Why Children Don't Tell When They Are Sexually Abused

I have some inside information on why children do not tell an adult when they are sexually abused. For the sake of protecting the privacy of innocent people I will cover this topic gingerly but honestly. It happened to me when I was fourteen years old. My family was a big, loving family where I felt safe and protected. We had the traditional family where dad worked outside the home and mom was a homemaker. My mom truly was a homemaker in every sense of the word. She filled our home with the wonderful aromas of fresh baked pies and home made meals. Our large brood gathered nightly around the table to partake of food, conversation and lot's of laughter. I truly was a happy girl with not a care in the world. Until I was sexually abused and then the foundation of my life crumbled.

At the age of fourteen I was on the cusp of womanhood. Although transitioning from being a child to a woman is filled with turmoil I was muddling through. I had my first boyfriend and I was so happy that someone liked me. Looking back I think that was a miracle because I was all leggy and skinny and waiting for curves. None the less, this boy liked me and I was on cloud nine. It was the mid-seventies and information about sex was very guarded. Television shows were more wholesome than they are today. Television advertisements were vague and discreet when it came to feminine products. I never saw a tampon or a sanitary napkin in our home. The girls were told to keep them in their closets away from the eyes of the little ones. Mom and Dad sheltered us and kept our innocence for us as long as possible. I do remember my dad warning me of the danger of going into other people's homes when we went out to play. We we're always admonished to stay outside and let them know which house we were playing at. Those seemed like the days where kids could run free in the neighborhood. The rule of summertime play was to get home when those street lights came on. The only reason given to us about staying out of other people's homes was that sometimes certain adults did not have a child's best interest at heart. When pressing our father for more information we learned from him that some men could be dangerous. Still, what kind of dangerous remained a mystery to me. I figured the big bad boogie man must be one of "those" men and that's how children disappeared.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the boogie man in my life was a trusted friend of the family. When the incidents of molestation occurred I could not quite understand what was happening. My mind at that critical age of adolescence seemed to have frozen into a state of unreality. I was in a situation where I was away from home and in the molesters home for one week. It was a summer babysitting gig and I had looked forward to making some money. The week turned out to be a constant game of cat and mouse between me and the perpetrator. At first the aberrant behavior was barely detectable. A slight exposing of genitalia that seemed as though it was accidental. My mind had to rationalize the behavior because it was so foreign that I scrambled to make sense of it. Little by little the behavior increased to more overt tones of sexuality until there was no question that this was wrong. So began my frantic pace of avoidance. That was the only way I thought there was to cope with what was happening. If he didn't see me than I couldn't be giving him some weird signal that made him think this was okay. By then I started to wonder what I was doing that was making him feel like this about me. In my little girl mind this became my fault and thus began a spiraling down into guilt.

Why I didn't call home or run and tell the lady of the house is that the abuser had me convinced that I was enticing him and somehow I knew it. The boogie man is very good at conniving and warping a youngsters sense of self. At that moment I became someone other than who I always thought I was. I became a bad girl who forced this good man into behavior that he was helpless to discontinue. He convinced me that I created his bad behavior by my flirting with him. At that time I was a very novice flirter in my previous life and saying, "hi" and acting shy around a boy was the extent of my flirting history. I began to analyze my behavior around this person when I had to be alone with him. Because I was babysitting I tried to keep that baby awake as long as I could. Naptime was my undoing and he skulked around like a lion waiting for the baby to go down.

Very near the end of that week I began to experience panic attacks. My heart would beat into my mattress at night and I thought I was dying. I could only sleep in very short intervals because I was on alert. I woke up with the sound of every passing car or siren in a cold sweat with my heart racing. I just wanted it to end. I wanted to go home and go back to normal. I kept telling myself that I was not raped so it was not that bad. While I turned it over and over in my mind what I would do when I got home I kept thinking of the baby's mother. This woman was married to someone who hardly ever worked. She worked full time and actually pumped breast milk at work for her little one because they did not have much money. This man was supposed to be working sort of from home. To this day I still do not know what that job was because he didn't do anything but terrorize me the whole time. I pitied the woman and the baby. I thought if I told my parents my father would probably go to the police. This lady would never forgive me because I would have ruined her life.

I didn't tell. I went home and tried to be the same girl I was before I left the previous week. It is true that an event can be so disturbing that it can be locked away somewhere in a person's mind. I buried it so far and so deep that I never thought about it again. This family friend somehow left our inner circle and the couple divorced after all for reasons we never knew. Briefly upon hearing that I was happy for her but wondered about the little girls in that family. It bothered me now and then that he may have hurt them. Then of course I would dismiss that thought as soon as it entered my mind because he was their father. How could he have possibly been that much of a monster? Although, the burying of the incident happened very quickly I did break up with that first boyfriend the day I got home. He couldn't understand how I could go away liking him and come home unable to hold his hand. How could I verbalize that hands were now viewed as weapons on the opposite sex by me? I never consciously realized it at the time myself.

Life went on for me and things stayed buried pretty well for many many years. I got married at a very young age. I found a nice young man who was shy and very respectful. He was safe. I was not afraid to be near him and his hands were where I could see them most of the time. The first time he wanted to hold my hand he asked my permission first. At that moment he got to hold my hand and my heart. We had three boys very quickly and I settled in to homemaking just like my mom. I wanted my children to have those wonderful aromas that I experienced as a child. We ate around the table and laughed and shared alot of good times. That tomb in my mind was securely sealed. My husband, my boys and myself lived in a bubble. Then I got pregnant with my fourth child and wished fervently for a girl. My wish was granted. I was over the moon and revelling in pink lace dresses and bows on a beautiful head of curly blonde hair. Could my life have gotten any better?

When my baby girl was a little over a year old and walking I awoke one night in a cold sweat and my heart was racing. It started to happen during the day more and more. The panic attacks came back and at first there was no understanding on my part. I wasn't worrying about anything. My kids were healthy and we had enough to take care of them. Nothing had changed as far as I could see. One afternoon on particular my daughter had scrambled off of my lap and ran across the room to a friend who had been visiting. This was a very good friend of my husband. This is a good man and he is like an uncle to our kids. He still is and is perfectly wonderful and welcome in our home to this day. On that day however I could not bear to see her sitting on his lap. My heart was pounding and I felt faint. The next day I sought out counseling. I wanted to know why I was having panic attacks.

The excavation of the tomb in my mind had begun. To my amazement the first question that the counselor asked was had I been molested? No, absolutely not! I fairly shouted it at him. He gently told me that my answer was so fast and a tad violent. All I wanted was for him to help me with my anxiety that surrounded keeping my daughter safe. I explained that I didn't have that anxiety about the boys and I thought I just needed help coping with raising a daughter. He ever so tactfully explained that molestation does not have to include rape. The inappropriate touch of an adult on a child is molestation. His little archaeological dig into my brain began with a very small instrument. It began with an explanation that most children are so confused when this happens that one of the coping mechanisms is denial.

When the memories came they physically shook my whole body from head to toe. I didn't know a person could shake so much and feel so much. I didn't know that a person who has been molested can be instantly transported to the age they were at the time when verbalizing the incidents. I quit counseling when the tomb was fully opened because I could only go to a certain point. That was twenty years ago. I resumed counseling on and off and tried to work past the point that was most painful. This year I finally did it. I could only do it by staring at the floor with the consent of my counselor. The ground rules I laid out was that this was going to be excruciating and I could not make eye contact. He said, "do it however you feel comfortable". Comfortable was out of the question but when I finally reached the end of the whole story I felt clean. The weight came off of my shoulders. The next step was to contact the woman who had been married to the molester and tell her of my ordeal. It was really hard. The reason I did tell her was because they now had two granddaughters and I had heard that the eldest one had sleep overs at his house. At least I was finally able to tell her in case the little ones were in danger.

I encountered disbelief on her part at first. I can't blame her. She felt bad and wanted to know if I was absolutely sure what I was telling her was true. I assured her there was no motive all these years later to fabricate such a tale. I didn't want anything but the free space in my mind where that tomb of memories had been. That space I now have to store good memories of time spent with my grandchildren. When I was finally able to tell my counselor and then her I felt like I had been let out of prison. My panic attacks still come now and then but I have learned some excellent breathing techniques to combat them. There are still some things that I will not do. I will not go into an elevator if there is just men in there. It's curious that a male counselor helped me rather than a female. It just turned out that way. Believe me I asked for a female and none were available. I sat near the door everytime though. I told him that was the only way I could see him. I sit near the exit almost anyplace I go. I am better for the experience of finally dealing with my boogie man. However, there is always some level of dysfunction that will remain with abuse victims. It's a matter of trust. It's a matter of boogie men. It's a matter of healing.