No Rewind

Wendy said she wanted to share something she’d been withholding. I anxiously waited. She took a deep breath, put her face in her hands, and began to cry. She began bawling. She began crying hysterically; her chest heaved. I thought she was about to share something no one else knew. It was her moment, but the burden was too much for her. She cried for minutes. The heaving continued as she desperately tried to regain control and composure. She needed to speak. She had to speak. She needed to share. Something was desperately wrong. She needed help. Although Wendy cried for only about four minutes, to both of us it seemed like eternity. Eventually, regaining as much composure as she could, Wendy just blurted out, “My father is raping me.” Again, she broke down and cried hysterically, desperately trying to regain control. For minutes, she tried to stop crying. Her chest heaved and heaved and heaved while her head was buried in her hands. She’d look to the ceiling and squint her eyes as tight as they would go, as if closing her eyes would make her disappear. She couldn’t stop crying. It didn’t matter anyway. It was out. It was real. It was Wendy’s moment. She regained some composure. The problem was no longer Wendy’s alone. The dam had broken. No amount of effort would be able to put that water back inside. She no longer had to hold everything in. The problem was out. Her boyfriend didn’t know. He was just a battered bystander. But that day, someone else was able to carry a part of her load. It was now mine, too. The problem was still there, but her burden was gone. Wendy slowly opened up. She said she had been molested by her father for years. All four sisters had been molested by her father. As if that wasn’t stunning enough, Wendy said she was being molested by him even at twenty-one. It was obvious that I was out of my league. I could never comprehend her horror or suffering. Her father, her God-appointed protector, had been a predator in her family. My heart was torn for this human being who was suffering an ongoing tragedy. I wanted to hug her, but I knew every touch she had ever had from a male probably felt like the wrong touch. I was stuck watching while my heart ached for Wendy. How could I bond with anyone who had suffered in ways I struggled to comprehend? I could try to imagine the pain she endured while growing up, but that would be impossible. But Wendy trusted me and chose me as the one to share her story with. I sat and listened. In graphic detail she continued. I was like a deer caught in headlights. Stunned. I tried to show I cared more than I felt horrified by hearing about her trauma. Things like this don’t happen in our community. These things happen in bad cities and neighborhoods, but not here[MM1] . It’s something that happens to poor families, uneducated families, or stereotypical families from the back hills or third-world countries. But not in my backyard, and certainly not to a nice young woman like Wendy. It was apparent that Wendy’s childhood had been lost, and along with it, her self-esteem. There’s no such thing as normal. People may talk of normal people, but they don’t exist. Wendy’s situation was so far out there, so incomprehensible, that I did the only thing I could—I listened. As my mind raced, I kept asking myself, How do I respond? Do I tell my supervisor? Do I tell the police? Do I let her continue to spill her soul out to me? What can I say to someone like this? Wendy came from a middle-class family in a fairly well-to-do community. I was abhorred at what I had heard. Was it okay for me to tell her I felt disgust, or would she think I was telling her she was disgusting? Would that comment drive her off? Would she feel I was judging her? How could she have let this happen when she was living on her own? Do I tell her my three brothers and I could go over and kick this guy’s butt? If she wanted to kill her father in revenge, would that really be too extreme? Did she need help planning a murder? My head was spinning. I let Wendy continue. She revealed that this had been going on since she had hit adolescence. All of her older sisters had been robbed of their childhoods as well. I pressed her as to why she allowed her father to continue even though she was in an apartment. Wendy said she had moved out in the hopes of separating herself from her father and the abuse. To ensure she would always be able to afford an apartment, she became one of the best employees at work; failure was not an option. Wendy said that when she got the apartment, she was excited and, for the first time in her life, felt free from her father’s assaults. She kept the blinds shut so no passerby could determine whether she was home. Living with closed blinds would seem like prison to many, but not to Wendy. It was as if she had died and gone to heaven. The apartment gave Wendy the freedom she wanted. Or so she thought. One day, about a month after she had moved out, there was a knock on the apartment door. She knew that knock. Despite all her precautions, he was back. He had the audacity to try to force himself back into Wendy’s world. The knock paralyzed Wendy. Her heart pounded as if it were leaving her body. She stood in silence and fear.