Amazing Grace: The Long Road to Healing

I was born out of wedlock. I remember that one of the first realizations I had, as a child, was that I did not have a real home. My memories of my formative years are like a void, but I do remember a woman with mestiza looks who combed my hair, put me to bed and joined me in the Angel of God prayer.

I would learn later on that that woman was my maternal grandmother. When she died, my biological mother, whom I thought was my older sister, brought me to live with another family. I was told that the man was my biological father. I instantly “belonged” to a family — complete with a father, a stepmother and three half brothers.

From that moment on, I had to do a lot of adjustments, which was not easy for a little girl like me. Living with my new family was like riding a roller coaster for the first time.

Since I was the only girl, I feel like I should have been a “daddy’s girl.” I should have basked in the affection my father used to show me. But every time my dad would kiss me, I would always wipe it off. His gestures of affection did not feel welcoming. I did not feel love from his embrace and touch. Our usual father-and-daughter cuddling moments started to annoy me and give me goosebumps. Why was it like that? Why did I feel threatened?

On hindsight, I know now that even at such a young age, I already felt the difference between a father’s love and seductive caresses. But back then there was nobody to turn to, no one to answer my questions. Confusion started to pile up in my brain — utter agony for a seven-year-old, lonely child.

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Gullible and confused, I was “easy prey.” A year after I had started living with my new family, it started. My dad molested and sexually abused me. I remember struggling and fighting but I was a little girl and he was big and strong and he held power and authority over me. I remember being tormented with questions: “Should I stay here? But where will I go? Should I tell anybody? But who?” Everyone seemed like the enemy.

I do not even recall how I felt after what happened. Perhaps it was too painful, I shelved my feelings and emotions, and buried them deep within me, deep down in a place I thought I would never visit again.

However, I do remember this: Every day for 12 years, when the day was about to end, when the sun began to set and lose its brightness, when everyone began to prepare for a night’s rest, when all I could hear was complete silence but for the murmuring of crickets, when in a normal world I should have been serene, I knew that my day was only about to begin. My torment was at hand. Then my heart would start to beat so fast it was all I could hear.

But I remained silent. Did it do me good? Was it the right thing to do? I do not know. All I know is that there was silence when there should have been apologies, acknowledgement of wrong, and declaration of truth. Silence taught me to just listen, to feel and translate into bitterness and anger whatever my feelings were. It allowed me to go deeper into myself and find a place that surpassed understanding.

I hated myself. I hated my dad, all men and the world. But one thing continued to make me hold on — the Crucified Christ.

You see, at that time, I was studying in a Catholic school and I eagerly soaked up what the teachers in my Religion class said about God’s unconditional love and His abiding presence. They assured me that He would never abandon me. I took to heart their assertion that if He is with us, who can be against us? I never questioned my God. I waited in silence, but still, even with God at my side, it was a silence fraught with fear.

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Finally it was fear that made me decide to leave my father and our “home.” I feared the possibility that one day it would be his life or mine that would obtain victory through the jagged edge of a knife.

God is truly good. Through fervent daily prayers to the Crucified Christ, He sent me a man who courageously accepted me for who I was, and loved me in spite of my past. Finally there was one man I could love. Despite my fears, I married him.

I thought that was the end of it. But I continued to feel haunted. My frequent companions were sleepless nights, and nightmares that made me relive my whole ordeal and made me scream, cry and tremble all over.

My husband suffered with me. All he could do was try to hold me while the nightmares lasted. But it was difficult, because while I loved him, at the beginning, my flesh would crawl at his touch. During the day, I could look at him and feel my heart swell with gratitude and love for his understanding, patience and love, but at night all I could see was a man.

But he was so patient, caring and loving that my heart used to ache with it. Gradually I started to heal. It helped that we joined a Catholic renewal community called Couples for Christ, and I was further affirmed in my trust and love in the Crucified Christ.

Through all this though, I held on to my hate for my dad. One day, someone told me that he was on his deathbed, and I should go and see him. I was then seven months pregnant with our youngest child. And I saw him — a shadow of himself.

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I was the only one near his bed. I was crying so hard, the doctors and nurses tried to make me leave the room for fear that the stress would cause me to give birth right then and there. They thought I was crying for him! But what I felt was anger. The man lying on the bed must not die! It was unfair that he was just going to leave when he had not yet suffered as much as I had! He must live so that he can suffer greatly and die a prolonged and painful death. Like a cancerous lump, my anger stuck in my throat.

I will never be able to explain it, but in the midst of the darkness of my anger and hate, I heard a loud and audible Voice whispering to me, speaking of forgiveness. And the urgency of the Voice’s message was so great that I found myself bending to the level of my dad’s ear. I couldn’t help it. It was not me, but something greater than me that led me to say, “Pa, you can go now, I forgive you.”

I had a tendency to hide the bad things in my life under a rug of memories. But to be completely healed, I needed to grow in awareness. God listened to my anger. God embraced me in my shame. God held my hand and sat beside me in my pain. I know God has a purpose in giving me this capacity to grieve, weep and shed tears. I am healing my own wounds.

I have now been blissfully married to my wonderful husband for 21 years. The Lord has blessed us with three talented and wonderful children. I cannot contain myself in thanking the Lord. Every sigh, every breath I inhale and exhale is a prayer of praise and thanksgiving. I believe I owe a debt I cannot pay, for it was God, who owes me nothing, who paid it.

 

Image from pittmeadowstoday.ca