I would sit in class and look around at children my age. And think I was not like them anymore. The innocence of young interest, infatuations, crushes, even basic friendships, stolen. I had a secret. I could tell no one. It was all stolen from me. I looked at the world in different lenses. I became one person at school: not me. Another at meeting: not me. Another with any non-professing friend: not me. Another with professing kids: not me. No one knew me. I don’t know me.
I was yet Another person…with my abuser. Oh, the ceilings I have faded into. The places I would go, in my mind, until I could get back home. I would hide Bibles in motel rooms hoping that would somehow lesson my sin. I would pray for someone to “catch” him. Then pray equally hard to not get caught for fear of what would happen with my parents.
I believed the perp when he said they wouldn’t believe me. No one would. I believed him when he said it was my fault. I learned how to escape in my mind. I have learned—that has caused a lot to stay trapped there. Only to show its ugly head in dreams and memories.
Things will trigger it. And not things you would expect necessarily. Sometimes the littlest thing—so insignificant—can drop you to your knees. When I am in Georgia and get the privilege to pick up my grandson at school, I weep. I sit in the car line and weep. I look at all the children my age. When I was abused. I look at them and see “children”. Happy, laughing children.
I can NOT understand how you can see anything different. How you can see a 11-12-13 year old girl, boy, and see them as a sexual turn on. I want to warn them. I look at them—scan the playground. To see if there is someone alone. Playing with dirt. I wonder —are they OK. Has someone hurt them. I watch my grandson climb in my car, all smiles. Happy. Telling me about his normal day. Even when he is sad or aggravated, I see…
I never had that. It was stolen. I hold my precious grandson so close. He has no idea of the horrors of this world. As he shouldn’t. But the memories kill me. The memories spiral me into a place where I’m all alone. Still—to this day. Those feelings and memories are not things I can share. No one would understand. No one would “get it”.
Why did I not ask for help? Why did I not bother to tell someone? Why did I??? I??? I – I – I. It is always placed back on the one who literally had no control over any of it and was living a private nightmare, hell. Leading to them praying to just die. I would hear of tragic accidents. I think, why couldn’t that have been me? We would drive by a terrible accident —and I would think—I wish it were me. I have driven at high rates of speed from 15 years old on—numerous times in my life. With no care of “what if.” Tempting fate. Fate never wanted me. There was no way out. I would hear of those dying from cancer or some other terrible thing gone wrong. And wish it was me. I spent more time wanting to die than I did wanting to live.
My parents viewed me as a difficult child. I was emotional. I would have complete breakdowns. They would make my mother so angry. I was an unhappy child. But many that knew me would not say that. They would say I was happy, outgoing, a live wire. It was me trying to be me. But I was never authentically ME—ever.
My mother was crying one day—so deep and sorrowful. I came out of my room. I was there. My brother was there. The only one not there, was my dad. He was at work. So, I felt fear. Her sobs sounded like someone whose heart was broken. How did I know?? I have cried them many times.
I ran to her. I feared she would tell me my dad had died. Head down, in her arms. Sobbing. “Mom-mom-what’s wrong?” I pleaded. Fearful of the answer. Then—stood there frozen—by her reply. (I am adopted—from Dr. Wally Baldwin) She looked up at me and said, “I wanted a little girl so bad, and look what I got”. What you got??? I am literally standing before her as an abused child. Literally torn to shreds. Trying to hold on. To nothing. And look what you got????????
I will stop here. There is so so much to a story of a child abused. The fact is very few people outside of others abused as well, can even come close to understanding. So much blame is cast back on us. We do it to ourselves even. An abused child is a damaged person—forever. There is no going back. You cannot become who you would have been. It alters your mind. Your view of people—the world. And GOD. You are forever damaged. You will always question yourself. You will take the blame for things you were never even a part of. If something is wrong. It is your fault. Period. You will make choices and have thoughts that “are not you”.
A psychiatrist once told me I was the strongest person he had ever met. That I was resilient. An overcomer. He was, and is, wrong. This man never even knew of my abuse. Or the church I grew up in. Or of my adoption. He knew nothing. No clue. It was so weird to me for him to tell me how strong I was about a particular thing going on in my life—with me sitting there thinking, “Oh boy. If you only knew —’the rest of the story’ ” (Paul Harvey).
Julie (Paul) Trapp
Texas
February 12, 2025