Because She is Worth It: The Impact Prosecuting Perpetrators of Abuse Has on Survivors

Empty eyes…the emptiest, most haunting eyes I’ve ever seen in the face of a child as the devastating words fall from her lips. My worst nightmare, come to unbearable, agonizing reality, shattering my heart into a thousand pieces. Shattered pieces, like those I hold in my arms as she weeps. I fight back the waves of rage in order to keep my voice a gentle croon instead of the shrieking wail I feel inside. Seeing my own fractured self in the crumpled form of my daughter, I am sure of only one thing: somehow, no matter what it takes, I must make her whole again. In spite of my best efforts, I failed to protect her; it feels like it will kill me, and if I fail to help her now, it surely will.

The kaleidoscope of ensuing events rush by in a strange, twilight blur: how can everything look so real, so alive, when I feel dead inside? Sitting across from a tall, bald detective in a cramped police interview room, woodenly stating the facts of my report, I am suddenly astonished to see the tears splash down on my hands; I don’t even feel them. Your daughter was an excellent witness, the district attorney is saying gently. My head turns at the sound of clanking chains, and horror washes over me at the sight of him in black-and-white stripes, wrists and ankles shackled. He had been a good man, the greatest, I thought. He was my hero. He was known all over the United States and several foreign countries for his humanitarian rescue of dozens of orphaned Vietnamese children just before Saigon fell. I had been so proud to call him my father. Now, I can’t bear to see his face. He saved motherless children from certain death, but he forced my child to endure a living death. No amount of altruism he has practiced for others can erase the desolation from her eyes.

The nightmare stretches through endless days and tortured, sleepless nights. Still dazed and staggering from the force of this unthinkable blow, I am stunned to find myself forced to put up defenses on a new and unexpected front: family members and longtime friends question my motives for reporting him to the police. He’s seventy-three years old, they say. He’s led such a good life up to now. Surely it was a mistake, and he’ll never do it again. You say you’re a Christian, but you’re on a witch hunt against a good Christian man. I know you are angry, but don’t choose revenge. Try forgiveness, you’ll be happier. How can you make your old father suffer in a jail cell? How would you like your children to do that to you? He never meant to hurt anyone. He’s said he’s sorry. You don’t know how much he’s suffered over what he’s done to the family. This should never be a public affair, shame on you for dragging your own elderly father into court! Keep it in the family. We can work it out. You can keep your children away from him, forever, if you think you need to, but how does it help your daughter to have him sitting in jail?

Well, thank you for asking, because helping my daughter is the reason he’s sitting in jail. I am astonished that anybody would need to have the reasons explained, but then I remember that my own perspective is that of a survivor. My little girl is me, a lifetime ago, it seems; only mine was a different abuser, and though unmasked, he was never punished. I will do everything for her that was never done for me, anything to salvage her mind from the torment that I learned to live with a long time ago. But even if she were not the child of my heart and my emotions were not involved, these friends of Job are ignoring the glaring fact that in most states, you are required by law to report sexual abuse of a child; it is a crime (Sandford 13).

First, and most obviously, a child needs to be immediately protected, and in more ways than simply ensuring the abuser has no access to her. Jane Chevous, herself an abuse survivor and experienced child advocate, sagaciously articulates the weighty truth that “there is an element of deliberate torture in all abuse” (29). I have no better words to satisfactorily convey the veracity of this to someone who has been fortunate enough to escape the hideous grasp of abuse. Child molesters are accomplished liars and manipulators, masters of mind games and control. Not only will putting him behind bars ensure his inability to reach her physically, its very publicity is ripping the face off his carefully crafted façade.  You can keep him away from her, the critics protest. You can do that without sending him to prison. Yes, it is possible to forbid him access to our family. But will that alone have the most positive effect on my girl? I know it will not, because one thing violated children care passionately about is trying to keep other children from suffering. The very thing that forced this hideous darkness into the light of day for my daughter was the fear that her little sister was in jeopardy, a fear that was justified when, within a couple of weeks of her disclosure, my father confessed to the abuse of three other granddaughters and one great-granddaughter. My own abuser has abused women and girls repeatedly over the past thirty years, as well. There is absolutely no guarantee that abusers will not reoffend. On their statistics page, the child protection website Yello Dyno cites:

 “3 in 10 child victimizers reported that they had committed their crimes against multiple victims: they were more likely than those who victimized adults to have had multiple victims.” - BJS Survey of State Prison Inmates, 1991

“The behavior is highly repetitive, to the point of compulsion, rather than resulting from a lack of judgment.”  - Dr. Ann Burges, Dr. Nicholas Groth, et al. in a study of imprisoned offenders (“Statistics”)

Beyond these rudimentary yet compelling grounds for the incarceration of the abuser, though, lie the most important reasons: indubitably establishing in the mind of the survivor who the guilty party truly is, and offering her tangible proof of the priceless treasure I consider her to be. Family therapists Heitritter and Vought emphasize the importance of validating the victim’s right to be heard, believed, and to have their information acted upon in such a way that demonstrates it is taken seriously (emphasis mine): “Research indicates that believing the child, supporting the child’s experience, and taking some protective action decreased the number of symptoms suffered by the child, whereas children who were not believed or, even worse, were punished for telling suffered increased psychological trauma” (36). I cannot express adequately how imperative it is to demonstrate by my actions how absolutely significant I believe my child’s worth to be. My abused child does not see any worth in herself; it is up to me to show her. The fact that I am sitting in a police station mere hours after hearing her story, begging for the arrest of her abuser, is undeniable proof to her that she is of far more value to me than even my own father. The fact that her father handles all the legal details, takes the day off work for every counseling appointment, sitting with his arm protectively around her while we wait, assures her that all men are not like her abuser, that her daddy is her champion. I instinctively understand this, but don’t realize how universal the need of a survivor to have worth affirmed actually is until I get a letter in the mail one day. It says, in part: “I am proud of you and J----- for knowing how valuable M------ is to you and acting accordingly. In that type of situation, a victim’s self-worth is directly impacted by the responses of those she trusts in her care. The greatest injustice would have been to minimize the crime and violation—you have shown her, by example, your love and commitment” (Hart). During a conversation with another friend, she tells me, as her eyes fill with tears, of her experience of being molested by her uncle. She says, “It happened in 1963. I was 13 years old. I told my mother, but nothing ever happened. He still attended every family get-together. He was treated just the same, as if nothing had happened, but it had. I have always wondered why I wasn’t worth more to them.” The very real feelings of worthlessness a survivor of abuse lives with stem from false guilt, most eloquently described by Chevous:

Shame is the most paralyzing aspect of (sexual) abuse. The shame of the abuser is most often carried by and in the shame of the abused. This is because it is very rare for an abuser to own their own guilt and therefore carry the responsibility for their actions. The shame is then internalized into the victim and they begin to live out of that. Standing with someone and helping them lay the blame at the right person’s door helps ease the paralysing [sic] effects of shame (32-33).

An article on chabad.org confirms this: “When children are molested, they are left enormously guilt-ridden. Even though what happened to them was not their fault, they still feel like it was” (Goetz). Along with an overwhelming host of other sources, The Leadership Council agrees that abusers manipulate their victims into shouldering the guilt, resulting in confusion and difficulty for the child in “sorting out who is responsible for the abuse” (“On Child Abuse and Interpersonal Violence”).

Finally, my support of my child, as I demonstrate it by clearly defining the wrongdoer to be her abuser, underscores her innocence in the best way possible. Those who wish to sweep it under the rug in the name of family pride or sympathy for the manipulating abuser would viciously reinforce the misconception that her own badness led these things to happen, in and of itself even more abuse (Chevous 31). Not only will I do whatever it takes to obliterate that insidious lie from her mind, I have cut off contact with anyone, family or not, who would wish to so debase her. I will not risk their ignorance and selfishness causing her further harm. John E. B. Myers, writing for The Future of Children, quotes from J. Peters’ “Why Prosecute Child Abuse?” South Dakota Law Review (emphasis mine): “Criminal intervention clearly establishes that the children are innocent victims and that the perpetrators are solely responsible for their wrongful behavior” (Myers).

So can I, as a Christian, bring the abuser to justice for his crime without being guilty of unforgiveness or just being out to get revenge? I am certain that I not only can, but have an obligation to do so. I believe that Scripture shows a deep abhorrence on God’s part toward all abuse of children (Matthew 18:6). I empathize with the abuse survivor quoted in a news article about his abuser being sentenced to prison: "When I saw him going away, it was like I finally felt like God was on my side," 27-year-old Orion Brutoco, a former patient and victim, said outside court. "It was like finally someone saw that the right thing to do was to put him in jail" (Melvin).  Ironically, the author of a book sent to me by a family member who took me to task for my “unchristian” actions agrees: “Can a person totally forgive and yet at the same time be the one who reports a crime? Absolutely. Total forgiveness does not mean closing our eyes to those who will continue to harm others” (Kendall 10). Punishing my child’s abuser will have profound effects on her for the rest of her life: setting her free, filling her with hope and confidence, giving her unshakable faith in the love and devotion of her father and mother.

Works Cited

“On Child Abuse and Interpersonal Violence”. leadershipcouncil.org. The Leadership Council, Web. 9 Dec. 2014

“Statistics”. yellodyno.com. Yello Dyno Protecting Children from Child Predators, Web. 9 Dec. 2014

Chevous, Jane. From Silence to Sanctuary. London: Society, 2004. Print.

Goetz, Barbara. “Things You Need to Know About Child Molesters”. chabad.org. The Jewish Woman, Web. 9 Dec. 2014

Hart, Stephanie. Letter to the author. June 2009. MS

Heitritter, Lynn, and Jeannette Vought. Helping Victims of Sexual Abuse. Minneapolis: Bethany, 2006. Print.

Kendall, R. T. Total Forgiveness. Lake Mary: Charisma, 2002. Print.

Melvin, Joshua. “Peninsula child psychiatrist sent to jail as his molestation victims applaud”. mercurynews.com. San Jose Mercury News MY TOWN, 8 Aug. 2013. Web. 7 Dec. 2014

Myers, John E. B. “Adjudication of Child Sexual Abuse Cases” Journal Issue: Sexual Abuse of Children Vol 4 No 2. princeton.edu. The Future of Children, Summer/Fall 1994. Web. 9 Dec. 2014

Sandford, Paula. Healing Victims of Sexual Abuse. Tulsa: Victory, 1988. Print.      

after just one hundred twenty days

 One of the most remarkable transformations that has ever occurred in my life is mostly invisible from the outside, and only those close to me are aware of it. I'm not quite sure if it was a metamorphosis so much as perhaps the actual birth of self-efficacy, and the confidence that brings, which began the day I walked into the administration building on this campus and registered for college classes at the age of forty-three. 

All of my life, I have passionately longed to someday join the ranks of the erudite, an ambition I thought would be forever beyond my reach. I am a long, long ways from even approaching that company, but what has changed is my belief that it is impossible.

I can’t remember a time it wasn’t there, this all-consuming desire to learn. It was there before I could read, and I waited with great impatience for the magical age of five when I could achieve that coveted goal. Accomplishing that first step only fanned my aspiration into a burning flame of craving for any and all knowledge. There is no difference between that early appetite and the hunger I feel now; each new fact, skill, or experience grasped only intensifies my greed for more. Likewise, the motivation that drove me to read the encyclopedia at an age when most girls were giggling over their boy crushes and imaginary weddings has never dimmed. Thirty-something years since I was that little girl, I still spend endless hours on my quest for academic advancement. 

Nevertheless, desire and motivation were beating their wings against the bars of perceived inadequacy and inability in a cage of fear deep inside my being. There is no way to express how real that fear was, or how isolated I felt because of it. When I had begun to gather the courage to consider going to college, I tried to communicate my utter lack of confidence to a few close friends and family members, but they quickly dismissed it with assurances that they had confidence that I would succeed. While comforting, their affirmation did little to convince me, because I considered their kind words just a fruit of their love for me. I treasured that, but I was sure their confidence in my ability was mere bias. While it failed to alleviate my anxiety, it did give me just enough tremulous fortitude to apply, and then, after being accepted, to register.

For the most part, these deep-rooted fears had a legitimate premise. My education up to this point, other than being taught to read, had been almost completely self-administered. My formal schooling, with actual age-appropriate curriculum and workbooks, was exactly two and a half years long; I began first grade at age five, and when I completed the first semester of third grade, at the mature age of seven-and-a-half, my parents decided I’d had enough of a foundation and set me adrift on the nebulous sea of Learning What Interests You, otherwise known as “unschooling”. 

This method of education seems to work well for some parents who actually provide unlimited access to opportunities for their children to advance in their selected interests, while still furnishing basic instruction in necessary skills such as grammar and math. That, however, didn’t happen in our house. Not only were grammar and math instruction abandoned, interests were severely limited by my father’s strict belief system. We were not allowed to read any fiction, fantasy, or subject matter he disagreed with, which was considerable. We were forbidden to engage in imaginative play, games, and sports of any kind. We did not have toys. Our instruction was largely on the Bible and my father’s worldview, and our activities were learning life skills like cooking, sewing, housekeeping, building, engine repair, and gardening.

When I was nineteen years old I took, and passed, the GED. That menacing fear inside, however, precluded any consideration of attending a regular institution of academia; after all, the GED was all multiple choice, and in my opinion, passing it just meant I was a pretty good guesser. I felt no hope of being able to do the actual work. The only option I saw open to me was Bible school, for which I was well prepared. I applied, and was accepted, to a small Bible college far from home. 

I did very well my first semester, but that seemed inevitable since I had studied the Bible ever since I had learned to read. The real challenge arrived with the second semester and the mandatory English class. I was completely ignorant of the rules and terms of grammar; the little I had learned, over a decade before, had long since fled my memory. Bleak and wintry, the familiar fear clutched my heart in its icy embrace, and I wondered how I could bear it if I failed, a very real possibility to my mind.

Eventually, the chill of fear replaced with hot shame, I summoned the courage to tell the professor about my complete lack of grammar in a desperate attempt to find a way to keep from failing. With unmitigated kindness, she offered to give me extra work which would earn extra credit if I was willing to do it. I took all the extra work she would give me, and, fortified with hope, sacrificed what was left of my pride and asked some friends for help. I needed a tutor, and they needed a tailor; after a couple hours over clauses and verb agreement, I’d exchange my pencil for a needle and alter their suits. Due to the flexibility of a wonderful professor and the generosity of my friends, I finished the grammar portion of the class with a C+. 

Later, I married one of those boys who had been a willing tutor, and my dreams to keep learning what I didn’t know shifted in priority as my babies arrived. I harbored the hope that when they reached school age, maybe I could go back to school. Life is full of unexpected twists; I did “go back to school”, but not at all how I had planned. That boy who had taught me the very basics of English grammar was now the father of my children, and for numerous reasons, he wanted me to teach them myself. He, knowing better than anyone my limitations, still had enormous faith in my ability to do so, a faith matched only by my fear. 

But I loved my family, so I began the overwhelming task of preparing myself adequately to teach my children. Nights, weekends, and summers, I researched and taught myself. I found a rigorous, college-prep academic curriculum with extensive teacher materials to use. Always staying one step ahead of my children, I mastered things I had always wondered about, something that filled me with joy but also, as I discovered more and more things I'd never learned, kept the anxiety alive that I wasn’t adequate, didn’t know enough, wasn’t smart enough. The ever-present, underlying dread that I might compromise my children’s education drove me relentlessly, day after day, to keep learning, keep pushing myself, keep requiring more of myself than I thought I had. The constraints of time and energy limited my efforts by the time my oldest finished fifth grade; consequently, each of my children was enrolled in an excellent video academy beginning at sixth grade. I now consider myself as smart as a fifth grader, because over the past fifteen years I have taught kindergarten through fifth grade three times in a row. And yet, the insecurity never lessened, the fear never subsided.

Until, one hundred twenty days ago, fighting panic the whole way, I forced myself to attend orientation and meet with an advisor. Walking out the door later on, with the papers in my hand as proof that I was, at last, a bona fide college student, I felt the first surge of anticipation that my ambitions might actually be realized some day; just a glimmer of hope, but enough to scald my eyes with hot tears and make my heart beat fast. 

The day I picked up my books, I cried again. Every autumn for fifteen years I have opened boxes of new books for the kids, and loved the crisp feel of them, the heady smell of the paper; but these...these were my new books. My books, for my classes. In the bookstore, I managed to portray the appropriate demeanor of a middle-aged woman, but once out in my truck I hugged the books to myself fiercely and breathed in the fragrance of the paper.  I counted the days until my classes opened. It seemed an eternity from July 1, the day I registered, to August 25, my First Day. I spent hours on my first posts and assignments, nervous about whether I was understanding the instructions right, wondering if what I wrote made any sense. With almost unbearable impatience, I waited for my first grades, to me the true test of whether my deep-seated feelings of inadequacy would be confirmed. Would this be my first of many, or first-but-last, semester?

Finally, I began to get feedback; to be sure, a few scores on quizzes and tests that were not so great, but, to my amazement, far more good grades than bad. Not only good grades, but encouraging and complimentary comments as well. At last, I could begin to allow myself to believe that I am not hopelessly stupid. I was looking at what seemed to me more credible validation than all the confidence of my family and friends: absolutely impartial instructors evaluated my work and deemed it acceptable. Fellow learners expressed appreciation to me for writing posts that they considered valuable contributions to the class. Real teachers, at a real school, gave me A’s for my mid-term grades. 

Suddenly, the sharp disappointment I'd felt over the few quizzes and tests on which I had not scored perfectly faded into acceptance. I'm not going to do work that is impeccable all of the time; my classes will get harder and harder, and I'm going to make mistakes, probably lots of them. I will likely spend many frustrating hours in the years ahead grappling with new concepts. Improving myself will always be my goal, but the skills I have and the effort I make right now is good enough. 

How can I even describe the contrast between my former paucity of self-confidence and my newfound conviction that I can, indeed, do this? I can do this! I know, now, that I will succeed. Whatever it takes, I’ve got that. I don’t know exactly what happened to the cruel, inexorable cage inside that threatened to keep desire and motivation imprisoned forever, but it is gone and they are flying free. Some day, I will don a mortarboard and gown, and I will graduate for the first time in my life. I might be fifty before it happens, but it will happen. It is never too late, and you are never too old, to triumph over fear and doubt.