This is one of those blog posts that I publish and then change to unlisted, again and again. As the years pass I will probably continue to edit this story as I grow and journey on.
In May of 2017 had been 22 years since I was raped. I was out on a date with my husband. We were dining outside and Jay had gone back in to get our food when I saw him. It was a rush of blind terror. A panic attack in an instant. It felt like I would die. I bolted to the car.
I never felt responsible for what was done to me. I was a senior in high school as the relationship unfolded. It quickly escalated from possessiveness, to physical abuse. He called me names. He would talk about my clothes and shame my body. He would grab my arms and throw things at me. Shove me, scream in my face. He would cry hysterically after he hurt me.
As I met with a counselor, I began to put words to why I held onto so much pain. The idea of giving it to God, or offering "forgiveness" felt like my saying that what happened didn't matter. Didn't crush me into a million pieces. That I wasn't left like a piece of my Dad's beautiful pottery, shattered and crudely glued back together.
I never felt responsible for what was done to me. I was a senior in high school as the relationship unfolded. It quickly escalated from possessiveness, to physical abuse. He called me names. He would talk about my clothes and shame my body. He would grab my arms and throw things at me. Shove me, scream in my face. He would cry hysterically after he hurt me.
But I never expected the violence would escalate the way it did on the night of my Senior Prom. There were two people who could have helped me, who saw and heard my begging and pleading, but they turned and walked out, drove away. No call for help. What happened after was horrific. Violent. Big chunks I don’t remember, but I do I remember thinking he might kill me. And afterwards, over and over on a loop "if I can just get him to take me home I will be ok." The next Monday, he brought me roses to school, knocking on the portable classroom door, charming the teachers. The girls in 6th period swooned. I threw them in the trash.
Even after ALL these years:
The sight of roses still makes me sick.
I hate being grabbed or touched from behind
Prom season is hard, every year.
As I met with a counselor, I began to put words to why I held onto so much pain. The idea of giving it to God, or offering "forgiveness" felt like my saying that what happened didn't matter. Didn't crush me into a million pieces. That I wasn't left like a piece of my Dad's beautiful pottery, shattered and crudely glued back together.
Bu,t I thought, sitting in that space of brokenness for the rest of my life and saying “look how ugly this is” was not the end I had in mind.
Truly, the wounds are ugly, these invisible cars that wrap through my flesh and all the way down deep into my heart, curling up into my brain. They are life-changing scars, yes, but they are scars of a survivor. I took them with me into college and through a psych degree, magna cum laude. Through an abusive marriage: out the door, quick-like this time, you see they had left me with wisdom. Then into a beautiful second marriage. Through the miracle of two pregnancies and motherhood and coming into faith. Through deconstruction and a new church home. These scars remind me that there is beauty and wickedness in the world. That every one of us chooses each moment of our lives, whether we will move towards loving or hurting each other.
When I think of the wounds of Jesus, I know they were wounds from the wrath of man, not God. These wounds show us the depths of our wrath, but more importantly, they show the love of Jesus and the potential of the work of love. He did not crush us, He loved us.
He took our wrath and in return he gave the Spirit of Love.
Even when we are crushed by this world, we are loved.
Sometimes the best way to show the unsearchable love at work within us is to say, "Look these are my scars. They wrecked me. But the love of Christ at work in me has made them scars of love, scars of empathy, of tenderness, of compassion, of freedom, of grace."
