Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [117]
“Does that sound like God said husbands should force their wives to have sex? Was there anything about ignoring your wife when she tells you to stop? No. We serve an equal opportunity God. Husbands and wives have different roles, but one is no less a person in God's eyes than the other. Submission isn’t slavery. It's not about allowing someone to rule you with abusive control. Would Christ love the church as Carl loved you? Being under someone's protection means feeling safe, honored, respected. Is that how you feel?”
I didn’t answer. I curled my hands into fists. I wanted to curl my entire body into one.
“It wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me? Just like that incident at the lake wasn’t your fault. It's not unusual for victims to feel responsible and take the blame for what happened to them. That's exactly what their abusers want them to think. If you feel guilty, then you’re going to continue in the cycle of abuse because you think you’ve done something to cause it. You’ve blamed yourself. It's time to stop.”
I collapsed inside myself like a fluttering parachute at descent, covering broken images. My soul clenched, hands tugged at silk sheets, breaths pushed against pleading. Biting my lips until they bled. When I tasted the iron sweetness of blood, it was almost over. I could close another curtain.
But the curtains of memory wouldn’t stay closed, they were shoved opened by something unexpected. A word, the short click of a locked door, a certain touch. I’d carried Alyssa to our bedroom to nurse her. Carl was eating breakfast. I drank in Alyssa's softness. Her urgency and persistence in feeding delighted and amazed me. Propped in bed, my back to the door, I didn’t know Carl walked in. I didn’t know he had undressed until I felt him slide next to me.
“Alyssa's nursing,” I said.
“I know,” he said, “but you have more than one breast, don’t you?”
I wasn’t sure when I’d started crying. I wasn’t sure when I’d stop.
Ironic. Carl and I both are so needy for attention. What I wanted from my mother, he wanted from his own parents. After losing Vic, they discarded their emotions and replaced them with control. Melinda said Carl sought in me the affection he craved from them. And in the same way his parents controlled him, he controlled me. Powerlessness bred control.
“The Carl you fell in love with was the Carl more like your father. You recognized what Carl felt for you as love because it's what you felt from your father. Taking care of someone and letting someone take care of you, that's what you defined as love. But, ultimately, you can’t marry your father.”
Melinda waited quietly as the sobbing gave way to uneven shuddering breaths. She held my hands in hers and prayed.
Then she asked me, “What was in all this for you?”
I wanted to slap her. Manipulation. When had it acquired a zip code here? “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” I said, my words strangled with anger. “What are you talking about? You already told me it wasn’t my fault. You changed your mind? I don’t get it.”
“Sexual abuse—no abuse—is never the victim's fault. That's not what I’m talking about—being victimized. I’m asking you about this role you have as a victim. What's the payoff?”
“I don’t understand. Payoff? Are you saying I got something out of being controlled? Sure, I was … what … being paid by Carl to stay powerless?”
I opened another curtain. Memory flashed.
I remembered the day at Brookforest when Matthew told me about the other session with Ron. I’d pouted and said I was being punished, no one gave me choices, allowed me decisions. Why did everyone pick on