If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ve come to expect the raw honest truth. I hesitated to talk about this with anyone. I was afraid that the subscribers that have signed up for my blog and who follow my Facebook Page would run for the exit, but something more important is at stake here than popularity.
Those of you who have been kind enough to follow me for a while know that I walked a difficult road to get where I am at now. You know about my childhood. Some days are easier than others. I had a difficult one today.
I sat at the keyboard and struggled again to write a scene from the perspective of a douche bag child molester and it got to me. It hurt me so bad, I threw myself down on the floor and lay there until I felt safe. This is what I learned from therapy: make sure I am safe, and then assess my condition. To put it simply, I was in a lot of pain. I was facing demons, ghosts and that ever-present dark shadow cast by shame.
I didn’t panic, but I did reach out to a few friends to talk through what was making it so hard to write about the rapist and child molester. My novel, Ripple, is a psychological thriller, more fairy tale than crime story. And like all real fairy tales, there is sex in the story.
One of the things I wanted to show in Ripple is that victims of rape can overcome that trauma and can go on to fall in love and enjoy sex. So my main character falls in love, makes love to her gorgeous husband and enjoys it. I have no trouble admitting that it can get a little steamy when I write these scenes. Sometimes I get turned on, which makes me giggle because I am really uptight about sex. But it is what it is, and the novel is by no means erotica.
Here’s my problem. The scenes written from the child molester’s perspective bring back body memories of my own rape and incest, and damn it, I get turned on just like I did when I was a kid. Yes. There it is. Yet again, I am that 5-year old little girl, making Lone Ranger and Tonto rape my only Barbie doll and feeling a sexual response that I lacked the words to describe.
I am sorry if this makes you hate me, but I refuse to remain silent and ashamed any longer. What happened to make me feel that sexual response as a 5-year old, sweet little girl was not my fault. I did not sin. Someone else sinned against me. And I, as a child and now as an adult, stand and face the wreckage. And I rebuild.
You see, my friends, I am not the only one whose body betrayed her; I am not the only woman who has fought (sometimes still fights) a constant battle with her own body to respond appropriately to sexual stimuli. There are many of us. So I stand tall, no longer along, but with a band of sisters, who survived similar depredations. We are proud. We thrive. And we are not afraid.
Like the characters in my novel, our strength was forged in darkness. And yet light, and love, will be our guide. Sisters, rise. Do not feel ashamed. And know that you are loved.