Healing the Soul Wound of My Sexual Abuse

Healing the Soul Wound of My Sexual Abuse
Written by Her View From Home

A couple of months ago, I was having a conversation with an intern at work, and she asked me, “Is it still considered sexual abuse if the abuser is a peer?” Without a moment’s hesitation, I responded with, “Yes, of course.” We work in public health, so conversations like these are not unusual. I’m a mandated reporter. I work with high-risk youth. I have reported cases of abuse among my students more times than I care to count.

But in that moment, I felt like I was hit by a truck. The air left my lungs. And I was faced, for the first time ever, with a question:

Does that mean what happened to me was sexual abuse?

I was four years old. She was only five. She lived down the street. She told me with frightening nonchalance about the unspeakable things her cousin was doing to her at home. But I was so young, so innocent, that I had no idea how to even process the words she was saying to me.


The incidents happened over and over again. In my bed. My closet. My backyard. My parents were wonderful and caring and very involved in my life, but they had no idea. I didn’t know what was going on, or that it was wrong, or even how to articulate how I was feeling. I just knew I didn’t feel right. I was crippled by shame, and guilt, and fear. 

And for the last 27 years, I have tucked all of that away. Locked it in a vault, way in the back of my mind. I didn’t tell anyone about what happened other than my husband, but even then, I didn’t frame it as abuse. I didn’t think a five-year-old could abuse a four-year-old. That another little girl could have assaulted me. But when my intern asked me that question, on such a normal weekday in my normal office, it unlocked something in me.

Was it possible I had been a victim of sexual abuse, and hadn’t dealt with it for over a quarter of a century? 

Yes. I was. And I hadn’t.

So I made a call. I shook and cried on the phone. I started therapy. I had my meds adjusted.

And then the floodgates opened up. Feelings I haven’t allowed myself to feel for decades have come rushing to the surface. It’s like I had an infected wound that didn’t really cause pain until I started trying to clean it. The instinct to push back has been strong. To go back. To just try to forget and let it be again. Because this part hurts. It hurts like hell.

But I won’t go back. I will keep moving forward. I will do the hard, hard work of healing, because I know it will be worth it in the end. I deserve to find healing, for myself, for my family, and for my child. Cleaning out 27 years of repressed pain is going to be one of the hardest things I’ll ever do, but I’m going to do it. I am doing it. A little bit every day. I will let myself cry. I will let myself be so angry I could scream. I am unpacking a dark, dusty, long-forgotten attic, and it’s going to take time. It’s going to take patience and endurance and strength. I will meet my four-year-old self there, and I will tell her she is safe. That she is loved. And I will grieve for her. I will let myself feel these horrible feelings, because on the other side of this very stormy sea, after swimming so hard I feel I’ll surely drown, I will find a quiet and sunny shore. And there, I will rest.

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Her View From Home

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  • Whoever you are, friend, I’m in your corner. One day at a time, layer by layer you will find the strength to reclaim your authentic you…free from all the pain and hurt. Consider my prayers for you a constant. I’m on the other side of this and am always ready and willing to love and cheer on others walking this journey. Hugs and an abundance of love.

  • If I could hold that 4 year old girl I would never let her go. We are all here for you so please know you do not have to take this journey alone. If you ever need to talk I will listen to every word you have to say. Bless you sweet one for sharing so courageously! You will make it through and we will celebrate!

  • Dearest anonymous soul, you will find that even in the going back you are moving forward. Perhaps stumbling, but forward nonetheless. Keep up the good fight. You are worth it.