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Not Safe. Women’s Restrooms.

Women. The sign on the door. All my life, that’s been the safe room. It’s safe to be there. Safe to pee there. Safe to change there. Safe to nurse a baby there. Safe to send a teen daughter. Safe to wait there. Our local department store. No more. Secure no more. Safe no more. The sacred is no more. Women does not mean women any more. Security has been breached, safety has been compromised, the sacred has been polluted. The sacred is now profane. The door has been swung wide open to pedophiles and other perversions—-this is wrong.


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CSA… It Steals and Steels

For days my mind’s been flooded with grief and all sorts of other CSA emotions I’ve been trying to stifle. (I wrote this a week ago; gripped with the reality that sexualabuse steals and steels. Today I wondered if I wrote it as another of many, many entries I would write and never publish. But I’ll publish this today with the prayer that grown up little girls might be helped, encouraged and comforted — not alone, not wrecked, not forever bad or without hope.)

[trigger warning] Hot tears flooded my eyes as I read a letter

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The rest of the story

I’m going to write a part of the rest of the story today. You know how Paul Harvey used to close his commentary — just before that seemingly eternal pause before he’d say (or seem to say it in the form of a question): good. day.; he’d say: And now you know… the rest of the story.

Nearly 6 years ago I wrote a letter to the father who raised me… the man who married my mother, adopted me (and my brother) and two years after that, he took me down a road that would, on

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CSA: Risk Telling the Story

Telling stories of your yesterdays bores some people, encourages some people and inspires some people — embarrasses some people, too. I know, many times through the years, I’ve witnessed the reactions women have when some woman opens her mouth to share her story. I’ve seen it when I’ve shared my story. They’ve heard it all before and they’re weary at the thought of having to hear it ah-gain. People totally write other people off when they’re weary of hearing their stories.

Sadly, as some poor woman begins to utter the first sentence of her story (again),

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CSA; I’ve never told anyone this before, but…

That’s how the stories usually begin… that’s how they usually come tumbling out of mouth of a woman sitting beside me. The story is actually prefaced with: Can I talk to you? And after I say, Of course, hot tears seem to well up in the eyes of the one who desperately needs to tell someone — someone who will listen, someone who will understand, someone who will care.

[ Because of something I might have shared there in a talk or because of the “safe-feeling” of the setting – maybe it’s after a

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CSA Fallout

Still drinking from my saucer ’cause my cup’s overflowed. And, in light of the horrific tragedy that’s befallen Japan, I want to say what I’ve written today is in no way meant to make light of that whole situation. Just wanted to make those comments before I continue writing today’s blog entry.

I want to write some more chapters in my CSA mini-series. I’ve dealt with the results, the unintended consequences or the results of sexualabuse through the years and here and there a thought or reaction will come up. It’s always unexpected, always surprising —

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So, why does stuff happen?

Do you find yourself asking the “why did that happen?” question?

Why in the world did that happen? Or, why did this happen to me? Or, how could this have happened?

We all ask some such question from time to time. Even when we don’t mean to bring up our doubtful questioning in conversation, our comments betray us when we say something like, I don’t know how that could have happened, or some similar statement.

I think we all seem as though we’re surprised when things happen — as

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A Co-Incident

It just dawned on me that there are a bunch of co-incidents going on right now. But it’s not surprising to me when I’m dealing with something and then I notice several other similar something’s come up around the same time. You probably notice this is true in your life… when you’re going through something you hear about or see similar things all around.

I’ve been writing about CSA (childsexualabuse) for the last week or so. I feel like I might owe readers an apology — not for writing what I’ve written, but for not

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Let’s Pretend…

Let’s Pretend is a children’s game. And children are good at playing it. Adults like to play this game, too — only it’s not always for entertainment or proper development.

Nearly thirty years ago my husband encouraged me to talk to someone about CSA — or, my story. It was invaluable to me — but for reasons much different than the counselor’s intent.

I was so nervous. ‘More nervous than I am to go to the dentist to have a root canal. ‘More nervous than anticipating labour and childbirth. I can’t, I said. I

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No more secrets

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.

I so longed for freedom – freedom from shame, freedom from fear, freedom from having to do things for him in that way. I so wanted to be free from all that — I wanted it to all go away. No more secrets. But I didn’t want to make any problems for anyone. And I think that’s probably the case with most women who endured child sexualabuse and remained afraid to tell – the fear of retribution is just gripping.

It’s interesting how twisted things become for love. I

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