***Trigger Warning – mentions grooming as it pertains to sexual abuse
My Downward Spiral
On the ride home, my father had what he must have viewed as a level-headed discussion with me. In my eyes, it was not level-headed at all. He had simply thrown in the towel and admitted that we (basically me more than we) were defeated in the battle against the instructor. My father had essentially thought it best for me to give the instructor’s mother what she wanted … and that was peace and a denial that anything had occurred with the instructor.
Yet, nothing had no reason to be in denial of the instructor’s behavior, and I was not in agreement with anything the instructor had done to me. I was forced to participate in the instructor’s sordid sexual exploits of groping me, touching me, kissing me, and fondling me. I never wanted any part of the instructor’s advances against me, and even made that fact known to him, but he was already set on doing what he wanted to do. My “no” said many times meant absolutely nothing to him, and even when I had not said “no”, I did not mean yes. I was afraid. The man had threatened me. What was I supposed to do?
Maybe I did wait too late to come forward to tell, but I did what I knew to do within my mind at the time. I was trying to survive. I was not an adult, and my mind was still developing. This is not an excuse; it is just the facts. Exposing the instructor was the right thing to do, but perhaps telling his sister was simply not smart of me at the time. Yet, looking back, I do not believe who I told would have mattered because absolutely no one – including my parents – believed me, and if they did believe me, they chose not to stand with me. Everyone seemingly stood with the man who sexually abused me because they all seemed to fear the wrath of the man’s mother.
When my dad noticed that the ground around us was sinking, he thought it best that we relocate and stand on the same ground with the predator and his family. To say I was shocked and horribly disappointed is an understatement. I was utterly shattered and heartbroken. My fractured selves mourned within me. I was crushed. My fractured selves were crushed. My brain had registered this as a traumatic event that needed to be forgotten.
I sank down within myself, and the tears that I could not cry were withheld inside of a pit of fiery anger that raged a war on the inside of me. I was very angry that this instructor was going to get away with what he had done. I had come forth and spoken, but my voice meant nothing. My voice was chained. My words were sent out into a great void and had accomplished nothing more than an upheaval of people against me – mainly women.
My mother was silent. My grandmother had stopped interacting with me long ago since the gynecological exam. Women of the church scoffed at me in silence. My father’s aunts and cousins were also silent. No one said a thing. Female classmates made comments that would later get back to me through so-called friends at school. It was said that I was a seductress, but in far worse terms, and that I wanted what happened to me. I wondered if these types of situations were the reasons that many girls and women stayed silent through abuse.
Nevertheless, when my dad and I reached home, the decision was made between my parents to bring an end to the chaos of the situation. My hand was forced … literally. My dad wanted peace between all of the families that were angry with me. So he called the instructor’s mother and asked her what he could do to bring restoration to the situation. The instructor’s mother said that I would need to recant my statement against her son. She wanted me to deny everything and make myself a liar. She wanted her son to receive vindication from accusations through lies.
Basically, I was to reiterate everyone’s belief that I was a liar, that I am a liar, and that I would forever be a liar. The instructor’s mother wanted me to write her a letter so that she would be able to read it and have proof that I was a liar. She wanted my letter to recant everything that I said the instructor had done to me … to erase it like it never happened.
I was devastated, and I felt horribly defeated. The me that was me in that moment died a gruesome death … again. So instead of splitting off into another self to cope, I split off into nothing. I was nothing. So I became nothing. The horrible pain and emotional hurt I felt in that moment was indomitable.
Instead of choosing to stand by me, my narcissistic family chose to stand with the sexual predator, the man who had sexually abused me. I had not only been scapegoated, I felt that I had been sold off, and the highest bidder was a woman using her cancer status to gaslight me and bend my will.
I wrote the letter begrudgingly. I felt that I had no choice. These were adults, and they supposedly knew best even though I did not agree. When I wrote the letter, I worded it in a way to make sure that it was understood that I was only recanting my statements because people could not handle the truth. When my father read over the letter, he simply stared at me, but then he responded, “Is this what you are giving her? I think you need to think about what you’ve written and rewrite it.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m giving her.” I said. I was very angry and hurt, and once I spoke on the matter, I said what I said, and after I spoke on it, I never talked about it again. I never mentioned anything about it again. My brain was assisting me in forgetting anything ever happened because that is what they all wanted. So that is what they were all going to get.
I ranted, and surprisingly, both my parents listened.
“You all want me to lie, but you always say that if you lie, you are a child of the devil who is the father of lies. You always say, if you are a liar, then the truth is not in you.
So, I’m not going to lie, and I’m telling her that. I’m telling her that I’m sorry that I hurt her feelings. I’m telling her that I’m sorry her son did those things to me. And I’m telling her that he did do the things that she wants me to lie about him not doing.
But what about me? What about my feelings? What about what he did? Don’t you care? Does anybody care?
Why am I being blamed? Why am I being punished? I don’t understand.
But I’m not going to rewrite it. I’m not going to rewrite anything. It’s not my fault the lady has cancer, and it’s not my fault her son is in jail.
Everyone says that I created these problems, but I did not create these problems. [The instructor] created these problems. Now look at him!“
When my father tried to console me, one of my fractured selves came to the rescue and dried up all my tears quickly. Inside of myself, I knew I was done. This part of my life was over. It was finished. We (the fractured selves and I) would not speak of this situation again, and “we” held to that until years later when it would resurface as a memory and as a hurt that I was finally ready and needed to let go of.
My father pleaded with me to do the “right” thing to make it all go away, and I finally relented and simply wrote at the end of the already written letter: I’m sorry you think I’m a liar. I take it all back. It was a very conflicting message. I guess you can call it gaslighting, but to my defense, my hand was forced. What more could I have done? My father did not say anything. He simply let it be. I believe he realized the damage he had caused himself, and he let it go at that. My mother said nothing. In fact, she remained rather silent throughout this entire ordeal, except for mentioning several times prior that she did not believe me.
The very next evening, my father drove me to the instructor’s mother’s home where I presented her with an apology letter for causing her so many struggles. I also presented her with the letter that basically reiterated my apology in mixed up language that should have caused her to question if I knew what I actually wrote. I did not care, however, and simply wanted to be done with the situation.
I left the letter to the woman’s interpretation, and she could interpret it the way she wanted to. Surprisingly, she actually read the letter in my presence and appeared to be satisfied, and all I could think was that she either lacked reading comprehension or she thought I was really dumb to have written such a letter of nonsense even though I was a ninth grader.
All in all, though, I believe this woman just wanted to make me the face of a liar in the end so that she could tell the community that I was who she said I was – a liar and everything else negative pertaining to her son, the instructor. After that day, I never saw this woman again. She died wanting to believe her son’s innocence. She died believing his lies, but deep down, I believe she knew the truth. Why would she fight against a child so hard and willingly break a child down so that her own adult child could escape exposure?
Nevertheless, the mother still refused to forgive me for the pain and suffering she said that I had caused her family, but I did not care for her forgiveness to be honest. I was done. When my father and I got into the car I felt resolved in the fact that I never wanted to deal with this issue again no matter the outcome. As my dad began driving off, I said to him, “That lady is going to die wanting to believe a lie about her son. Is it really worth it to take a lie to the grave?” My dad was silent. Normally he would respond to my serious questions, but this time our ride was silent all the way home.
From that day forward, I never spoke of the instructor known as Master Sensai ever again with anyone. If he was ever mentioned or if anyone of his family members was ever mentioned, I would dissociate. It was as if my brain assisted me in closing that painful door for good. Only pleasant memories were mentioned in connection with martial arts, and since there were really no pleasant memories, I would skip ever mentioning any connection I had with martial arts ever again.
Stay tuned for my reflections about this painful part of my past in the post titled The Instructor: My Reflections Years Later.
My Voice Unchained 