PTSD – Why Are We Keeping Secrets?

I’ve written many posts about my PTSD (childhood sexual abuse), a ‘dirty little secret.’ Have you ever held on to secrets for years and years?

Also, who are we protecting? The abuser? Our parents or caretakers who were supposed to be caring for us? Why were we supposed to be the ones to “keep the secret”? We did nothing wrong. It seems so unfair and convoluted, doesn’t it?

As I recollect my past, at around five or six years old, as my friends and I freely played in our front yard, the evil predator would either sit next door on his veranda, relaxing, puffing on his cigar, or in the driveway repairing whatever was under the hood of his old car.

I felt panicked for both my friends and me, wanting so badly to warn them of this sexual deviant and express to them of the sexual abuse at the hands of this man, yet felt compelled to “keep the secret.” I had a secret; an ugly little secret to something that I didn’t cause–or did I?

There was the distressing apology forced by my parents to blurt out and recite with sincerity to this predator for abusing me. While apologizing to this revolting man, it bewildered me, wondering how I had wronged him. All kinds of feelings swished around: hate, helplessness, and frankly, it humiliated me. My parents warned me never to tell anyone about this.

A 30-year-old man is forcing sex on a child. Would that warrant an apology?

Perplexing and head-scratching also were permitting this predator into our home for Sunday dinners. What were my parents thinking? Were they attempting to soothe the predator’s feelings for being “wrongly” accused or attempting to “keep the peace” between neighbors? In hindsight, I suppose so.

Seated directly across from him, as he eagerly gulped down his Sunday meal, my stomach would turn into knots. I felt like spitting out the food and vomiting or screeching my brains, but I was a well-mannered little girl sitting wordlessly.

That was the obstacle. I was a noble little girl and kept this ‘dirty little secret,’ not uttering a word to anyone. Who was I protecting?

Although the memories dwindled, I kept the “secret” throughout my high school years and into my adult years. But some signs affected my life with inexplicable suicidal thoughts, bouts of depression, and feeling worthless with low self-esteem and self-confidence. I continually felt guilty, dirty, shameful, and filled with self-blame.

Years passed by, then unexpected flashbacks started with triggers. I enlisted therapy (from an inexperienced therapist) and began the descent into hell.

This started the ball rolling on a new life; a black, muddy life spent the better part in hospitals, including suicide attempts, ECTs, and various medications. 

2022

We who have kept the secrets hopefully find therapy to conquer the demons that dealt us with a crappy set of cards.

It’s been a long healing journey, and with an Experienced Trauma Therapist, I could deal with sexual abuse. If you can talk about your abuse without falling apart or bursting into tears, then you have healed enough in your journey to at least function. I consider myself a survivor, yet I still have moments of triggers, but less often.

This journey was a long road, almost 20+ years for me. Upon discovering the catalyst of my suicidal ideation and preoccupation with dying, depression, and worthless feelings, I found that my narcissistic mother primarily instigated them.

I questioned which abuse was worse; the emotional abuse from my mother or the sexual abuse.

We are all Warriors and survivors!

Rewritten and copyrighted by Deb McCarthy (July/2022)