When I was eleven years old, I came to the U.S. from a refugee camp with three of my older siblings. We were put in a long-term foster care home with a couple in a small town in Minnesota. The wife was 29 and was a teacher and the husband was 31 and was a truck driver. They’d only been married for a year when we’d come to live with them. They couldn’t have any children of their own and so decided to take in us four unaccompanied refugee minors as their foster children. It was a lot for my foster mom, who never had any experience in raising children prior to us, to take in four grown kids who didn’t speak any English. On top of that, two months after us four kids moved-in, the Lutheran Social Service asked the couple to take in another two teenage brothers since they desperately needed a home because the brothers were asked to be removed from their previous foster care home due to health reason. Bless my foster mom heart for the kind person that she was; she agreed to take in the brothers and so her family grew to six kids in two months. She did her best to help us kids get adjusted to the new environment. My two older brothers and sister and the other two brothers were teenagers and so it was harder for them to learn English and so required a lot of my foster mom attention during school time. I was the youngest and still young enough to learn another language faster and so was able to get adjusted to school faster and therefore didn’t require much of her attention. When I do need help with school related homework, it was her husband who’d spent the most time to help me. So, I became more attached to him and had become his “favorite” kid.
After two years of building trust with the husband of my foster mom, I felt comfortable going anywhere with the guy. I would go along on his trucking route alone with him whenever I had a chance. He took the boys on his trucking route as well since my foster mom made sure that he was being fair to the other kids. Whenever any of the kids got to go on the trucking route with him, he would buy us any snacks that we’d wanted. So, all the younger kids in the house would want to go with him, especially the youngest foster brother. However, I got chosen to go with him more often than the others. He treated me more “special” than the other kids in the house. Whenever we go fishing with the boys, I was the one who get to choose first what type of snacks and drinks we could bring along. He made me felt “special” that I was his favorite kid. So, on the last day of my sixth grade school year (I was thirteen then) I was offered to go on a normal trucking route that involved an overnight trip. Nothing was unusual about an overnight trip since we’d done this before.
However, that night was different. In the middle of the night, he’d pulled over to the side of the road in a remote country side and woke me up while I was sleeping in the truck sleeper, like I normally did. He told me that he was tired and sleepy and needed to rest before he could drive further and so needed to lie down for a little bit. After he laid down by my side while my back was facing him, he started to rub my back and massaging me. I didn’t think anything of it because I’d trusted him. Then, he said that he couldn’t sleep and that he was in pain. He told me that he had “blue balls” and that it was very painful and that he needed me to help relieve the pain. I didn’t know what “blue balls” pain was all about. Never heard of it before. So, I’d agreed to help. Then, he said that the only thing to relieve the blue balls pain was that he had to have sex to relieve the pain. I didn’t know what to say and just stayed quiet and motionless and let him had his way. When he got done, he told me to promise not to tell anyone or else he would get in trouble, especially with my foster mom because she would get really mad. He told me that the Lutheran Social Service would move me and my two older brothers to another foster home, just like they did with the other two foster brothers, if anyone was to find out. So, I made the promise and didn’t tell anyone.
After that incident, I stopped wanting to go on trucking trip with the perpetrator. However, occasionally when my foster mom was not around, he would go to my bedroom late at night while my two brothers were deep asleep and had his way. I kept asking him to stop but he always came up with some excuses and some sort of promises that this would be the last time, even swore as a Masonic Lodge Master that he would stop. He would bring me all kind of teddy bears to fill up my bedroom to please me since I liked them. Eventually, I just gave up asking him to stop and developed Stockholm syndrome.
Then about two years after he started, there was a girl around my age who was murdered by her father with a pick-like tool and the body was dumped in the field about 40 miles from where I’d lived. The father confessed to his daughter’s murder and that he was molesting her since she was eight and then killed her when she’d refused him. There was all kind of press coverage on the story, and it was all over the television news. So, the perpetrator had a talk with me regarding the murder. He brought out the shotgun and loaded it and lean it against the chair next to him. He had me sat down in a chair across from him and warned me not to tell anyone of what he’d done to me. He said that if I’d tell anyone, then he would have to go to jail for a long-time. He said that all the newspapers and televisions would cover the story, and everyone would know and that I would bring shame to my family and that my foster mom would lose her job as a teacher. Then, he picked up the shotgun and told me that he would not want to go to jail and that he would use the shotgun to kill himself and that everything would be my fault. I was fifteen then and was living in a very small town of about 1200 people and didn’t know anyone else or have any other relatives in the US besides my siblings. So, I was very fearful for myself and my siblings and so kept the secret and let the perpetrator continued his act.
The two main reasons why I didn’t want to expose the perpetrator and report him were because I didn’t want anything happen to my siblings and that I didn’t want my family to experience the feeling of shame because of me. I would rather bear everything inside me alone than bring harm or shame to my family. During this time, I was occasionally reminded that the perpetrator was a former C I A agent during the Vietnam war and that he had skills. So, I was constantly living in fear. The fear of someone might find out and then everything would be my fault.
When I was 30, I’d met Tom [not his real name] through work and so decided to tell him my story since I didn’t want to have any “secrets” that may negatively affect our relationship later on. Then, Tom provided me an opportunity to get away from my old environment. Before this, I didn’t know anyone else whom I could trust enough besides my family. So, I’d stayed around near my family, which stayed in contact with the perpetrator because they didn’t know about my secret. That same night that I’d told my story to Tom over the phone, I packed two suitcases of clothes and took the earliest flight out of town the next morning. Tom had convinced me to move away from my familiar environment and move-in with him in the east coast, where I’d never been. I was very emotional during that night and so made the decision to move quickly before I’d change my mind.
In the first month of living together with Tom, he kept insisting that I should report the perpetrator and put him in jail. I kept objecting to his suggestions because I still didn’t want anyone else to know. I told Tom that I didn’t want to cause my family and my foster mom to experience the feeling of shame and guilt over this. Furthermore, it would have been all over the news, and for sure I didn’t want “my secret” to be a news event. Everyone I love would feel terrible, and I didn’t want that to happen. I told Tom that through praying the Lord’s Prayer, I’d forgiven the guy. “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us“. How could I have any hopes to be forgiven for my trespasses if I myself don’t forgive those who trespasses against me? So, because of the “forgive” line in the Lord’s Prayer, I’ve learned how to forgive and that I do understand what “forgiveness” does to the person who does the forgiving. It relieves me from the burden of experiencing the feeling of anger, resentments, hatred, and revenge and gave me a sense of inner peace.
Tom couldn’t grasp what I was telling him. He told me that it was not normal that I wasn’t angry and hate the man and didn’t want “revenge” after all that he’d done to me. How could I forgive the “monster”? Tom told me that I was still in denial and so insisted that I must go see a psychologist to see what a “professional” had to say about my situation. He thought that I’d developed Stockholm syndrome and so needed help. I didn’t know what Stockholm syndrome was and so did some research on it. After the research, I didn’t think I had Stockholm syndrome because I didn’t have any “good” feelings for the guy and definitely didn’t want to have anything to do with him. However, I agreed to Tom’s suggestion that I should go see a psychologist because I was curious myself to see what a “professional” had to say about me and whether I was “normal” or not. I did some research and found a psychologist that specialized in the area of childhood trauma and sexual abused. I went to see the psychologist and told him my story (the second person that I’d told my story to). Tears couldn’t stop streaming down my face while telling him what I’d experienced. First time I got a chance to really share my story and feelings without experiencing the feeling of fear and shame of my “secret”. The tears stopped when it came to the part about me experiencing all the negative feelings toward the perpetrator: resentments, anger, hatred, and revenge. I’d even imagined how I would take revenge against the guy and what I would do to make him suffer. Wouldn’t kill him…That would end his suffering. Just make him suffer and be miserable as long as possible…I’d also experienced the feeling of shame and guilt for not stopping it earlier. I’d experienced the feeling of self-doubt as what was wrong with me for letting it went on for as long as it did. After I’d completed telling my story to the psychologist, I felt calm and composed. I told the psychologist that through praying the Lord’s Prayer that I no longer had those negative feelings toward the perpetrator because I’d forgiven the guy. Then, I’d asked the psychologist whether I was in denial or not “sane” for feeling like that? So, he gave me a “professional” opinion. He told me that I seemed perfectly fine and “sane”. He wished that most of his patients could do what I did to let go and forgive so that they could gain inner peace. I’d asked him if I needed to schedule another appointment for a follow-up with him, and he told me no need. He told me that I was better than “normal” and not to worry about what the others may think…
Eventually, I told my older sister of my “secret”. We both cried through the sharing experience. She said that if she could have known then, she would have used the shotgun to kill him. Of course that would have been the last thing that I would have wanted to happen. I would never want my sister to go to jail because of him. Another miserable life that he would have caused. I told her that he’s not worth it and just let it go. I told her that I was fine and that I no longer let the event control my feelings or emotions. It’s in the past and no need to let the event continue to create negative feelings inside us. I was good at reassuring my sister that I was ok at that time even though I was still experiencing the feeling of shame and guilt and self-doubt and resentment for what had happened to me. I didn’t want to tell my story to anyone else for a long time because I was afraid of what they may think of me.
Since then, I’ve shared my story with other people. The more I share my story, the better I was able to let go of the negative feelings and emotions that associated with the event and be “free” of it. Telling my story has helped me to heal!
M.H.
