All According to Plan
I’ve been slowly picking at the knot that is my parents’ involvement, or lack thereof, in my sexual abuse. For a long time, whenever I’ve gotten close to being able to sit with just the sexual trauma, I wind up back at my parents’ abuse without much clarity on why. At first, I thought it was my parents’ dereliction of duty when it comes to their obligation to protect their child. That’s certainly part of it, but it’s not the whole picture. What I’m realizing now is that my parents’ behavior benefitted my sexual abusers in more ways than I’d initially accounted for.
It’s said that abusers don’t just groom their victims, they also groom their friends and family to turn a blind eye to the harm they do. That’s certainly the case with my parents. Living in a small town, it wasn’t all that difficult for them to manage. I always went to the same school my mother worked at, even though our house was inside the district for a larger public school with more opportunities for me. My parents pushed me toward the activities my mother was responsible for at the school, including volleyball, band, choir, and theater. There was no one in my immediate circle who wasn’t a big fan of my mother. They’d all either had her in class or were involved with one of the activities she was in charge of, and they’d all had a great time. None of them could fathom what my issue with her was. We went to the biggest church in town, and both of my parents volunteered there, doing the two and three-year-old Bible study. With my mom also being in the choir, they were both closely acquainted with dozens of members of that church. That meant there was no where I could go that wouldn’t involve bumping into someone who would happily report my activities back to my parents.
On several occasions, I went out with friends to a movie or to dinner and came back home to find that my mother knew all about where I’d been, who I’d been with, how I’d conducted myself, and how my friends had behaved, all without me ever being asked or disclosing any of that. My teachers also frequently reported low level misbehavior to my mother that didn’t quite warrant a trip to the principal’s office. It was very clear that I was being watched at all times by people who would tell my parents anything they saw me doing without hesitation.
Between that and the severe punishments for any childhood crimes I committed or perceived mediocrity, I was afraid of my parents very young. I knew that if I stepped out of line, even by just a toe, that would be reported back to them, and the fallout would be enormously painful.
My parents quite successfully made me a well-behaved, docile child, terrified to ever be less than exceptional. They also made sure that any attempt on my part to criticize them or report their abuse to another adult would fall on deaf ears. Those same people who were quite happy to tell my parents about my every action were equally happy to accept any excuse my parents made for themselves when it became evident that I was in distress. My parents groomed their accomplices from the very beginning, and that meant I survived my parents’ abuse without access to any help.
That same system also provided cover for my sexual abusers. There was never any real need for them to be especially secretive or to threaten me into silence. I had no one to tell and had known that since early elementary school. Anyone who raised their concerns to my parents was immediately soothed into silence with my parents’ excuses. In effect, my parents covered for my sexual abusers, and I had to suffer much longer than necessary because of it.
I’ll never know if my parents were fully aware of what was happening to me. I know that people brought their suspicions to my parents’ attention. I know that a few of those people were quite blunt about what they thought was happening. I also know that after talking to my parents they dropped those concerns entirely. They had everything they needed to put the pieces together, but I think the reality is that they likely refused to do so, not wanting to know what was happening to me any more than they wanted to know what the fallout of their constant physical and emotional abuse was.
I’ve said before that my parents valued their comfort more than they valued my health or safety. I still believe that’s true. I now see that my parents also likely feared what would come out about them if anyone spent too long looking at the very clear red flags I was waving. It wouldn’t have just been my sexual abusers who suffered a blow to their community standing if what they’d done to me came out. My parents’ abuse and neglect and the way it formed a perfect invitation for such people would likely also become apparent. I genuinely believe that they shut down every other adult’s concerns for me because they were afraid of their abuse also being made evident. The same is likely true for their refusal to help me figure out our insurance well enough to get therapy in my early twenties. They were afraid of my speaking out, and they should have been.
Realizing that my parents’ effectively running interference for my sexual abusers was likely less unintentional than I initially believed has made me angry at them all over again. I knew it was coming sooner or later. That’s just the way healing works. We all have to revisit the things we thought we’d put away as we gain more perspective and information. I still believe that my parents were less sinister and more avoidant than anything else. That’s also still an incredibly weak excuse. I was their child. I should have been able to expect them to set aside their concerns for their own image long enough to put an end to a decade of sexual abuse. Instead, they silenced any concern for me and ploughed ahead, continuing to make me compliant by force.
The more I sit with it, the angrier I get about my mother objecting to my attempt to hold her accountable for my sexual abuse and her refusal to care for me as a child by pointing out that I hadn’t told her. Why would I have told the person who, in the face of having that man’s creepy behavior pointed out to her, brushed off the adult trying to raise concerns about my safety, and instead told me how attractive she found him? What’s more, she was told, at least half a dozen times, by other adults. She didn’t care then. Why would I have ever believed she would have intervened if I said something? When did my word on anything matter to her?
That one deflection becomes so much more infuriating as time goes on and I continue to work toward healing from my childhood abuse. It’s not that she didn’t know. She didn’t want to know, and she made damn sure that anyone who tried to tell her never spoke of it again. That was the plan when her abuse became evident, and that was the reaction when other abusers moved in to take advantage of the situation she created. It all went exactly the way my parents planned it. While they may not have accounted for other people noticing what kind of child they’d created and using it to their advantage, the fact that they refused to acknowledge that very predictable conclusion remains the same.
In the end, the reason I keep coming back to my parents when I try and parse my sexual abuse is because they are at least partially responsible. Their decisions lead to my abuse, and their refusal to intervene allowed it to continue. While they may not be sexual predators themselves, they absolutely covered for my abusers on an ongoing basis. As far as I’m concerned, they’re equally to blame.
