stretched my arms and moved my fingers, and realized that I was still alive. I was disappointed to have to face not just that day but all the feelings that went alongside being a victim of Luke’s abuse. I tried two more times to end my life, each time taking even more aspirin. And each time I felt the same disappointment. 

Luke also had a temper. On his final day at our home, he became enraged because Dad hadn’t gotten a chance to buy him the muffler for the tractor that Luke wanted, so he packed his bags and walked off. Watching Luke walk away brought me a sense of peace. I can easily define that moment as being the best feeling that Luke had ever evoked in me. I can still see his buggy drive down the road. With each clip-clop, knowing he was farther and farther away, I was finally safe from his vile and calculated abuse. 

I was finally safe from his sexualizing everything from me to the animals. That day changed my life for the better. 

****

A RECENT ENCOUNTER

The night I bumped into Luke, some months ago – and he smiled ‘that’ smile – was another game changer. He seemed aware of my life and all that had happened in the last 37 years, as though he had been stalking me all those years, dating back to when he was approached by his bishop regarding abusing me. 

Luke smiled at me and said, “I cried many a’night when I found out how your life turned out.” His demeanor can only be described as “giddy.” His actions and words far from appropriate. Imagine spending three years of your adult life making a young child suffer for sexual gratification, and then having the audacity to approach her decades later and tell her how changed you are. 

As I share my story, I look back and realize how many other times he inserted himself in my life since I am an adult. There was one time, in particular, I thought I saw him at an event that I attended. I just couldn’t be sure that it was him. But then I smelled him. His distinct body odor confirmed for me that it was him; he smelled just as he did when he abused me. The trigger of his scent alone caused me to spend many ensuing nights reliving childhood trauma through nightmares and flashbacks. Details and events that I have never before shared publicly. 

When he stood before me, smiling and giddy, a few months ago, I asked him the following question: “Do you realize what you took from me, from other young girls, and [specific identity redacted]?” 

Luke’s smile never changed. If anything, the twinkle in his eye seemed to shine brighter. He did not deny what I said. I was confident I was not the only victim of his depravity, though I did not know if he had ever acknowledged other victims. The skill with which he manipulated our home from the start, to harm me as he did, indicated he was already an experienced and highly skilled abuser. 

Luke repeated that the Lord had changed him and he was not the same man. He leaned close to me, seeming not to recognize how significant his actions were, and his response to my question. He seemed to have no perception of what he had truly done. We were not talking about something trivial. And, yet, his body language suggested that this was a conversation about him; something that seemed to boost his ego.

Standing there close to me, a victim of his horrific sexual violence, he insisted over and over how the Lord had changed him. He was unphased. Unphased by me boldly asking him if he knew the significance of what he had done. Unphased by the people walking around. Oblivious to the witnesses his body language was drawing. He did not grasp the pain he had caused me, other victims, and his wife and family by his actions. 

I reminded him during our conversation, “This isn’t about you.” 

After he walked away, another lady asked me if I was okay. I wasn’t. I admitted that and explained who he was and what he had done. She looked around. Families with children were nearby, and all around. Young people were walking in groups, some were alone. She was especially concerned about the vulnerability of young girls walking around without adults. 

She looked at me, “How is it, that a man like that, can be here in a place where there are other young children?” Her eyes were kind toward me, and yet at that moment, she realized that in a place where there are many Mennonite and Amish families, a predator was free to roam about. Her feelings of safety and security were suddenly destroyed, knowing that Luke was there and so bold in his approach and actions toward me. 

She told me that she had observed our interaction. I asked if it was because I had seemed angry. She shook her head no. “It was him. He just was acting odd.” 

After this event I reached out to a friend and asked if they know of any avenues to sharing my story. They told me of this blog, and reached out on my behalf. 

The night I bumped into Luke, a few months ago, my boldness overshadowed my fear and my nerves. I finally confronted him. There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt or a nudge of fear on his face; it was then I decided I want to share my story publicly. I want others to know who he is and what he has done, to ensure he never does this again. The Lord is capable of big things, including changing him, if he becomes truly repentant. Even so, those who have been victimized and harmed by him, should be acknowledged and given opportunity to heal, without him approaching them and terrorizing them through nightmares and flashbacks.

Over 30 years ago, Luke acknowledged his sex crimes when the bishop confronted him for what he had done to me as a child. To our church’s credit, he was excommunicated. Immediately, he began attending a church back in his hometown, near our family. 

I have seen Luke several times in the last number of years, where he had ample opportunity to acknowledge the sexual assault and harm. But he never had the courage to own his sins with me, his victim. Yet, somehow, he had the nerve to repeatedly tell me that he was a changed man. It was, once again, all about him and what he wanted or needed. It was, again, about him trying to take power over me. 

My life and the things that I have overcome and accomplished are not because of him. They are because of God’s goodness; He has given me the strength to overcome much trauma. I know that my story isn’t typical. When my family stopped farming and my father chose another occupation, it was a wonderful time for our family. There was no more anxiety about who the next hired man might be. No more fear of what he may try to do in the night, or even at the dinner table. Never again did I worry about being in a haymow, and I never did have to go back into a barn or a stripping room. 

****

I never thought I would have the opportunity to share my story publicly for others who need to know that Luke Martin is a sexual predator who harms little children. I write this story because I want other victims to know, “You are not alone.” I want them to know they are supported if they choose to come forward and report him.  

~ One little girl… now grown up and healed enough to speak ~

****

We tell the hard stories because they speak truth. We tell the hard stories to give others courage to speak. We tell them for the sake of accountability for the offender, and for the sake of justice and mercy. There is no greater mercy than to value the life of a child enough to create awareness. Above all, we tell them because to speak is part of the healing process, and it is critical for protecting children and the vulnerable.

Therefore, we will continue to speak. Continue to invite God into the chaos, the trauma and the horror of sins and crimes committed in His name, against His little ones.

As always…
Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2022

Laying my Mother to Rest, and processing forgiving my Father

Splsh4Ripls

Farewell Mom:
When I wrote my last blog before my mom’s death, on September 25, I didn’t know that only two days later I would stand by her bedside as she stopped to take her first breath of eternal life. One deep breath of the eternal, and she slipped away from us.

It is a strange and sacred thing to have been birthed from her womb, with my grandmother coaching her through the encounter, and to now stand beside her fifty years later, coaching her through her birth into an eternal world we cannot grasp. A world we feel inside, but are not privileged to preview. “You’re almost home. Soon you will rest,” I whispered

I wished for one moment that I could see through her eyes, the glorious world beyond, as her final heartbeat faded… I felt it, the dichotomy of a ‘farewell’ and a ‘welcome here’ happening all in one sacred moment as we watched her slip away, while in another place I imagined past heroes cheering at her entrance….

“She’s gone”, we whispered, as those in the Great Beyond cheered, “She made it!”

The last heartbeat lingered on my fingertips. Mom was asleep.

And then I stepped out of the hospital room, and doubled over weeping. Weeping for the loss of that moment. And the loss of a lifetime.

I will write more one day, I expect, but not right now. It is raw. It is sacred. It is broken… this story of my life with her. Above all, it is redeemed.  And when the time is right, I will tell that part of my story, because forgiving her was the right thing to do and brought healing to my heart.

For now, “Rest in peace, Mom. I’m glad you discovered the real Jesus and could say with confidence that you are ready to go Home.”

***

Trigger Alert (Forgiveness):
Forgiveness has been used and abused in religious communities as far back as I recall, and no doubt long before that. For people who have been traumatized and had their suffering disregarded, and then are guilt-tripped into ‘forgiving’, it is the Christian F-bomb. (Keeping in mind that what some teach forgiveness to be is not what forgiveness actually is). Therefore the warning. The following is a snippet of my story, involving my dad, which I usually tell at training.

My dad spent his life abusing his family emotionally, spiritually, and physically, at least into his late 50’s to early 60’s, and blatant sexual assault into his 40’s. There was one incident in his mid-50’s of crossing boundaries without blatant sexual assault.

That’s the backstory.

As he aged, in his late 60’s, dad mellowed out. And somewhere in there he was diagnosed bi-polar and put on meds; a detail most of his children only learned after his death. In his 70’s diabetes got the better of him and dad ended up in hospital, eventually having his leg amputated.

During his hospitalization, I chose to drive the 90 minutes once or twice a week, to sit by his bed. I usually went in the morning when no one else would be there. I had learned that when it was just the two of us we could go deep. Sometimes I sat and held his hand. He wept on numerous occasions, a broken old man (not that old, really, at 71, but older than his years), discovering God’s grace. Always I gave him a goodbye hug and told him I loved him.

When dad asked me to forgive him, I told him I’d forgiven him many years ago. I had done so for my freedom, not wanting to pass on the generational cycles to our children. (I broke many chains, yet failed our children deeply with my anger and emotional disengagement). The violence, death threats, name-calling and sexual abuse were never part of parent-child relationships. The cost of my failing still huge for my family.

Even though I had forgiven my parents, Tim and I made the choice to keep our children safe. None of our children had a relationship with my parents. We attended gatherings and tried to watch them closely. (In hindsight we wonder if we did enough). It never felt right to put them at risk. Even so, I chose to have relationship with my parents. I talked often on the phone with mom – especially after dad passed away – and occasionally chatted with dad. He wasn’t one to spend time on the phone with us. And I chose to pursue his heart in the hospital in his 70’s, and when he was arrested for uttering death threats in his 60’s. That was my choice. But boundaries for our children remained to the very end. With no apology, and no regret. I know with confidence my father never had access to our children.

Having shared this snippet at one of our training events recently, a delightful young woman contacted me not long after. She was happy for me, that I had been able to forgive so completely and sit there holding dad’s had. She’s not there yet, she said, but hopes one day she will be. 

Here is the thing, by the time I held my father’s hand, I had spent more than ten years healing from the damage he did to me, and had been away from home for over 15 years. By that time he was a vulnerable old man, broken by his own sin. I extended forgiveness many years earlier, but he remained a trigger for me at every family event we had while he was strong and healthy. I never trusted that he wouldn’t grab a gun one day and shoot us all. That fear never left until he was old and frail, and the nightmares haunted me even after his death.

Holding his hand had nothing to do with forgiveness, in and of itself. It did not make my forgiveness complete, though I could not have done it if I had not already forgiven him. It merely said, “I now feel safe enough to do this.”

Did it potentially help him grasp my forgiveness? That is possible. Even likely. But I was just as forgiving when we set up boundaries protecting our children, as I was when I hugged him and told him I love him, and when I held his hand.

Boundaries are not at odds with forgiveness. They should be part of it. That includes protecting our children from evil, and not putting ourselves in unnecessary harm. To force myself to hold his hand when I was in a place of trauma would have been a dreadful disservice to Tim and our children. They paid a high enough price for my journey. 

We all walk the path to healing differently. To be truly free from the offender’s grip, forgiveness must be part of that journey. Not the forgiveness taught by too many religious folks. The kind that looks the other way. That allows abuse to continue unquestioned and unchallenged. That silences victims and shames them. Forgiveness that lends a free pass to offenders, while sentencing victims to a life of bondage and guilt. Bondage to secrecy, and guilt if they dare to speak.

Not that kind of forgiveness at all. But the kind that says, “Your crimes/sins will not dominate my mind and my life. I choose to take back my ‘being’. I choose to heal. I choose to believe I have value, and the thing you did against me will not define me. So I forgive you, and set myself free. Free from your crimes, and free to speak truth without apology. And I leave you to stand accountable before God and the law.”

To forgive, when you go back to the original text in Matthew 6:12, means “send away, discharge, release, a separation…”

It’s time to reclaim forgiveness. The real kind.

 ***

UPCOMING EVENT, ELMIRA ONTARIO:
November 28 and 29
Emmanuel Missionary Church in Elmira Ontario

To see details and register visit: Generations Unleashed Events Page or print flyer (below)Thanks to donors, we are able to offer this training at discounted. If you have questions, please contact Generations Unleashed.

To read more about what to expect on Training day, click HERE and scroll down to the Elmira training announcement.

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As always,

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2019