When I was in my early 20s, I started therapy, talking about my abusive childhood and the frequent chaos and neglect. A few sessions in, the therapist handed me a claim for insurance; on it I was to write the diagnosis for which I was seeking treatment.
Instead, I wrote the first and last names of the three family members who molested me and handed it back.
“You can’t do that,” she said.
“But that’s why I’m here,” I said.
She nodded, but explained how the insurance system worked and that a diagnosis was needed for me to get insurance coverage.
Car insurers look at fault and determine liability—why don’t medical insurers want a context? It made no sense to me. I pointed out how my perpetrators weren’t in jail or therapy, and my getting treatment wasn’t going to change their behavior.
I argued that, from a strictly financial standpoint, if abuse isn’t prevented it’s going to keep happening, and it’s cheaper to find and treat the abusers than the people they abuse. Wasn’t it known that abusers will keep abusing?
Prevention 101, or so I thought.
As a new mother, I wouldn’t leave my child at a lunch table alone in the Children’s Museum in Boston, prompting my social worker friend to laugh at my over-protectiveness. “You think something is going to happen to her here?” she said.
Even me—as a survivor abused in my own bed, at my home and in my stepfather’s car—bought into the myth that the predator is some sneaky stranger in public and not the trusted coach, stepparent, teacher or priest.
In some ways I miss the indignation of my youth when I felt outrage just on my own behalf and didn’t know that one in three or four of us have been abused. I look back at the 22-year-old in therapy who knew that treating my anxiety was necessary, but that more was required to end child sexual abuse.
It wasn’t just that I needed insurance to cover therapy—though I did, as a college student with terrible anxiety who was on work-study and getting financial aid. It was that I was at a liberal college in Amherst, Mass., where there were classes on abortion rights and a health center that gave you a mirror during a gynecological exam so you could be educated about your own body, but where there was little talk about the violence done to girls (and to boys).
I understood why it would be hard to speak up in families where abuse took place, but why was the silence so prevalent everywhere else?
I accepted a diagnosis in order to get more therapy sessions. “Generalized anxiety” would get coverage, my therapist explained, though post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) was more accurate. I went with PTSD because I wanted to be honest. I didn’t want to lie or manipulate the system. What I wanted to do was write to my insurance company and say how awful it felt to feel blamed for being abused.
But I didn’t.
That was 25 years ago, and it’s still difficult to be an incest survivor. It’s not a resumé builder or an asset for a Match.com profile.
Abusers love shame, and they love silence. Silence protects them. It doesn’t protect us now and it didn’t protect us when we were children. My privacy is not what needs protecting. Our children need protection.
Note: A slightly edited version of this piece was originally posted on the Ms. Magazine blog in Feb. of 2014.
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I agree Abusers love shame and guilt, my mother didn’t protect me when I told her what her then boyfriend did and years later after he abused yet another young girl(here is where the guilt comes in, I did nothing like go to someone other than my mother who accused me of lying) and then went to jail and she asked me again if I believed in him. I pointedly reminded her of the conversation we had had so many years before and went into a tailspin. A few months later she married him (after he was released from jail) and I did not attend, in fact I told my mother that she could come to my house but she had to come alone. She never did and that was 22 years ago, she died this week and I never got to say “I love you”, I did go to therapy and I was told that I did not have to respect her but would always love her(more guilt). Not going to wake or funeral, everybody thinks I am nuts and a liar(more abuse). Something needs to change!
Debbie,
Thank you so much for writing. Your story makes me feel so sad and motivated to work towards change. You were in such impossible situations. I am sorry.
You should not have been abused.
You should have been believed. First and then again later.
I am sorry someone else was abused and understand the guilt, though look at the response you got, it’s hard to feel empowered to take action and go to police when your own mother doesn’t respond, react or take action. I’m very sorry.
And I’m sorry for the loss of your mother as well for you lost her too, back then and more recently and that breaks my heart, for you and for all of us who can relate. We don’t just get hurt by the abusers and the losses of so many relationships ripple through life so it’s not a singular even to “get over” but impacts over and over.
I am sorry for your losses. I am so glad you wrote.
We need to change things so others don’t have to know this stuff!
Warmly, Cissy