VICTIMS AND SURVIVORS

Let me start off my sharing my story. I have three brothers.  I have not seen 2 of them in about 25 years, and the middle one I have not seen in over 10 years.   My story starts when I was 10 years old.   On June 17, 1981, I was in the living room vacuuming the floor.  My father, also known as “the Sperm Donor,” because I do not think he deserves the title of father, came home for lunch that day.  He came through the French doors, and grabbed me and he kissed me.  When I say he kissed me, I mean he literally rammed his tongue down my throat.  I stood there for a few minutes in shock.  I didn’t know what had just happened, or what to do.   That was the only thing he did to me that time.  A short time later, it proceeded to escalate, to him putting his hands up my shirt and down my pants.  He would lock me in the shed we had outside, and molest me.  He would be standing over me at night touching me while I tried to sleep.  He would grab me when no one was looking.  He would wink at me when no one was looking, just to let me know he was there.  There were times he referred to this as “Daddy’s Little Game.”  Yeah, Daddy’s Little Game of molesting his daughter.

We had a rule at dinner, that my brother and I would have to rotate on a monthly basis, sitting in the end chair by the sperm donor.  Who ever had to sit there had the responsibility of getting refills on drinks for everyone, or getting them seconds if they wanted it.   When it was my month to sit in the chair, I hated it.  My sperm donor would put his hands between my legs and rub his hand up and down while his family was sitting there.   I felt trapped, and there was nothing I could do. 

When I was 12, I told my pastor.  The words he said to me have never gone away.  “How dare you say that about your father?  He is an upstanding citizen of this community, and he would never do that to you.”  When I heard those words, I made a decision that I would keep talking until someone listened.  I refused to be his victim.  I told many of my friends.  I told anyone that would listen.  It was the worst kept secret in town.  Everyone knew, but no one knew what to do about it.  Molestation was something that was swept under the rug and dealt with in the family.  You didn’t bring this out into the public. 

I was told many times that I would never amount to anything but a two bit white trash whore.  Which, quite frankly, I am offended by that, because I am worth at least four bits.  Give me some credit. I was told I was worthless, and no one would ever want me.  I was told that I would never succeed in life.    I was never allowed to have friends over.  I was never allowed to go anywhere that was not with the church.  I was not allowed to talk on the phone unless it was my mother.  I was always grounded for something. 

One time I was grounded from January 7, 1983 – June 7, 1983 because I joined Future Business Leaders of America at school without permission.  I was allowed to come out of my room for Church, School, and dinner.  We all remember what happens at dinner. 

My oldest brother would always hit me.  I remember him knocking me out once and waking up to him kicking me in the stomach.  No one really liked him, so when word got out, my friends were not happy.

I remember another time; my brother told the sperm donor I stole $10.00 from him.  My sperm donor broke out the paddle, and proceeded to spank me.  He then asked me what I did with the money.  I told him I didn’t take the money.  He hit me some more.   Then he asked me again what I did with the money.  I told him I didn’t take it.   He proceeded to hit me with that paddle 125 times.  I would never admit it.  My brother later found the $10.00 behind his dresser.  I was told oh well, they were sure I would do something wrong to deserve the spanking anyway.  It was a big joke to them. 

I remember the second report card coming out when I was in 7^th grade, and I got my first F.  Keep in mind I was a good student.  I always got A’s and B’s.  This was also when the abuse was going on.  A friend of mine told me to break a leg.  Report cards came out December 2, 1982, and I was dared to jump down a flight of stairs at school that day.  I did.  I also broke my ankle.  To this day, it was worth it because I did not get the paddle. 

 I remember one person in particular being a life saver to me.  I was in ninth grade at the time, and I had a class mate, Alvin Harper.  He had problems in Algebra.  I had problems with my brother.  I did his Algebra, and he shoved my brother in a locker.  Alvin became Guardian Angel.  He intimidated my brother to the point he stopped hitting me.  My brother was scared to even join the football team because Alvin was the star wide receiver.  I was so thankful to him, because that was one less person abusing me I had to worry about. I found Alvin on Facebook and finally got the chance to let him know the impact he had on my life.  Everyone should be able to make an impact on someone’s life like that at least once.

January 27, 1985, was the best day of my life. I was 14.  It was Sunday, about 6:30 at night.  My step mother was mad at me because I had not made the hospital corners right on her bed.  She slapped me across the face. After all of the abuse I had been through with the molestation and the physical and mental abuse, I guess I decided it was enough.   I hit her back.  She yelled for my sperm donor, and when he came in the bedroom, she told him I hit her.  He started to walk toward me, and the words just flowed out of me.  I had this indescribable courage and strength I had never felt before.  I walked toward him and I told him I would no longer keep his dirty little secrets anymore and I would keep talking until someone listened.   He said the best thing he could have ever said to me.  “Get out!!!”    I had finally made him mad enough, that he threw me out.  

I called my mother and she came to pick me up.  I never told her what he did to me.  A friend told her when I was 16.  When she asked me about it, she had such guilt for leaving me with him.  It was not her fault, and I have never blamed her.   She didn’t have custody of us because she moved to another city after the divorce, and she did not want to uproot us.  We were happy at the school we were at and we were doing well.  We were active in the church we went to.  Besides, she worked nights, and we all thought we would be safe where we were.  The abuse was not going on when she was married to the sperm donor.  How would she ever know that would change?

I went back with my mother a few times when she went to pick up my brother for visitation, but after those initial times, I didn’t want to be there anymore.  It was the last time I ever saw any of them. 

I was fortunate to be able to become part of an Online Safety Organization when I was 36, and I decided I could do some amazing things with my past. I have always been outspoken where my abuse was concerned, and I have never stopped talking about it, but this would give me a bigger platform to make a difference.  In our seminars, one of the things we pushed was, you have to speak up and you have to file charges against your abuser so you can start to heal.  Filing charges was one of the things I never did.  I realized I could not tell these kids with a clear conscience to do what I had not done.  I made the call.  I filed the report.  Then I found out that because he had not penetrated, there was a statute of limitations back in the 80’s.  But the report is still on file, and I can live with that.  I did what I had to do.

I found out my sperm donor was volunteering with 4H and working with kids.  I made a call to the office and I asked them if he was indeed a volunteer.  They said yes. I told them he molested me for 4 years, and their response to me brought me to my knees.

“Ms. Lang, you know if this isn’t true he can file a slander lawsuit against you, Right?”

I said, “Ma’am, you tell him I dare him to.   And you remind him that I remember all of his dirty little secrets!”   He lives in the same county as I do, and I am constantly in the light, so he knows my words.  I have been on news interviews where I have said I am a survivor, and to this day there has not been a lawsuit against me for slander.  I would think if my words were lies, he would want to shut me up.  That hasn’t happened.  What does that tell you?

After the response I got from the 4H office, I knew I had to do more.  The County Fair was in March, so I went with a friend of mine.  I looked to kids that had the FFA jackets on for the school he volunteered for.  I found two girls and I asked them if he was a volunteer. They said yes and that he did their campouts and cookouts.   I told them to tell him his daughter stopped by.  They seemed pleased to be able to deliver that message.  I told them it wasn’t a happy reunion, and that he molested me for four years, and if I were them I would stay away from him.   He no longer volunteers for 4H.  Problem solved!  If the adults won’t do something about it, I will make damn sure the kids do!

At this time, I had also joined classmates.com online, to see if I could find some of the old classmates I had told about the abuse, just in case his wife pushed him to file those charges.   I found an old friend named Missy.   When she responded to my email, she was shocked I had contacted her.  She told me the 20 year reunion was coming up, and I had to be there because everyone thought I was dead.  I sat down and cried. 

I talked it over with my husband, and decided I would go to the reunion.  I was sitting outside, and a gentleman named Tom came up to me and said, “You’re Bonnie McDowell aren’t you?”  I told him I was and he said to me, “You know, I drove by your old place the other day, and I actually wondered which corner of the lot you were buried in.  We all knew it was bad for you, but we didn’t know what to do about it.” 

It broke my heart that my friends had been living with this guilt that they thought they had let me down when I was a child.  They were kids.  What were they supposed to do?  It was the adults that kept it swept under the rug that let me down.  Not a group of 12 year olds. 

I told you that story so you would understand my views on victims and survivors.  I always spoke up, because I believe that as long as you remain silent, you remain a victim and your abuser holds that power over you.  I refuse to let him have my power. 

We have so many children who are raped and molested, and we have a Victim Advocacy program in this country that needs a major overhaul.  We have Victim Advocates in this country that have Masters Degrees and Bachelor’s Degrees, and they have no idea what these victims are going through.  You cannot teach feelings in a book.  You cannot teach experience in a book.  These degrees mean nothing when you are dealing with one of the most despicable crimes there is.  If you were to ask a victim who they would want to talk to, and you gave them a choice between someone with a Degree that has never walked in those shoes or someone like me, who has laid the ground work and can give them the footsteps to walk in to heal and become a survivor, they will choose someone like me every time. 

I have dealt with children who were given pills and left to sit in a corner to deal with their trauma on their own. I have dealt with children who do not qualify for Victims Compensation to help with therapy because their parents make too much money.  There should be no child of sexual abuse turned down for a therapist for any reason.   I have dealt with children who have had to watch predators take a plea deal so they wouldn’t have to testify in court.  People need to understand, that most of the time; these victims need that chance to heal.  People need to understand the power that gives the victim.  And it is being taken away from them, by someone who has never been there or done that.  Well, I have a right to say this because I have walked that walk.  And unless you have, you have no right to talk the talk.  We have to start healing our children.  We have to start giving them their power back, because if we don’t, they will continue to sit in the proverbial corner, doped up and they will grow up to be drug users and drug dealers, and promiscuous individuals who cannot hold a family together, or hold down a job, because no one was there to give them the shoes to walk in. 

There are survivors who are willing to fill that position as an Advocate.  Let us do it.  We are strong enough, and we have the words to help these victims.  But, because we don’t have your degree, we are not good enough.  Well, with all due respect, you are the one who has no idea what you are doing.  And I can say that because I have cleaned up your mess with the victims you have dealt with.  I have fixed your screw ups more times that I care to admit.  I shouldn’t have to.  I have had victims ask me why their advocate did not tell them what I tell them. I have had victims come to me and ask me when it was finally going to be okay, because that is one of the first things an advocate tells them.  I have to tell them it is not okay.  They are not okay.  And they won’t be for a very long time.  

Why would you want to start a relationship off with someone you are supposed to be helping with what they see is a lie?  This individual is going through one of the worst experiences of their life, and from their prospective, you have lied to them.  And I have to go back and fix it, because you did what a book told you to do.  You didn’t do what real life demands you do. I have never met a survivor whose advocate gave them their “symbol of strength,” or their “Safe Place.”  That should be the first thing an advocate should do.  And if you don’t know what it is, then look it up in your books.  You’re the one with the degree.  You should know.  How’s that degree now?

We have to turn our victims into survivors.  If we can do that we can cut the costs of these individuals on state assistance, because they cannot function.  We can give them their lives back so they can join us in helping the next victim.  We, as survivors, need to pull together and help others who are now walking in our shoes.  We have a power no one should ever have to have.  We need to let victims know it is okay to turn a bad event into a positive, in a way that will heal others. 

There is a reason for everything that happens, and everything that happens in our lives makes us stronger.  We just have to realize that, and turn around the negative, and take back not only ourselves, but our power so we can use it to help those who need it the most.  THAT is what a survivor is capable of.

I went through a lot as a kid.  Sometimes I thought there was no way out.  But I also refused to give up and accept things as the norm.  We have that power, and we have the power to share that with others.  But, most survivors do not have that degree, so we mean nothing.  That is a great injustice, because these agencies could use us.  And we would allow it. Use us to get the victim ready to go to trial, and allow us to hold their hand through everything.   We have a Masters Degree in experience, and that degree beats any degree you can get at the best universities in the world.