Overthrowing Childhood Pain

As most of you know, I’ve been on a mission to not only heal children who have experienced trauma from child abuse, but also to heal my own childhood pain in a manner that I feel is the most healthy way for me.  Little by little, I tackle the things that used to cause me great pain and I turn them into something positive.  Suffering over 12 years of childhood sexual abuse, I have a long list.  The good news is that I’m crossing things off of my list, slowly, but always moving forward - baby steps if you will, but always progressing.  

My most recent attempt to overthrow my childhood pain was in my quest to purchase a doll from 1975 - Holly Hobbie’s friend, Heather.  I have looked off and on for this particular doll for a while now and last week, I finally found a version of her that was in good condition.  It’s not that I’m into doll collecting or in need of any dolls for that matter, but my whole quest is about what this particular doll represents for me and my child self.  Having her again would help heal unresolved hurts and help me come to terms with it.  It may also allow me to be comfortable in the life and with the me I have created post-abused Lee Ann.  

When I was 5, I wanted this doll more than I ever wanted anything.  To this day, I remember that feeling and nothing has ever compared.  I’m not certain why this doll appealed to me so much but she did.  When I opened her up on Christmas morning I was in shock.  I didn’t think I would ever get anything so amazing and certainly not get anything I truly wanted, but there she was in all her glory  It’s was not only a spectacular feeing, but a spectacular site too!  She was almost as tall as me!  I loved this doll.  She was precious, cute and huggable.  Much like I must have been at 5.  My doll friend saw the worst of my childhood - the unimaginable.  She was there with me through it all from pretty much the beginning to almost the end. 

So the day finally came and I received her in the mail yesterday.  It wasn’t easy to get myself to this point, but here I am.  My courage and bravery in action.  My husband, Chris, took a video of this personal moment that I’m not quite ready to share, so for now, I’ll try to use my words to describe this moment.  

How I felt physically took me by surprise.  I didn’t think my body would be effected this much, but my entire body was weak and I had a knot in my stomach.  I was full of so many emotions and I was so nervous.  In many ways, I felt a little nauseated.  I kept reminding myself to breath.  I’m confident all of this was a direct reaction to knowing I was unlocking a part of my childhood I’d mentally locked up in a nice box and I was about to open it.  Because of my physical reaction, I started questioning if I was prepared to deal with the feelings I would unlock through this doll.  But I’d come this far, I knew I was ready.  I opened the box.  Pulled out all the paper and I could see her through the plastic.  I had to take a second to breath again and I pulled her completely from the box.  I started to cry as emotions flooded me - wasn’t prepared for that!  I collected myself and unwrapped her from the plastic.  I was speechless and just starred at her.  She was just as I remember and It all came flooding back … The good, the ugly - all of it.  Such a strange thing to even articulate.  

I’m still a bit overwhelmed by it all a day later, but I’m happy to say I’m doing well.  She’s been hanging out in the living room over the last day so I can get used to the thought of her and all that she represents of my child self.  I’m now ready to place her in my craft room to hang out while I am being creative and open.  While I open myself to creativity as a healing tool, having something that represents my childhood in such a big way, helps me heal all the more.  What more amazing to me is that this room I created for myself is not only a craft room, but a healing room.  Benny Bunny is there with me too and loves it when I am in there creating and playing music.  My story about Benny and what he represents can be found here: http://leeannmead-sparksofhope.blogspot.com/2014/10/i-never-cried-i-shoved-but-tears-still.html  

My healing, my way is turning out to be pretty remarkable.  #Healthy #Healing #ProudOfMe 

Inspiring Creativity - Allowing My Child Self To Come Out & Play

I’ve done it!  Perhaps it’s baby steps, but I’ve done it and will continue to do so to maintain “my healthy.”  What is it I’ve done you may ask?  I’m following through with what I train and preach to our volunteers and kiddos about abuse survivors needing a creative outlet.  I’ve poured myself into building my organization for years.  I’ve not really done much creating other than writing, though writing is good, there are other important healing avenues that can tap into the one thing us survivors tend to burry - our child selves.  I’m talking about creating something from nothing.  Inspiring my creative self (our child selves) to come out and play.  It's empowering and so healthy!

Since mid-December, I was on a mission to create a craft room.  It seems like a simple task, or so I thought, but tapping into that creative part of me is hard.  Much harder than I thought - tapping into a little girl’s creativity that she’s tried so hard to burry.  I really had no idea what creating something like this would look like, but slowly, with the help and encouragement of my loving husband, we’ve been adding things to make a “creative craft haven” for me.  

One of the people that really kept me focused and determined is my Little Buddy, Haley from Sparks of Hope Healing Camp.  She’s been cheering me on telling me she can’t wait to get one of my creations from my “craft room haven.”  I made this chalkboard pillow for her.  I’ve not sewed anything for 26 years.  It felt pretty darn good. Nor have I made something like an appliqué - which I might add was not an easy task for someone who hasn’t been crafting in many, many years.  I am proud of me and cannot wait to give her my first creation of many.  

Front of Pillow!

Backside of Pillow!

My not so little helper, Milly!

I Never Cried; I Shoved, But Tears Still Found Their Way Out

Emotions are an interesting animal. I never cried when I was being sexually abused by my stepfather - I shoved it down and pretended it never happened. I never cried when he finally was pulled from my home after people found out he had been abusing me from the time I was 4 until the fall after my 16th birthday. The shame and huge amount of guilt I felt that I broke up my family was devastating, but I shoved it down. I didn't cry when I was placed into another home for a year until my mom could get on her feet to take care of me - I shoved it down. I didn't cry when people found out about the secret, I was more embarrassed that people would view me quite differently than they had before - I shoved those emotions down too. And I didn't even cry tears of joy when the abuse finally stopped. That part was shut off. I didn't allow myself to feel out of control. I controlled my emotions and was an expert at shoving my feelings down - obviously.  I learned over the years, no matter how much you shove your tears down, eventually, your tears still find a way out.

A perfect example is my bunny story: My teenage years I had a rabbitry of about 25 or so bunnies. They were my solace and I would talk to them about anything that was on my mind. They were my friends growing up. The ones that would not judge me no matter what was told to them. I felt safe to tell them my painful secret about being sexually abused.  

Out of all my beloved bunnies, I had a favorite bunny – he was special. His name was Bun-Bun. He was a 20lb giant gray lop. He was quite marvelous. I took him to my high school and would do improve and humorous interp pieces with him in my speech class. He even did tricks for my audience (with a little prodding).

I will never forget one particular fall day. I came home to my brother cooking something on the stove. My mom worked late and it was up to us sometimes to cook for ourselves. He asked me to try what he was cooking. He seemed off and told me that it tasted like chicken but wasn’t chicken. I tried it and he started laughing. I had no idea why. But then he told me I just ate my own bunny. I could hardly process what I was hearing and was in shock. I ran out of the house to the rabbitry searching for Bun-Bun in his cage. He was gone… I ran into the barn and on one of the hutches lay his head. I was horrified and hurt. I lost it. For the first time after my stepfather had been removed out of my home, and all the pain and the hurt he caused me, I finally broke and I wept. I sat in the barn and wept. I couldn't hold it in any longer and the tears finally found their way out.

The very next day, I let all my bunnies go – every single one of them. I felt they had a better chance out in the fields of our farm than living in a cage while my brother was still around. It was hard to do, they had been my friends, but I wanted them to survive – ALL of them. It was their chance to be free, much like I wish I could have been free of my trauma many years before, they were now free to be what God intended them to be – free, wild bunnies.
Months later, farmers started complaining – there was an uproar in town. There was in fact a bunny outbreak and they were everywhere and the farmers were pissed. But me, I was happy. I had the biggest smile on my face and such huge satisfaction that MY bunnies were living, thriving and taking over the town. It took many years to control the bunnies. I moved away years later. Where there once was farms, beautiful new houses stand, but bunnies are still seen I’m told from time to time and I can’t help but know that many of them are the lineage of the ones I freed.

Just yesterday, I received a text from my daughter. She works for a housing developer. She texted that she overheard some Realtors talking about a recent development that had displaced some of the bunnies in the town I once lived. There are STILL bunnies. 26 years later, the bunnies are still topic of conversation - man does this make me smile!

It took me 25 years to finally be ok with it all. Chris (my hubby) thought it was time for healing in that department as I’d made huge strides everywhere else in my life. In Spring, a little over a year ago, he said he had a surprise for me and we got into the car and drove. He wouldn’t say much but that it was something I needed. We drove up to a house and a man was waiting for us. He said “follow me, their back here.” We walked in the back yard and there they were. A bunch of cages with bunnies of all sizes. The hutch he took me too had baby gray lops that he said would be big (they looked big already), but that I could choose any one of them. I was hesitant, my stomach was tight, but I overcame the anxiety and picked the one up that I had my eye on. He nuzzled into my neck and it was all over. I took him home and he is all mine. He is safe and happy. I call him Benny Bunny. He is precious and so healing for me. I still struggle with bunny trauma from time to time. But Benny is patient.

I’ve had a few kids from my organization (Sparks of Hope) over (with their adoptive parent) to cuddle with him. I call it “Bunny therapy.” There is no clinical proof of bunny therapy but the little ones think it's real as do I. I think any animal that gives you joy and comfort is therapy. These two little kids in particular were horribly abused and they saw their oldest sister killed in front of their eyes. I’m not sure what it is about a precious bunny, but the time we spend with him is so healing for them and me.

I was motivated to tell my bunny story because a friend recently made an empowering bunny necklace for me, and my daughter reminded me in a text of those amazing bunnies from my hometown. I’ve told a limited amount of people my bunny story. I feel my abuse story is tragic enough, why add insult to injury? I think it’s too much for people sometimes, but my childhood was too much so I give people little bits and pieces about my life - a little at a time to digest.

The photo is of me and Benny on our first day together - I was taking him home.

Changed

I am forever changed by the courageous kids we helped over the last two weeks.  Tears were streaming down my face while I was leaving camp yesterday afternoon.  What’s it going to be like to go back to “real life”?  Camp life is so much different.  It’s the safest place I have ever been - you can be you, free to share your innermost thoughts where there is judgment.  I felt sick to my stomach as thoughts raced through my head … did I in fact make a difference in my little buddy’s life this week?  Did she really know how beautiful she was. Will she ever see the beauty in herself that everyone else sees?  Did she know how wonderful she is and that she can do anything she puts her mind to? 

I struggled more than anyone knew.  This time was different. I’m a leader, a director and a founder.  I should be solid, right?  I should have this down.  I teach this stuff … But, If I’m being honest, I didn’t feel at all confident.  I was vulnerable and raw.  I wouldn’t allow myself a break.  I had to keep working hard so she’d see - see she was worthy of being happy, worthy of loving herself and letting people into that sacred place that was holding the real her.  I wanted her to stop hating herself for having to put him in prison.  It wasn't her fault. None if it was and it’s not fair that she has to bear that burden.  No child should. 

The rawest part for me was that I saw my child self in her. I hadn’t faced that before.  I was cheering for her to believe - to just believe in herself, stop listening to the lies and not give up so easily.  That she really CAN do what ever she puts her mind to.  I saw the inner conflict in her eyes on the High Ropes Challenge Course this week.  She was terrified and didn’t believe in herself.  I saw it on her face - she was buying into those ugly lies survivors tell themselves.  She wanted to do this, but also wanted to quit at every turn.  I wouldn’t allow her to go there in her head.   I had to help her believe she had this, and could do it.  I pushed my limits showing her this.  I must have showed her each transition 3 times to make her see she was safe, would be ok and she could do this task - I was physically exhausted by the end and emotionally spent.  It was the most beautiful and exhausting experience.  We both were quiet and a little withdrawn after that challenge was completed.  It seemed to me she was in shock she actually finished it and wasn’t allowing herself the joy of her accomplishment until quite a while later.  I was so proud of her though - more than I think she knew. 

When I finally returned home I had to see what she (my little buddy) wrote.  It was on my mind the entire time.  I took off my signed camp shirt and started scanning it for the most important signature … her signature … there it was … and I was in tears all over again.  She was “going to miss me” with not just 1 but 3 exclamation marks!!!  All is well in my world today.  I am being missed by my hero and the most amazing and brave little girl I’ve ever met.

This work is difficult and it takes special people that are willing to be present on the battlefield with these kids; to roll up their sleeves and do this very challenging work - an incredible soul with a heart to do the tough stuff.  And when I say "challenging" and "tough" it means willing to bear witness to great pain and joy.  To have your heart ripped open, exposed and raw and just be there to help heal these kids.  I am so proud of our warriors/volunteers (I now call my dear friends) who were so willing to offer help and healing - so very proud indeed.

Healing Camp is Triage

"The wound is the place where light enters you. ~ Rumi"
Camp is triage.  These volunteers are tending to children on a battlefield they never asked to be on, trying desperately to keep their trust, and their hope, and their sense of self worth from bleeding out from the wounds that have been inflicted upon them.”  By Perry P. Perkins

I've never heard it described so beautifully about what we do at our healing camps.  My friend Perry, was at boys camp for a few days last week teaching young boys how to cook - give them a life skill they could take home with them and be proud of.

I do feel it's so much more than triage, but when you are coming into this battlefield for the first time, it is pretty devastating when it really and truly sinks in - we call it the “aha” moment and for the first time you “get” the gravity of what we do for hurting kids at healing camp ...

I Learned My Worth Praying For Rats To Leave

I was 6 years old and I had been praying for months for God to make the rats go away that were keeping me awake most every night.  Rats had settled into the walls of my rundown home to keep warm during the winter.  They were running around in the walls, and gnawing and scratching the wood in the built-in drawers that were above my head where I slept.  The rats terrified me to the point of having sleep deprivation.  Their clawing and chewing was so loud.  I often imagined they would chew through the walls and then bite and chew on me.  

There are many people that have different ideas of religion, God, faith or a higher power.  It’s not my place to judge who or what you believe in, but for me, I know there is a God.  A God that showed himself to me at the age of 6, and has continually shown himself to me throughout my life.  As a child, I knew of him, would even pray to him, but I didn’t really know him.  I soon learned who he was when I began praying for rats to leave.

My grandmothers on my dad and mom’s side talked of God often.  Quite a few times in my childhood I would stay with my Grandma Ernie (my mom’s mom) because my mom had demons of her own, for one reason or another, wasn’t capable of taking care of me because she was hospitalized multiple times in my childhood with alcohol poisoning and a bunch of other things - drinking herself to death was her plan.  My grandmother made it a point to pray with me every night before bed.  While praying with her, I would pray for the usual stuff that little kids do and would pray for God to bless everyone in the whole world until she had to finally cut me off at the 50^th person I had asked God to bless.  She was very patient though, and I think she appreciated that I wanted to help heal the world at such a young age, but she said God was very busy and I really needed to focus more on the people that were closer to home like family and things that really mattered to me.  

One particular winter evening, the rats were especially active.  I was so exhausted – I felt sick – I needed sleep.  I decided that I would pray to my Grandmother's God about the rat problem.  This was the very first time I prayed by myself.  I thought, what did I have to lose?  The first night I prayed - no rats came!  As with the second, third and fourth nights – months had gone by without the sound of the rats, and I could generally sleep through the night!  All I had to do was pray and the rats were somehow held at bay.  I would pray diligently each and every night for 6 months straight.  However, one particular night I decided to test the "God" theory.  I started to think that maybe the rats just left on their own and that God had nothing to do with it.  Why would God care about me - a little abused girl and her rat problem?  After all, bad things were happening to me all the time.  My stepfather had been sexually abusing me for over two years at this point in my life most every day and night.  I was used to the bad.  Maybe the rats leaving was a coincidence?  So I went to sleep without praying - determined to believe that no one cared about me or my rat problem, not even God.  That night, I woke up to the rats crawling through the walls, and the familiar sound of gnawing and chewing of wood.  It was on that particular night I knew God was there and must be listening – even to a 6 year old little girl who had no reason to believe in goodness. 

As I recount this part of my life as an adult,  I see things so differently.  I am more aware how bad and unworthy I must have felt about myself to never have asked God to intervene on my behalf about the abuse I was suffering, just as I had asked him to make the rats to go away, I didn’t feel that I deserved to ask God to keep my stepfather from sexually abusing me.  I was too ashamed to ask for his help.  Shame from sexual abuse does so much damage.  I felt guilt and shame because it must have been my fault that my stepfather was abusing me because I was bad – I was bad for causing him to do that to me.  I struggled with the thought that I was unworthy of protection from God or anyone.  I was on my own.  That guilt and shame stayed with me for many years, as did feeling broken, unworthy, unloveable, and damaged goods.  I became bitter and angry at God and that hurt a lot.  I didn't like myself too much.  

Despite my anger, I always felt him pulling at me.  He loved me even in my anger and right were I was at.  I learned that I am worthy, that God cared enough about me when I was 6 years old to make the rats go away when I had requested in a hopeful prayer, and that the abuse I suffered as a child was not my fault.  I have learned that God is a pain taker.  I am beautifully and wonderfully made for a purpose.  Sometimes bad things happen to good people.  God does answer prayers, but free will is an interesting thing - you can either choose to do ugly things with your life or be loving.  Unfortunately for me, I was living with a man who chose to do ugly things to me.  My abuser did horrific things to me as a child and teenager - he stole my innocence.  I  may have even felt I deserved it at the time, but God is helping me take that pain away and turn the ugliness I experienced into goodness. - his grace is overflowing.  He can take the ugly and bad and turn it into something beautiful if I allow him to - and I did.  Helping kids find their voice, their courage and their healing has meant everything to me.  That is where  my redemption comes from.  He is a chain breaker.  I have always deserved to be free of shame and guilt.  I am worthy of happiness and love. 

I know firsthand a beautiful song can rise from the ashes of a broken life.  Some of you out there reading this blog may need this song today.  If you are worn, he will lift you up.  With hope, faith and love.  ~ Lee Ann
http://www.godtube.com/watch/?v=0FJC2JNU

 

Who Will Save Her?

I attended a Darkness to Light: “Stewards of Children" Child Sex Abuse Prevention Training session last night sponsored by my friends at OAASIS.  My friend, Randy Ellison was the trainer.  The training was great and full of information that impacted the entire audience.  I took away so much, but there were a few things that I connected with that hit me personally hard as a survivor: 1) that most child survivors of sex abuse give hints/clues that they are being abused at least 7 times; and 2) more likely than not, the first time a child is confronted with the question if they have been or are being abused the child will say “no.”  This made me reflect on my own personal story, and what “tells” I may have been giving that no one was paying attention to.   

Randy also shared with us a survivor story of former Miss America, Marilyn Van Derbur.  He shared a small excerpt of her story where when she was 9 years old, she thought that the abuse she was suffering would finally end as her mom was so very close to finding out that her dad was sexually abusing her in her bedroom.  During the night, her mother’s footsteps came closer and closer, down the stairs to Marilyn’s bedroom, paused and then went back up the stairs.  She thought finally it was her chance for the secret to be revealed - and then it was gone.  She felt no one would save her now...
 

I relate so much to this story, but my hope to be saved was more blatantly ignored.  My mother had been an alcoholic my entire childhood and finally sobered up when I was 12.  I remember this one particular fall day I’d come home from school and she asked me to come into the living room.  She sat me down and had this look on her face that I still cannot describe.  I felt my stomach turn into a knot and my face flush and on fire.  I knew what she was going to ask next.  She told me she found a drawer full of polaroid pictures of a naked little girl that looked like me.  She then asked me if my stepfather was abusing me.  I knew this was my chance to finally tell the secret and I struggled for the right answer.  Shame took hold, as did fear - I denied it.  I was screaming inside.  I was desperately hoping that she wouldn’t believe me and see through my lie.  That perhaps now she would start paying attention or do something so drastic as to kick him out.  That never happened.  My abuse continued for 4 more years even after their was clear proof …

Denial is ugly.  When you suspect a child is being abused, tell someone.  If the child denies it, keep asking.  If they disclose, keep calm and stay strong.  Tell them you believe them, it’s not their fault and that they are not alone.

Behind These Eyes is a Secret...

My name is Lee Ann Mead. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, which started when I was 4 years old. Over a span of 12 plus years, I was controlled by my stepfather. When I was 16 years old, my childhood best friend told my dark secret. Her parents believed her and helped facilitate my breaking free of the hell I’d been living. My life was forever changed because someone (other than me) had the courage to tell. I am so grateful to her and her parents.

If you suspect child abuse, please don’t wait - tell. You may be the only person that child has that can save their life.

Because of what I went through, I’ve become a fierce advocate for kids who have been traumatized by abuse as I’ve walked in those very same shoes. I know what it feels like to feel damaged, broken, and ashamed. My past motivated me to create Sparks of Hope to help these hurting kids (just like I once was) turn the ugliness of what happened to them into goodness; to see a brighter future filled with joy; and to know that healing is possible.   

Please join me and Sparks of Hope by helping support these kids in need – refer a child – spread the word – raise a voice and stand up for kids.

Handprint of a Little Girl

I was in kindergarten and was so happy with the mother’s day gift I made my mom in class.  It was simply my handprint made from white paint on black paper.  In white writing below the handprint it said:

“Here is my hand
So tiny, so small
For you to place
Upon the wall
For you to watch
As years go by
How we do grow
My hand and I”

I had never been more proud of any piece of artwork before.  It was artwork that meant something more to me than anyone’s eye could see.  It was made from the heart of a sexually abused little girl.  It meant two things for me.  One, that I loved my mother and wanted to make her happy on Mother’s Day; and two, I was hoping by her hanging this artwork on the wall, she would actually start paying attention and “watch” me grow and figure out that something awful was happening to me almost every night since I was 4 years old – that I was being sexually abused by my step-monster. 

My hope dwindled, as she never caught on – never paid attention to the signs.  As I got older, and with every passing year, I hated that handprint and what it represented – a hope that was lost.  As I got older, shame set in and I didn’t want anyone knowing.  I was alone, alone with an ugly secret that I carried for many, many more years. 

As an adult, I have since learned that survivors of childhood sexual abuse suffer from triggers.  Triggers are something that cause flashbacks, anxiety, and other symptoms for the survivor of child abuse.  I am still learning mine, but one I never thought would be a trigger is a picture of handprints.  I am immediately propelled back to that day in kindergarten where I had such hope that this artwork would make my mom pay attention to me, and the deep sorrow I felt when she did not.   

I wrote about this because I saw handprints today and had a “trigger” moment.  I will never forget that day, those emotions, those feelings I had.  So I wanted to write down what I thought as a little girl when the handprints entered my life.  I also thought it useful for others to weigh in on this topic to comfort me and perhaps others – that we are not alone in dealing with this issue.    

 

Intimidation & Control

 To those of you who are survivors of abuse, did your abuser ever use an animal that you loved to intimidate or control you?  The reason I ask is because the more I share or talk about my abuse, the more memories that I've since forgotten suddenly come to mind.  You see, for so long, my normal was a skewed view of what other people may consider normal.  Looking back, how my abuser used my cat against me wasn't a "normal" behavior.  I’m very curious if others have had a similar experience, and if that's a common thing for abusers to do to their victim?

When I was 4 years old, my mom had given me a kitten from the pound that I named Gladys (I really have no idea where I came up with that name). She was my cat.  During all the years I endured the late-night sexual abuse by my stepmonster, my cat would stay by my side the entire time - she would never leave even when he tried to make her leave.  This is heartbreaking to talk about for me even now, but I would hold her tiny paw in my hand and just focus on her and try so very hard to pretend that nothing was happening to me.  She was always of great comfort my entire childhood as you would expect.  I felt as though she was an angel ministering to me during my darkest hours and a watcher over me.  The connection I had with this animal was more than I can even put to words.

I believe now that my abuser knew the connection I had with this animal and would use my cat as leverage to control or intimidate me - giving me the message that he could also harm her if I wasn't a good girl to him.  He would throw her on the roof all the time.  I would cry and beg him not to, but he would just laugh at me.  He also would kick at her, throw and/or slap her hard off of things she was laying or sitting on.  And more disturbing to me as a little girl was when he would also grab her and act like he was choking her - there were times it sounded as though he was really hurting her. 

Sadly, Gladys died the summer I turned 16.  I had her the entire duration of my abuse.  She died from feline leukemia (as things went for me, this was the same year they came out with the vaccine – naturally).  Interestingly, it would seem that after my stepmonster was pulled from my house and made to leave, she was relieved of her duty to watch over me and was freed - she died shortly after.  I find cats very comforting to this day.  Those of you who don't like cats, maybe you can better relate to a dog or some other thing, but I think any animal you are close to can give you a sense of comfort.  Animals have that gift it would seem…

Secrets & the Unknown

It's really hard for me to deal with secrets and the unknown.  I remember the obvious abuse that happened to me at the hands of my stepmonster, but there are times I feel I may not remember everything about that.  I get worn down by secrets and not knowing what really happened to me growing up - the full picture.  Some tell me to let it go, but I can't.  I know it wasn't a great childhood, in fact, many would say horrific, but I still don't have the full picture of what happened to me.  I want to know and feel I have a right.  I'm not angry at them, I just want honesty, and I want answers. 

I keep finding out little things about my childhood that I've never known.  When I actually gain information from family members, my reaction is one of shock and relief.  Things make a little more sense, but then I go back to shock again.  How I was treated as a child is deplorable, but here I am in one piece - shockingly doing okay in my life.  Who was that little girl and what happened to her?  I struggle for answers.  Not many family members are willing to talk about it.  They tell me that's all water under the bridge - well, it's water under my bridge and I don't know anything.  Tired of people protecting me for what they think is for "my good."

I recently found out from my father that my mom used to give me vodka when I was a baby because she thought it was funny.  When I was 2, my dad came home after work one day and he said I was a limp noodle or a wet rag.  He was so upset that he wanted to take me to the hospital.  My mother said I'd be fine and that she'd only given me vodka - she thought it was funny.  He insisted and I was looked over by a doctor.  The doctor could smell the alcohol on my breath.  My dad said that I was taken away from both of them for a bit and lived with my aunt.  I remember living with my aunt, but didn't ever know why.  This explains it.  I would live with family off and off in my life because my mom would drink herself to death and end up in the hospital numerous times. 

I remember a few years ago my aunt telling me a few stories over tea about when I was really little.  She seemed very uneasy talking to me about it because she didn't want to betray my mother, said that those stories were for another time.  She did say that when I had come to her house to stay as a little girl, I was just skin and bones - as though I'd not been fed or taken care of.  This is upsetting, but why would my mother do this?  My mom used to tell me I used to be her "torture doll" and that she was mean to me.  She was surprised (and relieved) I didn't remember.  

I'm on a mission to fill in the pieces of my childhood, and to learn more about what happened to the little girl I was.  From what I've experienced and remember as a little girl, and from what other family members tell me, it's a miracle that I am the woman I am today.  I never once gave up, I never tanked my life and I rose above the statistic of what I "could" have been.  Other survivors who are walking this path CAN do the same...

Abuse - EVEN in Your Neighborhood

There was an older lady that thanked me for sharing my painful story with them at a regional Kiwanis meeting I did a presentation for this evening.  She recently became aware of the prevalence of child abuse.  I will never forget what she told me so I’m passing this along...

She said that there was a group that came to speak about child abuse at another function she was at. The speaker had challenged all of them to step outside their house and to stand in the middle of their street – turn a circle and look as far as her eye could see down her own street in either direction – statistically, at least 2 children were being abused in her neighborhood. She did in fact do what the speaker had suggested, but still could not believe that a child on “her” street in her “good” neighborhood would be suffering abuse. She told her husband that she just couldn’t believe this to be true. A few weeks later, she saw police cars at a house diagonal from her’s. A boy had been sexually abused for years by his father. She felt great guilt and pain for this little boy. It wasn’t until that moment that it hit so “close to home” she believed. 

Friends, this is real and there is STILL a problem. Be aware… If you suspect child abuse, please report it to your local authorities. 

Fighting for Hope

In this picture, you see a 9 year old little girl.  What you don’t see is that by this point in her life, she had been sexually and physically abused by her stepfather for over five years (and will endure another 7).  She didn’t know any other kind of life.  The only safe place for her to think and reflect was on the roof of her home.
 

But she never, ever gave up on herself—or on life.  She had amazing fortitude.  I know this because I am the little girl on the roof in this picture.

This photo, as you can imagine, is hard for me to look at.  I just want to grab her (my child self), hug her tight, and tell her she will be okay.  Tell her that she will rise above the ugliness that she is going through—that the woman she will become will be a fierce advocate for children who are survivors of abuse.

Unfortunately, this topic is hard for people to wrap their minds around. It makes them feel squeamish when it’s brought up.  But this is real, and it’s happening to children at an alarming rate.  It’s heartbreaking. 
 

Our mission at Sparks of Hope is to help these hurting children see a brighter future filled with joy.  Simply, a life of hope.
 

~ Lee Ann Mead

My Best Friend & Hero Passed Away...

Carrie Poston changed my life.  My childhood/adult best friend, Carrie Poston, I owe so much to. It is because of her courage that the childhood sex abuse I endured for many, many years finally stopped.  Her parents Gary and Charlene Poston listened and believed her when she couldn't take it any more!  In so many ways, her legacy will live on through me, my story, and the organization I created.  She was that spark of hope in my life that forever changed my future.  My words reiterated below – my hero – tragically gone too soon…

Today we celebrate her life at her memorial...

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June 15, 2012

There are no words to describe my heartache this evening.  My childhood friend of many years passed away today.  We had gone through so much friendship, love and heartache.  Though her choices broke us apart and much like her family I had to choose the road of "tough love" with her.  It doesn't make it feel any better.  Six and a half years ago I had to turn her away because of her drug addiction.  I told her that what she was doing to me was not healthy and that I couldn't give her any more money - this cycle had gone on for quite a few years.  She would come to the house and ask for money to feed her addiction.  I had to stop enabling and I told her not to come back until she was clean.  I never saw her again, but twice on the streets of downtown Portland, driving to or from work.  It was heartbreaking for me to see her in that way - much by her choice er parents recently told me.  I carry great guilt always questioning if I'd done enough.  You see, something happened to her too - she was raped when she was 19.  She didn't handle it well and turned to drugs and alcohol.  I tried to stop her, but I didn't really know the entire story of how much she was using drugs because she hid it from me and hid it very well.  There were many time periods in our lives where she seemed fine and was coping well.  It wasn't really until our late 20s and early 30s that I figured out she was doing more than the small stuff.  She became a slave to some nasty drugs that you can get hooked on for a lifetime the very firs time you try it.  I never, ever thought I'd see her in this way.  I'm so saddened by this and hurt that she chose that road. 

There are so many good memories I dwell on now because the memories of hurt are so small compared to the joyous ones.  It's not every day you run into real life heroes.  Well, I had one as a best friend.  I will forever remember her bravery and her courage.  She stood up to a monster and said "NO - not one more day will I allow my friend to be abused!"  She had the courage that I could never find.  She saved me from a 12-year hell and told my secret.  I learned this accidentally one day.  She mentioned it in a casual conversation when I was in my early 30s.  For most of my life, I had never known it was her.  She said that she kept it from me because she thought I'd be mad that she betrayed my trust.  All I could do was jump up and give her a joyous hug and I sat there in shock.  

Carrie, I only wish that I could have saved you from your addiction and pain - saved you the way that you did for me.  I'm so sorry... 

I loved your laugh - it was contagious, and your beautiful smile - it lite up a room.  I loved your warm hugs and your notes you'd leave in places around the house that only I would find.  May you finally rest in peace and in our lord's arms, my friend.  I will see you again one day, but until then, give my momma, grandma and all my other loved ones a hug for me.

FORGIVENESS

1 year ago today was the last day I saw my mother alive.  I never thought I’d say goodbye so soon.

In all the days leading up to her death in the ICU, when she was conscious, she would never watch me walk out the door.  I thought it was odd.  I’d walk all the way to the other side of the ICU to the door and look back and her eyes were someplace else– until the day before her passing.  

It had been approximately 3 weeks in ICU.  March 16, 2011 was like any other day at the hospital.  I came to visit her once again on my lunch hour and I did all the talking of course as she couldn’t speak.  I kept telling her to fight and she would mouth the words that she was trying.  She was interested in everything I said as I talked about the kids and what I felt was the “boring” stuff, but she listened intently.  The time for our visit was up and I had to go back to work.  I kissed her goodbye on the cheek and walked out the door.  As I turned back to look as I always did, she was actually watching me leave.  I waved and blew a kiss.  Looking back on it now, I’m pretty sure she knew her time was short, but any novice to the medical field wouldn’t know otherwise.  Mom worked in the medical field – she knew – she knew she was in trouble and fighting for her life.  She lost her life’s fight a day later on March 17, 2011, but won a new life in the kingdom of heaven.    

Forgiveness:

My mother spent most of my adult life after she became sober trying to make up for all the wrongs she had caused in my life, including her not protecting me when I was a child/teenager from my  abusing stepfather.   I had been angry at her off and on as I grew older and had my own kids.  How could a mother allow her daughter to be sexually abused for 12 years?!  She chose alcohol over me most of my childhood.  As you would imagine, we had our ups and downs, but healing was really happening in my relationship with her.  It was only when I started to let go of the anger, healing really started to set in.  I had every right to be angry, but it wasn’t doing me any good.  The anger started to subside and forgiveness started making its way into my life and my relationship with my mother started changing in a good way.  She often said she knew there would be days that I’d be so angry at her, that I may not want anything to do with her.  I had many of those days and she took all my anger knowing it was her's to bear.  She was patient - never expecting forgiveness, but praying it would happen one day.  That “one day” was March 17, 2011.  Hours before her death, I told her I forgave her for not being the mother she needed to be for me, but thanking her for trying to be the one she knew she needed to be when I was an adult. 

What she suffered in the last 20 days of her life, more than made up for the wrong she ever did in her life.  

Everyone walks their own journey of healing from abuse, and the timing of when or if you want to forgive someone who has harmed you is clearly up to you and yours to give - you hold the power of forgiveness.  Sometimes we hold onto that power because we were powerless at one point in our life ...   If you are struggling with forgiveness, I've been there.  It's not something that you have to do - it's your choice.  It's not something that comes easy, but it's something that you eventually need to do for you.  It's really all on you and if you want to be free.  It doesn't mean you forget - you are letting go of the hold it had on you.  I get that if you were horribly harmed, you deserve by all rights to be angry.  At what cost though are you wiling to keep it?  Holding on to anger, resentment, and all that garbage only damages you NOT the person who did the harm - trust me, I know this!  If you want to be set free and find joy and peace, I encourage you with all my heart.  You'll know when it's time.  When you've had enough and feel empty and unhappy and it's eating you inside, then it's time... think of it as more of a selfceare for yourself.  YOU deserve to be happy, joyful and free!  If you are struggling, this is a great music video: Forgiveness  I encourage you to watch it.

My Story of Abuse

In order to understand why I’ve created my nonprofit, Sparks of Hope (http://www.sparksofhope.org/), I want to share my brief history of what has brought me to this point.  My story may not be unique, but it is one that I have never shared publicly, and only with a very few close family members and friends.  I share this for one purpose, to help hurting kids - kids that are like I once was.  Children are being abused in epidemic proportions - 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys will be sexually abused by the time they reach the age of 18.  This is just the reported cases.  We are fighting a war for our children, and I intend to, through Sparks of Hope, save as many kids from the path of destructive behavior that they often find themselves on when trying to rise above and overcome the abuse they suffered.  I want them to know that this is NOT how their story ends.  We can make a difference.  We can change lives.  Please support Sparks of Hope and help us fulfill our mission to help these hurting children. 

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My story - I don’t remember a time that I wasn’t being abused mentally, physically and sexually by my stepfather - a time before I was four years old.  I see photos of myself before the abuse and wonder what could have become of this little girl but for the abuse?  I mourn my childhood that could have been, but accept what it was.  Truth be told, I am a strong person and I am proud of the woman I have become because of the circumstances I overcame.  It made me who I am today.  I have the ability to turn the ugliness of what happened to me into something good, and I am doing just that.  

I remember always being afraid of my stepfather.  To me, he was a monster and I despised him.  He was my stepmonster, as I like to call him.  He had a large gun collection mounted on his bedroom wall and an extensive knife collection.  I don’t remember the exact words he said to keep me quiet, but I know I was afraid he would kill me if I told anyone and I never did.   

When I was around 7 years old, he and my mom were having another argument.  They were yelling and screaming at each other.  My bedroom was right across from theirs and I could hear everything that was said.  I heard them struggling with a gun.  I heard my mom tell him that if he killed her that he better kill my brother and I, and that she didn’t want us to have to live with him without her in our life.  At that moment, the gun went off.  It was the longest few seconds I'd ever experienced – I thought he killed her and I was next and I wet my bed.  I was so terrified and couldn’t move.  I thought I was going to pass out, and then my mom started screaming at him again because he actually pulled the trigger.  The bullet hole in the ceiling was a reminder that he actually intended harm.  When I was being abused in his room, it was hard not to see it as a glaring reminder - stay quiet and I won't get hurt. 

Not only did his gun and knife collection intimidate me, but his crude vocabulary and his size did as well.  He was a very large-overweight man with large hands.  When he spanked me, he really had no reason to use a belt in my opinion; his hands hurt me bad enough.  He would punish me quite often when I wouldn’t comply with what he wanted me to do by calling me vial names or he'd ignore me all together and pretend I didn't exist for long lengths of time - weeks would go by before he'd speak to me.  I didn’t know exactly what I did wrong, or what the foul words meant that he called me, but I knew I didn’t like them.  In my opinion, there is no place for the “c” word any time or anywhere.   It made me feel worthless and like I didn’t matter.  What was the point of even being around?  He also knew I loved my dad and controlled visits with him (which I of course loved to get away).  He'd use my relationship with my dad as punishment by keeping me from him.  I learned later that all of this behavior was his way of controlling me.  He made me feel like I was bad – all the time, and that I must have deserved it. 

My family was poor.  We didn’t have a lot of money, or at least my mom and us kids were poor.  My stepmonster had all the things he wanted like his expensive rings, guns, knives, leather jackets, and alligator shoes.  Mom would cook what she could afford with the budget she had.  The food wasn’t always good or easy to digest - much like her stews.  The meat in her stew was of low quality with lots of gristle - very chewy and hard to digest.  It would take me 5 minutes to chew one piece of meat.  I hated her stew, but had to eat it as there wasn’t much else to eat and I didn’t want to get into trouble.  There was a particular dinner time of eating mom's stew that is etched in my mind and I’ll use it as an example of my stepmonster’s cruelty.  I remember that I wasn’t feeling well, and couldn’t stomach the stew so I decided that I might be able to get away with putting the meat into my jean pocket and later flush it down the toilet – good plan – wrong.  My stepmonster saw me put a piece of meat into my pocket and came up beside me and backhanded me so hard that I flew off my chair and onto the floor and so did my food.  I was told I had to eat it off the floor.  We had animals and the floor was gross, but I did what he said because I was afraid.  After I ate what had landed on the floor, I then had to go stand in the corner.  What I thought would be only a few hours turned into an all-nighter.  I was standing there until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning when my mother came down the stairs wondering why I was still there.  Really?! 

I don’t want to be too graphic in my description of events as this is for public consumption, but I’m confident through my limited description you’ll get the idea.  From the age of 4 to 16, I lived in hell.  For many years, most every night before I went to bed, I had to go say goodnight to the stepmonster.  He would always take pictures of my privates and make me pose for him.  And he would do so when I was taking a bath.  If I didn’t do what he wanted, he would punish me.  I hate Polaroid cameras to this day.  The noise from those types of cameras turns my stomach and makes me want to vomit.  I guess you could say that sound is a trigger for me.  

And every night in the wee hours, he’d come into my room and lay with me.  He’d fondle me, perform oral sex on me and do other stuff to me and pleasure himself.  He made me do horrible things that a child should never be made to do.  I’m surprised that I didn’t die as a child.  I never slept.  I was always afraid to go to sleep.  If it wasn’t the rats running in the wall and chewing on the wood, it was the nightly sex abuse.  I knew it would happen again and again – and so it did for many, many years.  Whenever the abuse happened I froze.  I thought that if I just pretended it wasn’t happening, hold my kitty's paw and just focus on her that I'd be okay, or if I didn't resist at all and complied with what he wanted it would be better for me and he wouldn’t hurt me, but he always did.  He always hurt me any way and often.  I hate being alone in a dark bedroom to this day, but I’m still working on moving past that.  I also hated taking baths.  Baths were never fun for me growing up as they should be for kids.  For me, it meant my stepmonster would come in and touch me, take photos of me and want to “clean” me, but cleaning shouldn’t hurt, right?  It did - badly.  This is a reason why now I won’t take baths in a regular bath tub – it has to be a large Jacuzzi-type bathtub in an open space.   

As I got older and grew into a teenager it was a rule to never lock doors.  He would always walk in on me in my bedroom when I was dressing, pin me down on the bed as a control thing and start doing gross things to me.  He would always come in when I was taking a shower and touch me.  He would always find a reason to touch me any time he was alone with me.  I never had any privacy. 

  

As a little girl, I felt as though I wore a sign that said "broken", “damaged”, “dirty”, or “sexually abused” and “worthless”.  I thought it was obvious to everyone around me that I was a broken girl.  I spent my entire childhood trying my hardest to act like I wasn’t being abused because of the shame and guilt I carried like somehow it was all my fault.  I tried to be normal.  I wanted so desperately to be normal, but I knew I wasn’t.  I felt so alone.  I think I stuffed a lot of what was happening to me down and that is why I inevitably developed Crohn’s Disease.  I used to have horrible stomach pain and I’d have to lie on the floor and do breathing exercises just to make the pain stop.  I always had stomach pain and it’s no wonder. 

I never knew that I had any power to change a thing or that one day I could have my justice and my day in court until it was too late.  What that monster did to me would have sent him to prison for a very long time.  He died when I was 22 years old of a massive coronary heart attack.  I was relieved.  I smiled.  I never really felt at peace until his death.  Before he died, I felt as though he was always watching me.  My best friend would write me and tell me that he was trying to find me and she would lie for me.  He would press her for info on me and made her very uncomfortable, but she continued to lie for my sake and safety.  I never liked being alone for fear he would find me and hurt me.  I felt like he knew where I was and would be looking at me through the windows at night or that he was watching me in crowded places.  I hated that feeling.  It was only after his death that I could finally move on and heal - to actually have peace.  What an awesome feeling that was! 

After the stepmonster's death, I later learned that most of the men around me growing up on my stepmonster’s side were all pedophiles, and had gone to prison in the 90s or in early 2000 for abusing someone in their family.  I can’t say that I’m surprised. What an ugly mess. 

I was angry at my mom (with good reason!) later in my adult life because she was not there for me.  She always seemed to favor my brother.  It hurt a lot.  She often would tell me that she knew there would come a day that I would be very angry with her because she did not protect me and because she was mean to me.  She was right.  I don’t ever remember her being mean to me, but I remember her not protecting me.  She was an alcoholic through my childhood until I was 12 years old.  I found her bottles hidden all over the house - in the toilet tank, under sinks, in the ceramic kiln (an oven that fires clay).  During that time, she was in the hospital multiple times and the doctors would say that she was killing herself and that she wouldn’t live if she continued to drink.  I was angry at her for making me scared – I thought she was trying to kill herself and was going to die.  I would always end up living with one family member or another during her hospital stents.  I remember coming home from school most days and her being passed out on the couch.  She wanted me to clean the house so the stepmonster wouldn’t get pissed at her.  So I would clean to avoid conflict and the fights.  I hated conflict.  I still hate conflict, but I’m also learning to speak up and that sometimes you can’t avoid conflict and that it’s not such a scary thing when dealt with in a healthy way.

As you can imagine, my mom and I had a rocky relationship.  One minute I loved her to death, and then the next minuted I was back angry at her again.  We grew closer as I got older.  She spent most of my adult life trying to make up for all the years she wasn’t a good mom.  I learned recently from my father that one particular time when I was 2 she gave me vodka.  She thought it was funny.  My dad came home and found me.  He said I was like a wet rag and he had to take me to the hospital.  I was taken away for a while and lived with my aunt.  Apparently there are more stories and this is just the tip of the iceberg.  My dad has never liked to talk badly about my mom, but I want to know the truth and hopefully one day I learn the whole truth.  Eventually, I learned to forgive for the most part, but not forget.  There were times when unexpected anger would well up and I'd be so pissed at her.  She knew why, and still took ownership for the most part.  Through the years, I was able to tell her how I felt about my childhood, growing up, and a little about my stepmonster’s abuse of me.  She would always tell me she was so very proud of me and my courage.  I explained to her my passion and desire to help kids that were abused like me and she was very supportive of that.  I was helping with other child organizations and she was excited for me to do something with what happened to me.  She died in March 2011, and never got to know about Sparks of Hope, but before she died and on the day of her death, I forgave her and released her and myself.  I think that release among other things, gave me the steam I needed to press on and create my own organization for abused kids.   

Lastly, my real father has been my rock.  He is the kindest, gentlest man I have ever met.  He didn’t know I had been abused until I was 29 years old.  I prided myself on this because I wanted him to see me as undamaged.  Through him, I felt I could have a shot to feel what it was like to be a “normal” little girl – even if it wasn’t exactly true.  In his eyes, I was a princess and the light in his eye and he loved me beyond measure.  He collapsed on the floor the day he found out I had been abused (an ex told him out of anger), and I thought we were going to have to call an ambulance for him.  He was in shock and I heard him say over and over again that he tried to get me and that he didn’t know.  He sobbed and was heartbroken.  He felt great guilt, but none of it was his fault. I was terrified what would happen next. I’d never thought about what would happen if he found out.  As you would imagine, as would any father who loves their child, his response was amazing and one I’d never prepared myself for.  From that day, though I didn’t ever think he could be more proud of me or love me any more than he did, he said he was more proud and loved me more so than ever before because of circumstances I overcame and because of the woman I have become today.  He beams with pride in support of me and this organization. I love him so very much for that.         

I have many more stories about growing up abused, the angel that lived behind me named Mrs. Bezack, having to live in other homes, god showing himself to me through rats, and so much more.  One day, I hope that I can put it all down on paper, or in this blog but for now, I will spend my time pouring my heart and soul into this organization – Sparks of Hope.  I want to inspire and empower children who are like I was to know that they can move passed the ugliness and into wholeness and healing – there is hope and healing on the other side of the broken place.  

Please join me and help us light a spark in the hearts of abused children and teens.  If one spark can light a fire - just think what many sparks can do!