BY MARY LANE ANDERSON

y dear friends,
To you who love me and want to help--I know this time of confusion and pain is difficult for you. I am wrapped in my own heavy blanket of dark thoughts and torturing memories, but I sense your desire to reach me. Out of ignorance you may alienate and hurt instead of accomplishing that which you so lovingly long to administer. If our positions were reversed, my response would be like yours. How can we know the right thing to do when such unspeakable horrors have never been a part of our thoughts or lives?

So I offer you signposts that may give you direction along the way. I begin with those that plead "Do Not Enter"--not with the intention of focusing on the negative, but rather because these were words that first struck my consciousness four years ago during a time of shock when I didn't know what to ask for myself. I only knew what did not help. The first few days, weeks, even months, were filled with terror and numbness. As time passed and, thankfully, some measure of acceptance and recovery began, I could post "Enter Here"--the words and actions I longed for when I finally was able to analyze my own needs.

Do Not Enter--What Not To Say
"You're strong. You'll soon be OK again. You'll bounce back right away."
I might be strong, but none of my inherited or learned strengths have prepared me for abduction, assault with a weapon, and rape. It is true that a strong personal faith, supportive friends and family, and perhaps a generally optimistic outlook provide a firm foundation to the rough road out of hell, but to imply that my "strength" will automatically cancel out a lengthy recovery or eliminate the need to cry, grieve, be angry, or have flashbacks and nightmares forbids me to heal.

"Stop crying. You're making me feel bad."
I'm making you feel bad? It is difficult enough dealing with my own trauma without being responsible for your reactions. If you claim to be my friend, please, please allow me a safe haven for my tears and confusion. Don't force me into silence and isolation.

"It's time to put this behind you and get on with life."
There is nothing I would like better-and nothing that is more impossible. Don't you see? It won't stay behind me. It's not "over" just because I am no longer physically in the presence of my attackers. It is ever present, constantly replaying every "what if" in my mind. Life is different now. I will never be the same as I was before this happened. I don't know where to fit this horror into the narrative of my life. Things that used to be a joy are now laced with fears and insecurities. This is not a broken arm that heals in a prescribed length of time and in a highly predictable fashion. You may think one week is enough time. Or maybe your generosity will allow me two months. But if I still cry, feel apprehension, or have panic attacks or moments of despair five years from now, will this take away my value in your eyes? Perhaps you think this is like a car accident-the inconvenience of finding temporary transportation and the nuisance of dealing with insurance settlements and then it is all over. If it were only that easy!

"You're lucky to be alive!"
Yes, perhaps I am. Maybe with time I will value the gift that was given to me when they "let me go." Right now I don't feel so lucky. I feel tortured, betrayed, abandoned, and isolated. Not only did I lose control over what happened to my body, but I had no control over whether I lived or died. And if this paralyzing fear that sits in my stomach, if this ache of grief and loss that fills my heart, if these replaying pictures that occupy my mind, are life, then I'm wondering . . . But I must stress that this line is not to be confused with your telling me you are glad or thankful that I am still alive. Those are welcome words that remind me of my value to you. Two very different meanings.

"God must have allowed this for a reason," or more bluntly, "Maybe God is trying to teach you something."
I'm quite certain that God had nothing to do with this. I have a huge "why" I want Him to answer someday, but I think the dimensions of the spiritual battle we are caught in are beyond human comprehension. My concept of God is limited to His relationship with me, when in fact He is Ruler of the whole universe. I have no question that He could have knocked those two men into the Coral Sea, but He didn't. I don't know why, but He didn't. I have to believe that God was with me on the mountain, just as He was with Christ in Gethsemane and at Golgotha, with Mary and Martha at Lazarus's tomb, and with Stephen as the stones rained down upon him. That's all I have left-the only hope I have to cling to. And I will not let go!

"You'll be a better person for going through this experience."
How do you know? Maybe I'll be worse. Your saying this makes me feel that before this happened I was sadly deficient or a poor learner. I am praying constantly for Him to take the bad and create something beautiful and good from it. I believe He can, does, and already has. But somehow these words do not bring understanding, healing, or comfort right now. I can't see the results of my experience. It will be only as I look back from the safe haven of the pearly gates that I will be able to say, "It was worth it all."

It must be awful to be violated in such a personal manner.
Please don't imply that this crime had something to do with sex. This was not a sexual encounter or an act of passion. Being terrorized into submission meant a loss of control over everything-my whole body, arms, legs, mouth, and private parts-everything physical, mental, and emotional. No! The violation is one of spirit, a cruel theft of security, peace, self-worth, value, simple enjoyment, safety, and renewal of solitude. The rapist sneaks off, leaving his victim behind with a paralyzing curse of fear, apprehension, insecurity, loss of control, worthlessness, and numbing isolation. His is a criminal act of power and control.

"You should have--"or "You shouldn't have--" or "I would never--"
Please don't shovel any more loads of lead into my guilt basket. I have minutely examined every action, thought, motive, until I am physically and mentally exhausted and overcome with shame and despair. I've never known hindsight to be other than 20/20. I didn't want this to happen, plan for it, ask for it, or choose it. I'm only struggling to recover from it. Don't blame me. Help me!

Enter Here--Things I Would Appreciate
Hold me.
Push away the desperate loneliness and isolation I feel with physical assurances of your caring.

Say "I love you."
Of course, it does not necessarily have to be these exact three words. It could be "I'm sorry," "I treasure you," "You are precious to me," or anything that assures me of your understanding. My heart cannot "hear" when you preach, lecture, instruct, or reprimand.

Believe me.
Totally, without reserve, believe me. Don't question where I was, what I was wearing, what I said or did, or how I reacted to the attack. We are all human, imperfect and struggling to make informed decisions. And our response to crisis situations at a most basic level becomes the animal instinct to survive. You aren't me. You weren't there.

When I need to talk or cry, listen to me without offering solutions, judgment, censure, or doubt.
Talking about my experience is a desperate effort to find light in the midst of darkness and an understanding of the incomprehensible. I know you would like to think that I have forgotten (for your own peace of mind). I feel bad when I destroy this illusion. But my being quiet won't help me forget.

Recognize recovery as a long, painful process that has no set formula.
It isn't over with the emergency room visit, the filed police report, the antibiotic "bomb" to combat sexually transmitted diseases, or the counseling session. We don't need to go into details and long stories for months to come, but just ask me once in a while how I'm doing, in a way that tells me you really care about knowing. Then give me the freedom to reply with honesty. Let me know that your thoughts, prayers, and love don't stop with my return home.

Affirm my value as a person.
My self-worth is zero. I feel confused, ashamed, guilty, and very alone. I question my ability to minister and serve. I wonder whether I'm needed or even wanted in this foreign land-or was my "call" just a romantic flight of imagination? Does anyone care that I chose to come back? Please tell me so.

Reach out to me even when I withdraw and push you away.
My thoughts are so jumbled that I don't know what I want or need. When I am so far down, I don't have the energy or will to make healthy decisions or to ask for help. This is why I need you as my support person to stick with me-calm, understanding, tender, positive, and ongoing.

Pray for me.
In the initial shock of the experience I found myself unable to concentrate enough to speak or think a coherent prayer other than "Please help me, Lord." Therefore I lean on and am comforted by your intercession. I still have faith in my Savior, and my hope in the ultimate victory of good and right is undiminished. But my most basic and exclusive spiritual need right now is to know that He is holding me, that He will quiet me with His love. If you can express this idea to me, I'm longing to hear it. Save the religious platitudes for another time and place.

Let me pick up my shattered life at my own pace.
Don't force me to do or see things that confront my fears and pain until I'm ready to do so myself. Be patient with me. Give me time. Don't exclude me or assume that I don't want to join in the usual activities, but don't be offended if I sometimes choose to say no.

Let me know that the knowledge of my pain and trauma did not destroy you.
I need the assurance that it was OK for me to tell you the truth. I want you to be real in expressing your responses of hurt, horror, disgust, anger, or sorrow just as honestly as you communicated with me before this happened. But hearing about your kids, job, fresh bread, jokes, and successes gives stability and normality to my topsy-turvy world. I'm struggling to deal with an everyday existence that suddenly seems foreign, overwhelming, and threatening. It would be comforting to know that your world is intact.

So thank you, thank you for your faithful arms around me on my journey "back." I am so grateful to the Lord for your love, which permits me to be honest about my thoughts and feelings. And if what I have shared touches your heart, use it to minister to broken people like me.

With love,
Mary Lane

Additional Resource: Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman, M.D.

_________________________
Mary Lane Anderson writes from California.