- See more at: http://blogtimenow.com/blogging/automatically-redirect-blogger-blog-another-blog-website/#sthash.fBBcEurs.dpuf Casa de Sion: From Sex Trafficked Child To Child Advocate: Transition

Friday, July 13, 2012

From Sex Trafficked Child To Child Advocate: Transition

With this blog I moved from being a child whose father was molesting her to being a child who was being molested by many. I believe the people who came to these child molesting parties were paying and the ones giving them were traffickers. The part that hurt the most in my recovery was not being able to talk about it to my church group as if I had something to be ashamed of. To this day, I can talk about it on facebook groups easier than with church "friends". Sad that we do not take care of our lost sheep any better than this.


By October Vicki recognized she was pregnant again.  This was a miracle after a series of miscarriages and for sure would be her last.  It was special even in Vicki’s busy life, but at 40 years old she recognized that she would not be able to make the long trip to see Isaac every other week, especially after the winter weather arrived.  Vicki loved her group therapy and with Isaac’s approval found another group of sexual abuse victims that was only an hour away.

Things were still unsettled at home but not as bad as when the memories were surfacing regularly.  Our regular family activities like hikes at the park, which had been sparse, were again in our schedule.  But  on the whole we were disappointed:  With all the memory work and therapy she had done we had expected a healing curve to begin—for her fears to attenuate.  But even with the new insights that Vicki had about her past she was unable to feel safe in her present.  And it was puzzling.  Why hadn’t she been unable to let some of these things go?  And sadly, our church had been of little help.  Any mention of her abuse brought gasps and withdrawal from these people we had worshipped with for years.  Finally, the church authority over 10 different churches had come to tell her personally not to talk about it in church.

 It was hard for everyone including me to understand, but my fears were worse not better.  I felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown all the time.  Not that I had ever had one, but I knew how strung out I was.  I desperately needed someone to talk to and Jody was mad at me much of the time for not having conquered "my problems."  Therapy once a week brought up more issues than it resolved and the only other people I associated with were at church.  What an emotional downer to not be able to talk about what was happening with folks we were supposed to be sharing our burdens with.

Vicki’s new therapy group was led by a social worker with her MSW and her co-facilitator husband who was equally educated.  All of the victims were women and it was designed to support them in their healing.  General topics included flashbacks that might have occurred since the last session and strategies for dealing with the emotional deficits that were common in victims.

After attending several meetings, Vicki reported: “The leader’s husband is in pretty bad shape.  He may actually be in worse shape than I am.   If certain topics come up, he quickly exits the room.”  Vicki later found out that he too was a victim but it was a more severe type of abuse his wife referred to as ritual abuse.   Neither one of us had heard of the word before and soon discovered his had to do with the practice of Satanism.  We didn’t know whether to believe in it or not.

After a dearth of memory work, Vicki had a strange new one:  She was in Hawaii, driving alone in the car with her father at dusk.  She was anxious, sitting in the back seat as they traveled out into the country past the huge pineapple fields, past the stand where they often stopped after church on Sundays to eat fresh pineapple.  Her father turned off the paved road onto a dirt path that took them into an increasingly isolated area.  Soon there were bonfires and as their car slowed there were frightful animals peering into the car windows.  Her father got out and animals continued staring inside.  These were strange, exotic animals and it was terrifying.  Next, she was an unwilling participant in wild group sex.  Sorely abused and crying, at the end of the memory she sat before the leader who chided her saying that real women like this.

To Vicki this memory had the same quality as all the other ones she’d had previously.  It was the content that was so bizarre.  We decided that the animals peering into the car might have been adults wearing masks, but to a fearful five year old they could easily appear real.  I realized as an adult that the animals were really people with masks.  I am sure they wore masks because they knew I would recognize them as co-workers of my father.  The women at this meeting did not wear masks but wore revealing clothing and heavy make-up--I  think  they were probably prostitutes .  They were meaner than the men.  Imagine me, a 5 year old brutally raped and a quivering mass of physical and emotional pain , being told I was not a "real" woman because I did not enjoy sex like these "real" women did.  To this day, I cannot stand to be in the presence of skimpily clad, painted- up women.I think that the kids who were at this group were being trafficked. That the people who abused them were paying for the privilege to do so.

Where did this memory come from?  Had she been subconsciously been picking up information from her new group?  Was she somehow making all this up?  When she reported this memory to her new group, the co-facilitator quickly exited the room and did not return.  Vicki later learned that he had had similar experiences.  Where was this going?  And was it real?  This was the most upsetting thing of all for Vicki.

Several weeks later Vicki remembered an incident when she was three years old and lived in Atlanta.  Her father brought her outside behind the car and showed her the dead family cat.  “If you ever tell, the same thing will happen to you.”   My father, apparently had killed my pet cat.  My sister had a white one and I had a black.  The black one was laying dead in his arms.  I got the message and it had stayed bottled up in me.  The easiest way not to tell was just not to remember and that's what I had done all those years.  But suddenly I was not only remembering but also telling and I'm sure that was the root of much of my fear.

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