"We seldom get into trouble when we speak softly. It is only when we raise our voices that the sparks fly and tiny molehills become great mountains of contention."
I grew up in a great family. We're as dysfunctional as everyone else. I mean, is there such thing
as normalcy when referring to one's family life?
We love another and did our best to support each other in the best way we knew how. Part of
growing up was waving goodbye to my parents on Friday nights as they went on whatever
creative "date" a shoe-string budget could create.
Like all children, my brothers and I were probably not the easiest to babysit. My cousins babysat
us. When my cousins couldn't fill in, the ward youth were the next obvious choice and when they
weren't available, the older neighborhood kids were. It was an idyllic situation -- until it wasn't.
Up the street, there was a family who had three kids. The youngest one was a couple years older
than I. I enjoyed hanging out with her. She had an older brother. He began babysitting us when I
was about six or so. He liked to "play games," which included forcing himself on me.
I'm not sure how many times it happened, but I know it happened several times and finally
stopped when my parents came home from their date night early and basically caught him in the
act. I still struggle with PTSD symptoms related to the abuse I experienced.
Through my healing process, I learned to see my abuser through different light. I began to do so
when began to separate myself from the past and strive to see things from a different perspective.
As a six-year old, I was a victim of heinous acts. I was unable to do anything about those acts at
the time because I was just a kid -- a first grader.
I didn't talk about it with anyone -- that I recall -- until after my first psychotic break. At that
point, I was interrogated by a person trying to obtain my history. From that point on, it was in my
file. Something that every single provider wanted to talk about, something that they wanted to
"explore."
With each new counselor, it was like ripping off a tightly fastened band-aid held secure by
staples. I'd get all nice and almost healed entirely -- and then rip! The next counselor, case
manager, social worker, nurse, doctor, whoever, would want to start the process again.
It was a cycle of healing, ripping, bleeding out, bandaging, healing, ripping, bleeding out,
bandaging, healing and ripping. It seemed like just when the flashbacks and nightmare would
abate, I'd get thrown into a new treatment setting due to insurance changes, internship endings,
retirements, reshuffling of staff or any number of circumstances. Rip.
The more I talked about the abuse with the next person, the more I would feel helpless, angry and
guilty about what had happened to me as a six-year-old -- some twenty, twenty-five, thirty years
earlier. It didn't get easier. It got worse.
And then I decided to end the cycle. I decided that I was an adult and was the author of my own
life story. I could choose which characters in my life story would get a reprise and which would
be written out of the script.
I chose to write my story with the characters I wanted and ditch those who had done their part. I
wrote the last chapter including that stupid character. I finished the last sentence, punctuated it
with a "period," and turned the page to begin a new chapter.
I was free -- free from the ties that bound me to the abuse. Free from being a victim of someone
else's actions. Free to love again -- free to move forward with my life regardless of the ugliness
which I had experienced. Free. Unbound to the past and ready to embrace the future, whatever it
might hold.
Abuse is real. I know there are two sides to every story. A couple of years ago I ran into him at a
reunion. I asked him why he would ever do such a thing to a child. He denied knowing anything
about it, calling me a liar.
My journey from victim to survivor began with hurt, shame, guilt, fear, instability and
hopelessness. But there came a point in my own journey when I realized that my abuser still had
power over me, decades after the abuse occurred, because I allowed myself to continue to wear
the shackles created by my abuser.
Once I figured out how to unlock those shackles, I was able to move beyond my own feeling of
injustice, guilt, shame, hurt, insecurities, resentment, bitterness and anger.
There are times, like today, when I reflect on the abuse I endured, and feel those feelings of hurt,
anger, and bitterness again. It makes me wonder whether or not I have truly freed myself from
the painful and binding shackles created for me as a child by my abuser, but then I decide again
that I won't let him continue to hurt me by reliving all the guilt, confusion, shame, hurt and pain.
I choose to move forward -- the best revenge I can have -- and not let it affect the way I see
myself now or in the future.
My abuser? Well, I've learned that most abusers learn their behaviors from someone else and not
in some friendly, peachy environment. Undoubtedly he was a child at one time too, as innocent
as I was.
I still have arguments with my Savior in prayer struggling to see the "why me," but Christ hasn't
asked me to understand the abuse, He's asked me to let Him carry it. I have never been tortured as
He was. Somehow He found it in his heart to forgive those who tortured him.
I still haven't made it to the point of complete forgiveness, but with my Savior as my guide, I've
begun to see Hope through His eyes. He knows the truth of all things. He knows what it was like
for me, and you, your family, and everyone else.
Knowing that He knows, makes it easier to keep removing the heavy shackles, place them back
in their box at His feet and walk away with peace in my heart that all things will be made right in
the eternities.
Yes, the oven that burned my hand might be still hot, but I don't have to touch it daily in my own
mind and heart by reliving my own pain by dwelling on the graphic and vivid memories of the
hot fire. Instead I choose to walk away from the heat.
Sarah Price Hancock, a graduate of San Diego State University's rehabilitation
counseling Masters of Science program with a certificate psychiatric
rehabilitation.
Having embarked on her own journey with a mental health diagnosis, she is
passionate about psychiatric recovery. She enjoys working as a lector
for universities, training upcoming mental health professionals.
Sarah also enjoys sharing insights with peers working to strengthen
their "recovery toolbox." With proper support, Sarah
knows psychiatric recovery isn’t just possible — it’s
probable.
Born and raised in San Diego, California, Sarah served a Spanish-speaking
and ASL mission for the LDS Church in the Texas Dallas Mission. She
was graduated from Ricks College and BYU. Sarah currently resides in
San Diego and inherited four amazing children when she married the
man of her dreams in 2011. She loves writing, public speaking,
ceramics, jewelry-making and kite-flying — not necessarily in
that order.