The Hope Journey

The Hope Journey

Jennifer Hunt

Copyright © 2012 by Jennifer Hunt.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-5633-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-5631-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-5632-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012910728

WestBow Press rev. date: 08/23/2012

Contents

List of Illustrations

Preface

Chapter 1      The Hand

Journal Entry: Mysterious Flame

Chapter 2      The Twisting

Journal Entry: Honest Denial

Chapter 3      The Snare

Chapter 4    The Breaking Point

Journal Entry: Counterfeit Perfection

Chapter 5      The Devastation

Journal Entry: Vertically Dead

Chapter 6      The Mourning

Journal Entry: Frightening Anger

Chapter 7      The Rage

Chapter 8      The Fight In Me

Journal Entry: Victim Mentality

Chapter 9      The Overwhelming

Chapter 10    The Silent Prison

Chapter 11    The Beautiful Risk

Journal Entry: Courage Rising

Chapter 12    The Unheard Voice

Chapter 13    The Wounded Warrior

Journal Entry: Stand Between

Chapter 14    The Queen And The Knight

Journal Entry: Curtain Pulled Back

Chapter 15    The Confrontation

Chapter 16    The Lie Undone

Journal Entry: Ready For It

Chapter 17    The 36:26 Journey

Journal Entry: The Beginning

Epilogue

Journal Entry: The Great Lion

Notes

List of Illustrations

Image 1:   Photograph, "Truth and Justice "

Image 2:   Personal Drawing, "Mourning "

Image 3:   Personal Drawing, "Rage "

Image 4:   Personal Drawing, "Prison "

Image 5:   Personal Drawing, "Tangles "

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods

And down the meadow ranging,

Did meet us with unaltered face,

Though we were changed and changing;

If, then, some natural shadows spread

Our inward prospect over,

The soul’s deep valley was not slow

It’s brightness to recover.

Yarrow Revisited

William Wordsworth

Preface

If you have ever experienced any degree of tragedy or suffering in your life then know this—you have been my greatest motivation for writing this book. Even though I may have never met you personally, I have hurt for you, I have hoped for you, and I have prayed for you. In these pages, I tell the story of my journey of overcoming the wounds caused by the abuse I experienced. My deep desire is that you will understand the truth that you are not ruined, no matter how broken your life seems and no matter how badly your heart aches. What’s more, that you will begin to believe with confidence that your journey has only just begun and that what waits for you in your future can be something amazing, if you are willing to pursue it.

To maintain integrity through the sharing of my story, I would like to clarify the creative structure and layout of this work. I hope you will take time to read this introduction so you can clearly understand this book.

There are two types of content in this book: factual and illustrative. The main content, factual, is my real life experience, not a fictional tale. I share with you the story of my abuse and the counseling that I pursued in order to overcome the wounds of that abuse. The details unveiled and the conversations recounted are written carefully according to my memory of these true events. My story is filled with descriptive details, void of exaggeration, as I discuss with my counselor my past abuse and present struggles at that time.

The illustrative content is found in the Journal Entry sections, which connect to some of the chapters. In the Journal Entry sections I write about a ‘dream sequence’. This is my attempt to creatively and metaphorically describe the ongoing, invisible struggle of all that I wrestled with during my counseling. I created these journal sections and the ‘dream sequence’ at the time that I wrote this book. Even though these are not dreams that I cognitively experienced, my hope is that they effectively and clearly provide great insight into my internal experiences. It is through the use of visual images that I exemplify the process of my healing that took place at an unseen level. Therefore, these ‘dreams’ intimately illustrates the very real emotional transformation of healing that I experienced.

I write the Journal Entry sections in present tense so that they truly feel like real journal entries from that time in my life. In a few of the Journal Entry section, I reference drawings, which are real, that I actually created during my time in counseling. The Journal Entry sections as a whole are meant to represent the spiritual workings that took place inside my heart and mind during my healing journey.

One significant alteration I made throughout the book is that some names have been changed and, specifically, the name of the man who abused me, as his identity bears no weight in the telling of my story. I also removed specific identifiable details that may indicate who he is, having no agenda to expose him publicly through this work.

In this book, I focus primarily on the first significant steps I took to break free from the emotional and spiritual bondage of my abuser and the wounds of my abuse. It was during my first year of pursuing counseling that I followed through with several actions that were central to my healing. In doing so, I carved a new route for my future and, hence, the ultimate outcome of my life. Therefore, I share more details about my first year of counseling than I do about the counseling I pursued in the years that followed. I understand that it can take years to overcome the wounds of abuse and to experience healing from its effects on the way we live our lives. Still, I believe that the most important step to take in that journey is the very first one—deciding to pursue healing. That is why I focus much of my attention on the beginning of my healing journey. I hope my story can inspire you to take the first step required to break free from any wounds you may carry, no matter how painful that step is or how long the full process will take.

I will remain eternally thankful to so many individuals who enabled me to complete this project and to make it what it is today. To my amazing husband, Ryan, thank you for believing in me and encouraging me to tell my story for the sake that it might provide hope to others. To my niece, Sarah Reyy, thank you for creating the simple yet dramatic cover that this book needed. Your creative eye is remarkable. To my brother, Mike, thank you for all your many edits at the very beginning of this project and for helping me to believe that I was a writer. To my sister, Wendy, thank you for all your many edits at the end and for cheering me across the finish line. I never would have reached that ‘finish line’ goal without your help. To my Dad, Jim, thank you for staying up with me until 11:11 p.m. to help me to get the spacing right, and yes people will definitely notice it. To my Mom, Sheryl, your words of affirmation and support through all of this have given me strength to continue when I most needed it. Thanks, Mom. To my mother-in-love, Christine, thank you for wanting me to finish what I started with this project and thank you for believing that I could. Thank you Jason Behm, Laura Schultz and Janet Lowen, for your editorial advice and assistance that helped my story to be formed to a more excellent book. Thank you, Eileen Shea, for giving me a magnificent picture that reflects the likeness of the image God put in my mind when I wrote the end of this book. It will always hang on my wall as a beautiful reminder of the freedom that He has placed in my heart. To my prayer-support team, thank you for trusting that all your prayers for me and for this book would make a difference. They did!

There were several seasons during the creation of this project when it became especially difficult and emotionally challenging for me to continue. Throughout those times, I continued to remind myself of the dream that was bright in my heart when I first started this project. That dream was you, the reader. A Few More Days is a poem that I wrote to myself during one of these most difficult seasons of writing. This poem helped me to focus on the lives of individuals who may be inspired by the sharing of my story, especially those who have suffered their own painful wounds of abuse. To you, I dedicate this poem and this book.

You were completely worth it!

A Few More Days

A few more days, you’re almost there

You’ve fought this fight so long

So, don’t give up, don’t close your eyes

Come on now, you, be strong

A million hearts will weep tonight

For fear that they’re undone

But your words reach the darkest hour

And bring Light of the Son

So write them, child, and have hope now

They need you to hold fast

Let unknown names and faces give you

Strength you need to last

Tell them your pain and victory

The words they never hear

So that their hearts will be set free

And dreams will reappear

CHAPTER 1

The Hand

The nights had not been so horrible for me; it was the mornings that were torturous. Every day when I awoke, exiting the fading world of blissful sleep, my mind became stingingly aware of my painful heartache. In those waking moments, I would feel a flood of harsh emotions overwhelm me. Before the dark dreams started, I lived to sleep. Only when I was asleep could I find rest in my heart and mind. Sleep had become for me a place of refuge, but gradually the nightmares crept in. As they worsened and became more frequent, they left me with no place to rest, no place to hide from my inner suffering. These hideous dreams stole peace from even my resting moments and left me in a constant state of despair.

In many of my nightmares wolves tore through the city searching for me. The gruesome wolves ravaged everything in their path. In one dream I hid in a gutter, looked through a metal grate, and watched the wolves. In my nightmares it wasn’t only wolves, but there was always something or someone monstrous coming for me, wanting me dead. I didn’t want to die.

Not until these dark dreams started did I realize how serious my struggle was with this pain, this depression. I was in my senior year of college, and I was suffering from past wounds that were continuing to haunt me. Even though, by that point, I had been able to recognize the truth of what had led to this pain and depression, I was only just beginning to understand the full depth of its damaging effects on me. During that time, I began to have and believe dreadful thoughts, such as, I am not getting any stronger as time passes by. Everything in life, everything I know, just keeps getting worse. If I don’t find a way to get better, I believe I will die. I am not sure what to do now, but I have little doubt that if I sink deeper into the darkness of my own thoughts, I will lose my desire to keep living in such a miserable state. Sometimes, death seems like the only escape.

I sought out a professional counselor, although, it was against half my will. I had been to a counselor before, during my sophomore year of college, and it had been a waste of my time and money. That counselor seemed uncomfortable with the details of my story. When I tried to discuss my wounding experience, he would turn our conversations back to the surface issues of my life. He kept asking me if I was able to maintain daily tasks, such as cleaning my room and keeping up with classwork. He had done no more than to place a bandage over my heart, pat me on the back, and cheer, Keep your chin up, gal! And don’t let those college grades suffer. That experience gave me a horrible impression of counseling altogether. But it would have been a tragedy if I had not given counseling another chance. I gave it one more try with a counselor named Anna. Little did I know at the time that she would help save my life.

The drive to Anna’s house was far from the city, almost an hour from the school dorms. I hated the distance the first time I drove it; there was too much time to wonder what to say during the session. As I drove, my mind twisted itself into knots with so many questions; How will I start? How will I summarize? There was sexual abuse. Wait. Or, I was taken advantage of? Was it my fault that these things happened? Was I just stupid? What is the technical phrase I should use to describe my experience? What if it was, well, wrong, but not abuse? Should I tell her the awful things he said to me? Just tell it like it happened. He was a pastor who led teenagers—a highly respected Christian leader. He was an adult. I was a teenager under his leadership. At the beginning he told me to trust him and that it was all going to be fine. Then he made me feel overpowered and trapped. He threatened me. At the end, he called it an affair. An affair! I hate him. Oh, who knows if this counselor can even help me anyway? Maybe I’ll just start with the nightmares.

Considering these questions made me realize how nervous I was about telling Anna my story, but I was determined to tell it all. My nervousness was not so much about being honest as it was about revealing to an adult what had happened. I knew how the story went and I remembered the details well. I had lived it. I was glad to finally have an opportunity to open up to an adult about it. But even though I was determined to tell an adult all that I had experienced, there was still a lurking fear, a fear that he had deliberately placed in my heart. This fear had kept me silent since my high school years, and now I was getting ready to graduate from college. I was tired of being silent and even more tired of being afraid.

I drove past thick city areas into the suburb and then to a more open landscape until all I could see was wide fields with trees and cows scattered here and there. Anna’s house rested on a large stretch of land tucked behind a wall of trees, a setting I would grow to love. When I pulled down the long driveway covered by an arch of trees, I noticed that the leaves of these trees were a lively green and the branches hanging over my car seemed to offer shelter and safety. I felt glad to be there. The house itself was large and beautiful, with no other dwellings in view, as the green hills and trees created a kind of sanctuary. I stood for a moment, gazing at the structure with a smile.

I knocked. She answered. Anna. Her features were soft and gentle. In contrast, I inwardly felt harsh and difficult. I wondered, Is she up for this? My darkness is so heavy, so horrible. Is she ready to hear my story? Does she have anything to say to me that would help me to overcome this terrible shadow? She invited me to take a seat in her office, and I waited there alone as she quickly finished with a task in the front room.

It was then that I saw the picture for the first time. It hung over her desk, and it caused everything in me to halt; it arrested all other thoughts and demanded every bit of my attention. I could feel the heavy pulse of my heart pounding in my chest. The picture was a sketch of a woman. She was naked, but you could only see the left side of her body. She was crouched down and her arms blocked her breasts as her hands covered her face. Her hair was wet and messy, dangling in front of her face. Just above the arch of her shoulder blades a hand reached toward her. The hand definitely belonged to a man. There was a round scar on the back of it. The hand looked strong, but gentle and comforting.¹

I knew the one whose hand stretched toward the woman. He did not touch her naked back. He did not touch her hair. He did not touch her. He only reached toward her. I knew he wanted to show that woman a love that was worthy of her trust. But there was no forcefulness in what he offered. He reached and he hoped.

I wondered if she knew the hand was there. I wondered what she would do if she did know. I wondered if she would be afraid of the man. I understood why he didn’t touch her. He was wise to withhold his hand, because she would not trust him if he touched her now. Not yet. She would recoil. I could tell she had been badly mistreated. I could tell that she had been beaten in body, heart, and mind. Suddenly, she was me, or I was her, and it was difficult to gather myself. I could hear Anna coming. I hadn’t even started to speak and I was already unsettled. I resonated with the woman in the drawing. She was not real, I mean, not a human kneeling on the floor before me. Yet, through the drawing she somehow seemed to whisper, I understand. My heart was comforted at the thought that I was not alone, born from the evidence that someone, somewhere, had within himself or herself the insight to create an image reflecting such brokenness.

Anna entered the room and sat across from me and our meeting began. I don’t remember how the session started or ended, but I know that in that first hour she let me tell the story of my dark journey. I had kept the story to myself for years, telling only a few of my closest friends some minor details about my experience. This was different. I held nothing back. Anna listened, and while I talked, I showed very little emotion. I gave the account as if I were narrating an experience that had happened to somebody else. The story had happened to me, but in spite of the pain it had caused, I felt somewhat numb to it. Strangely, my suffering and lack of feeling were somehow intertwined.

After I finished, I simply asked, So, do you think I even need counseling, or do you think I just need to get over it, or what? I don’t want to waste anyone’s time or money.

Acknowledging that it was my desire for her to be direct and honest, Anna offered me both. She said, I do believe it would be extremely helpful for you to process your experience with a counselor to a fuller extent. Her tone was steady, calm, and strong. I had shared a huge part of my story in detail, and she wasn’t even nervous about how to respond. I didn’t get the impression that she was hoping to avoid the main issues like my last counselor had. She didn’t seem afraid to go with me to those dark places. Her calmness and fearlessness helped me trust her.

I said, I would like to meet with you again. How long do you think it would be good for us to meet together?

What came next was far from what I was expecting, If you’re up for it, Jennifer, let’s meet for one hour, once a week, for six months. I was stunned. That seemed like a long time to commit to counseling. At the same time, the fact that Anna suggested a long timeframe with frequent meetings helped me realize that she was able to see and acknowledge the depth of my suffering. I tried to consider the schedule she had suggested, but before I could get my mind around it, she continued, After that time, we can evaluate how you are doing, and then continue to meet for another six months, tapering off our meetings toward the end of the second six-month period.

One year! I responded with shock—half asking, half exclaiming. In the past, the one who hurt me had minimized his wrong and minimized my painful experience, and, as a result, I had also minimized it to myself. I was unfamiliar with someone acknowledging the reality of it, the weight of it, and the wounds that I carried because of it. I was quiet for a moment, and in the silence I remembered my nightmares and my depression. I said nervously, OK. Let’s do that.

Before I knew it, I was in my car and on my way back to the dorms. What had just happened? I wasn’t sure. But I knew that something had started in me, and already I was feeling a little more alive. Not fully alive, but a little more alive. I mean, if you had measured the level of life in me (if you could do such a thing), the increase would have hardly caused the scale to move, and most people would have just assumed I was already dead. But for me, the little change I felt inside that day was a big deal.

Maybe it was the relief of having an adult listen to my story the whole way through for the first time. Maybe it was the gentle but confident tone Anna had when she responded to me. Or, maybe it was the way it felt when she honestly suggested that this healing journey would take time. I felt acknowledged in that moment and a little less crazy because of it. I was thankful that the solution offered wasn’t just some quick and useless band-aid advice. I didn’t need that, never did. I was relieved that Anna was direct with me. That’s want I wanted.

I was glad I had driven for an hour to find her house out there hidden in the trees. New thoughts and emotions had been awakened in me. Who knows what all caused me to feel a little more alive. But I believe it was mostly one thing—that woman in the drawing, the hand gently stretched out toward her back, and me. I had stepped into Anna’s office that day ready to end a long, dark, tiring journey, only to realize that this was just the beginning. The image of a trusting hand resting above my naked back was burning in my mind, and I was consumed by it.

Journal Entry: Mysterious Flame

Last night I had a dream that was absolutely fascinating. It was in every way completely unlike the nightmares I have had lately. It was in some ways terrible, but mostly it was beautiful. Also, there was something strangely realistic about this dream. Most dreams usually feel real to me, but this one was even more so in a unique way. I guess, what I mean is that even though I know it was just a dream, I believe that it was more than just a dream. I have decided to write it down so I will never forget it.

In my dream I walked down a long, rocky, twisted trail on a valley floor. There were lifeless trees along the way, not one bearing a single leaf. Beyond the trees, mountains rose on both sides. It was dark—so dark that I was afraid. I saw dim light ahead. I staggered wearily toward the end of the trail as it broke out onto a sandy beach. More light broke through as the moonlight reflected off the shore for miles with an iridescent hue. There, on the edge of the world, I stood for a moment, captivated by the sea stretching out before me, feeling as if it had taken me forever to get there.

The waves thundered as they crashed on the shore. The bright moon highlighted the white caps as they curled. I slowly walked along the ocean’s edge as the cold water spilled over my bare feet. The wet sand sank gently with each step, leaving imprints of my heel and toes that quickly faded with each passing wave. As the breeze danced over the water and kissed my face, I took a deep breath and when I did I felt the full ache of my heart. I felt the throbbing pain of loneliness, fear, exhaustion, despair, and the soreness from wounds that had gone deep.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye something flicker and flash. As I turned in that direction, I saw, a great distance down the shore, a huge fire burning with a towering flame. I walked toward it with some hesitation but with more curiosity. I felt lost in my dream, but as I walked closer to the flame, I felt a tiny bit of hope grow inside me.

Initially, the fire seemed like it was not that far away, but after walking toward it for awhile, I became frustrated. It seemed like I was not moving forward, but rather that my feet were just stepping into the same footprints over and over again. My heart sank in sadness, my mind ruptured with dreary thoughts, and I believed for a moment that I would never reach