"Why do you talk about it so much?"
I used to hear that question, usually from detractors.
"You must be bitter." "Do you know how to talk about anything else?" "Why can't you just move on?"
I haven't written anything in a while, partly because I'm busy, and partly because I don't quite want to.
But I want to write something today, for younger Shannon, and for anyone else who can't seem to stop telling their story.
It's ok.
It's ok to tell your story. And you get to tell it as many times as you want, to everyone who will listen. And when it's time to scale back, you'll know--your body will tell you, I promise. But right now, just know that it's ok to talk.
It's not just ok to share your story, it's good for you.
When we are traumatized, especially when we live in traumatizing situations for long periods, we are hardwired not to think about what is happening. Your brain is designed to protect you in traumatic situations by blocking out the reality of the situation and directing all of your body's energy toward the primary task: surviving.
For many of us, not only are we unable to share a story, but we may not think we have a story to tell. We can't remember what happened. Maybe we've been gaslit by our abusers into believing that nothing is wrong. We are just "overly sensitive" or "making a big deal about nothing." The one I always got told: "You don't remember it correctly."
Oh, how crazy that used to make me feel. I felt crazy. And after it went on for years, I started to second-guess myself too. Was I crazy? Was I...not remembering it correctly?
And yet I knew I was. I remember one awful conversation I had that I secretly recorded on my phone, not long before my exit. I didn't record it to hold onto my pain or to be bitter. And I most certainly did not record it for blackmail or revenge. In fact, I've never listened to it since.
I recorded it so I could know that I wasn't crazy. That I was in fact remembering it correctly.
Without further ado, here are four reasons sharing is a part of healing, so you can understand why you feel the urge to share your story, or why you are constantly having to listen to someone else's.
Sharing helps us reclaim our voices when we have been silenced.
"Children are to be seen, and not heard." Maybe your church also had an unspoken rule of "Women should be seen, and not heard." I spent my whole adolescence terrified to express my opinions for fear of being yelled at for being 'disrespectful' or 'belligerent'. Children were trained not to trust their judgment or their instincts, such as fear and discomfort. Many women leaving IFB circles, or other fundamentalist Christian groups, spent their lives being trained to have a 'meek and quiet spirit', which essentially meant being spineless and opinionless. Even the men were subject to the pastor. Everyone was subject to the pastor.
The pastor had the loudest voice, and his voice was so loud that no one else could be heard.
For people who were silenced, taking your voice back can be ridiculously empowering. It can be terrifying and exhilarating and healing all at once. It can feel really good.
Sometimes we tend to become mic grabbers in our excitement, like the child who has just learned to walk and refuses to stop. For all the kind-hearted people a little frustrated with the volume we project, cut us a little slack, please.
Some of us have years of catching up to do.
Some of us have never done it before in our lives.
If you are sharing your story, I want you to remember why you are sharing it: because your voice is worth being heard.
Don't let them shut you up.
2. Sharing helps us become authentic when we have been living double lives.
Shiny, Happy People, the Amazon Prime series about IBLP and the Duggars, took its title from the double lives that people in fundamentalism often live. On the outside, there are large families with their Bibles and violins, outside of picturesque little white churches. On the inside...well there is anything you can imagine.
I was sickened and fed up with the mask long before I got to take it off. The mask can be easier to keep on than you might think. It could just be someone asking me, "How are you this morning?" and I'd smile and say, "Oh, I'm good, how are you?!", when I really sat up all night hysterically crying while a friend tried to talk me out of suicide. Or maybe I'd been in the bathroom before the church service, making myself throw up, because I thought I was unworthy and unloved. Or maybe I said it because I didn't feel safe enough to give another answer.
It hurt every time. I remember screaming to my best friend, asking her, "Why do I have to lie and say I'm ok when I'm dying?"
Often when victims come forward and say they have been abused, especially in cases of domestic or partner abuse, one of the first things people say is "But they looked so happy!". It's a natural response, I've done it before too. We assume the perfect Instagram stories and the color-coordinated Sunday outfits and the strong handshakes and demure smiles are an indicator of strong, happy families.
And we need to get over it.
I can't think of how many people have told me about how their abusers forced them and their family members to take the perfect Instagram photos. Of children being threatened with physical violence if they didn't smile for the camera. Of all the school photos that involved a carefully designed outfit to cover up any marks of abuse.
The pretty pictures do not mean anything. It's the truth about the people in the pictures that do.
Sharing our stories can be an exercise in authenticity, because we can point to those pictures and tell the stories behind them and say, "I was not ok."
We can take off the mask. We can see other people and they can see us. Finally.
We can finally tell the truth and be known and loved for who we really are.
3. Sharing helps us feel validated when we have been gaslit.
One of the biggest needs survivors have when they escape is to hear other people's stories. In fact, hearing other people's stories is the first thing that sets many of us on the path to freedom. When you finally hear about someone else who both gets it and got out, you feel an instant connection. An instant flicker of hope. I know I did.
It was hearing other people's stories that let me know that I was not alone. Their stories gave me the courage to leave, and to believe that I would find a community.
Finding that someone else has experienced the same stuff you have is incredibly validating. It's another layer in place that allows you to learn to trust yourself, because...we can't all possibly be crazy and we can't all be remembering it wrong.
It's like the apologetics argument about the resurrection of Jesus. Yes, one deluded disciple who hallucinated the resurrection of Jesus, might have died for that belief. But all 12 of them?
You're not remembering it incorrectly if other people also remember the same things. You're just--right.
So when you share your story, you get the opportunity for other people to come along and say" "The same thing happened to me!" Or "I was in the room that night and I remember wondering if you were ok." Maybe they'll even finish your sentences for you. You'll probably even have many moments where you burst into excited laughter and look at each other in disbelief and go "You too??!"
And here's an additional plus: you never know if your story might become someone else's reason to leave.
4. Sharing is a sign of healing because it means that we have accepted what has happened to us and can start to recover from it.
"Did that actually happen to me?"
It's a question I still ask myself when reminiscing about my past. It's always followed by a second question.
"How did I live through that?"
It's incomprehensible to me, even now.
Many of us know that the first stage of grief is denial. As previously mentioned, your brain's primary function in crisis is just for you to survive. Our brains are very smart, they know that if we think about the reality of certain things as they are happening, we will not survive them or have any courage to go on. So they block those things out.
As a result, many trauma survivors get out to find that they lived in hell for years, and can't remember the details. Even for myself, I have a few vague memories that represent chunks of time in my story...my knees knocking together in fear as I clutched my filthy purple bathrobe, hiding under the blankets at night with my sister's 'borrowed' Kindle, sitting in my employer's office trying to convince her I was ok, and crying alone at night. A few others. And then there are giant blank spaces of time, where I can't remember anything clearly except that I was in hell.
But you can't go through the rest of your life with the blank spaces. At some point, we have to piece together our stories, for our own sanity.
When you start to share your story, you are moving past the denial. You are saying--out loud, on paper, or on an electronic screen--that this did happen to me and it's part of who I am. It did happen. It wasn't a nightmare. It was real.
One of the first signs that you are ready to get better is that you are ready to talk about it. It shows that you have the courage to finally acknowledge and give a name to your experiences.
For some of you, it becomes very real the first time you say, "I was abused." For some of us, an even bigger step in acceptance is when you can acknowledge the people who hurt you as 'abusers' or 'perpetrators'. It's terrifying. It hurts. It's something you didn't think you'd ever be saying. But when you can come to terms with it--honestly come to terms with it--you can finally start to heal.
Will I Ever Stop?
Maybe you will. Maybe you won't.
Healing is not a linear progression. It's not neat and tidy. It looks different for everyone.
What I can say, is that in my own experience, once you've shared your story enough, you'll know. You won't feel the urge to tell every new person you meet all the details. You'll post funny things on social media, instead of just strong opinions. You might even find yourself avoiding the subject of your past when people bring it up to you. It might even feel exhausting for you to tell the story again.
If you find yourself there, it's ok too. It means that you are secure in yourself and your identity and no longer need external validation. It means you know what happened--exactly what happened--and you trust yourself. It means you've taken your voice back and you feel free to speak and also to listen. It means that you are living with both feet firmly planted in the present, facing the future, and not staring into the past.
A few months after I left, I found myself in the office of my new church, telling my story to the pastor. He listened, and then he told me his story too. He was also ex-IFB. I instantly felt comforted, validated, and seen. Telling my story helped me find a sense of community in a new space.
When I told him I was a 'recovering fundamentalist', he told me something I will never forget. He told me he doesn't use that label anymore because he's already recovered. He said that while his story is an important part of his past and gives him empathy for other people from that background, it's no longer the defining thing about his life.
I remember sitting there, nodding politely, but privately dumbfounded inside.
I knew when I was ready to move on. It was gradual but definite. I've come to realize that my past will always affect my present and trying to run from it is pointless. I am forever a survivor. I will forever wear my scars. That is non-negotiable. I have to accept them and deal with them to live in the present and plan for the future. My story is a part of me. It always will be.
I also remember the day I opened up my Facebook profile and backspaced "Recovering Fundamentalist" out of my profile description.
I'll never be fully recovered till I get to heaven, but it just wasn't a label I wanted to identify me any longer. Not because it was wrong, but because I wanted to embrace the present. "Missionary to the Muslim people of Uganda," I put in its place.
I can still tell my story whenever I want to. But I don't need to tell my story anymore. And both of those things are ok.
If you are walking out of abuse or deep hurt in life right now, I want to encourage you to tell your story. Tell it loudly, tell it often, tell it all. Tell it for all the times that you lied and said you were ok. Tell it for all the times you were told to keep your mouth shut. Tell it and be proud of yourself for surviving.
It means you're healing.
I also want to encourage you and tell you that as impossible as it may seem, there may come a day when your story won't be the defining thing. Your future will be.
For all the supportive loved ones and friends and advocates who listen to the stories and sometimes feel weary: thank you for listening. You are the ones who make us feel heard. Be patient with us as we try to get it right and forgive us for all the times we say the same things over and over again. Hang in there with us as we get better.
Note: If your story feels irredeemable, Jesus gave his life on the cross to change the trajectory of your story and give you a hope and a future. If you want to find out how everything can become new and how God can restore the broken things in your life, please reach out to me or check out this article: https://www.gotquestions.org/how-can-I-be-saved.html.
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