To The Girls Who 'Just Won't Get Over It'

 

I've been right where you are. I've had the same things said to me and about me, too. 

It sucks. 

People don't get it and that's frustrating. 

It hurts. It's damaging. 

It's a negative reminder. 

It's a reminder of the harm done.

No, they don't get it. No, they don't want to either.

They'd rather suggest you are bitter, vindective, seeking revenge. 

But for what? 

For finally voicing a secret not of your own making. A secret that seared your heart, mind, and soul. A secret your body unfortunately can remember all too well.

"I'd think you'd want to forget about it..." 

How do you know that us girls don't wish for the ability to not remember the time(s) our innocence was stolen? Instead, we are forced to relive every, single and agonizing moment. We continue to pay even years later. 

You would think they'd not ask the impossible. 

But they do, because the possible–the seeking of justice–would also reveal their own ugly truths, show that they'd rather let children and women suffer than do away with the wicked in their midst, even the ones in their pulpits.

They are only holy in name, worshiping a god that turns its back to their false appearences of righteous living. A god that while they ignore your pain must be angry on your behalf if righteousness is also its attribute.

And, what about the memories "forgotten," the repressed and very real memories? We don't have a say on this either. Who's to know when one rears its ugly face?

To forget... We don't get that choice, aren't afforded such a luxury. But deep in our nightmares our brains scream for the ability to do just that.

"Forgive and forget..."

You've obviously found such compacity within yourselves to do just that in our place, because our monsters you've forgiven and offered them places of honor, forgetting what evil they are capable of, putting defenseless sheep in their paths yet again.

Bitter. 

We are bitter. 

What are to be sweet childhood memories are tainted by an adult's filthy hands. What were to be safe houses of worship were filled with wolves. What were to be God's people were those serving a devil in themselves. 

Their sin caused us to be convinced we were somehow sinners, somehow responsible for the sinfulness that abused us. Dirty. Unworthy. Impure. A burden.

Maybe it was our clothing? they've said.

Sunday best. Flannel nightgown. Dress. 

Maybe it was our looks that tempted these grown up men? We were taught to never look a man in the eye. 

Submission, our role. Silent, a must. Pleaser, our duty.

Maybe we weren't right with God? Or maybe God just didn't do right by us...

To the girls who just won't get over it....

Take your time. Be angry if you need to. Tell your truth to the masses; tell only a trusted few. Seek justice; live justly just for you. You get the say now. No shame. No guilt. You are the master of your own sea; chart those waters of healing as you see fit. Move on or don't. Forgive or forget, there's no wrong regardless. 

You've survived. No one's opinion matters.

They have no right to demand your silence, your subordinance, your loyalty. Not to a pastor in a pulpit, not to a church goer in a pew, not to a denomination on a church sign. 

To the girls who just won't move on...

You're not alone.

Photo courtesy: Unsplash