By Robin D. Stone
Essence
8/01
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My journey from victim to survivor began when I was about 9 years old. My younger sister and I were sleeping over at an uncle's house in the country. I adored my uncle, and I curled up on his lap to watch the late-night movie. Everyone else was asleep when, sometime later, he led me by the hand to a dark corner of his house. There he fondled my growing breasts and rubbed my crotch. When he was finished, he sent me to bed, warning me never to tell anyone what he had done. "The incident," as I now refer to it, was five minutes of confusion, horror and profound embarrassment. Its impact has lasted a lifetime.

Like many children who've been violated and warned to keep quiet, I did as I was told. Through years of family gatherings and church functions, I kept my distance from my uncle as I built a wall of silence around myself. Inside it, my secret began to take root in my life, and as a tree's roots slowly conform to their surroundings, so was I shaped by my inability to give voice to what had happened to me. Deep down, I believed that I had done something to deserve what happened, and even as I wrestled with that, there were periods when I managed to convince myself that it was really no big deal. Still, I decided that I shouldn't get too close to men, or anybody else for that matter. Even God was not exempt. I remember thinking that if God really existed, he wouldn't have let my uncle touch me.

Though some may find it difficult to understand how five minutes can forever affect the course of a life, those who have been sexually violated know all too well the residue of humiliation and helplessness that the experience leaves behind. Not telling about the abuse only compounds its effects. Indeed, some find that secrecy can become a way of life. Kristen (name has been changed), whose older cousin repeatedly forced her to have intercourse with him from ages 9 to 12, says, "There was a real connection between my not telling about the abuse and withholding other things about my life as well. You become good at hiding because you fear that if you don't, others will be able to see the shameful truth of what happened to you."

Sooner or later, though, the secret must be reckoned with, because the silence that helps us cope in the beginning can lead to anxiety, depression, addiction, memory loss, cancer, promiscuity and sexual and reproductive problems. "There's a mind-body-soul connection," explains Maelinda N. Turner, a Vancouver, British Columbia, social worker with a degree in divinity who has worked mostly with Black and Latino clients. "It may sound New-Agey, but if emotions aren't released, they hide in the body as disease."
A Quiet Epidemic

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