I can’t remember specifically when he entered my life or how it all started. I remember his presence when I was in grade school. He participated in my school and church by leading worship once a week, driving our bus for school outings, performing special music, and preaching. He seemed very nice. I remember him talking at our 8th grade graduation. He was the campus pastor for the nearby academy that I was to attend the following fall.

He was also a friend of the family. I had two older sisters attending the academy while I was in grade school. He seemed to take a special interest in our family. By the time I got to high school, both of my older sisters had moved out and were living in another state. 

Up to this point, home life was a mess. My childhood was filled with drug addiction and alcoholism. My father had recently been sentenced to prison for drug-related offenses for ten years. My mother, who was sober at the time and doing the best she could, suffered from depression. Both of my parents were physically disabled. By the time I got to 9th grade I was exhausted. I was depressed. I was lonely. And, I was broken. 

However, I enjoyed writing. I wrote poems on a regular basis, many of them spiritual in nature. It was my routine to sit and write in the hallway, outside of the pastor’s office, while waiting for my mother to pick me up from school. One day, the pastor asked what I was writing. I showed him my poem titled ‘Jesus, my true friend.’ He was interested and thus started our friendship. I loved that someone was interested in me. We talked on a regular basis catching each other in the hallway after school. He began asking me to write poetry on specific topics for his sermons. He even offered to pay me. Our friendship grew and I began to trust him more and more. It seemed whenever I needed something, such as a ride or an ear to listen, he was there. I felt I was lucky to have him in my life.

One day I asked if I could talk to him about something serious. I met him in his office and told him that I needed help concerning boys. I knew that I was getting myself in trouble by being promiscuous. I wanted a spiritual solution. He said he would help me. We set up a schedule to meet once a week for ‘counseling’ sessions in his office. Sometimes I would ask to be excused from class so that I could meet with him. Often our sessions lasted for hours. I was perfectly vulnerable to him. He knew I was searching. He knew I was desperate. He took advantage of my weakness and naïveté.

Our physical contact progressed subtly. I remember that he would occasionally instruct me to hug him properly. I had been giving him a ‘sideways hug’. He expressed concern, mentioning that the sideways hug indicated that I didn’t trust him. I felt so guilty that I immediately changed the way I hugged him by giving him a full embrace, even though it was uncomfortable. I was also embarrassed to hug him in front of my friends at school. However, he just kept gently pressing for more and more physical contact. I always followed his lead, trusting he had my best interest at heart. I couldn’t even imagine otherwise.

The first time he touched me grossly inappropriately I was very confused. I was so scared that he was going to be mad at me. Even though I knew it was wrong, I couldn’t imagine it being anyone’s fault but my own. I reasoned it had to be my fault. It couldn’t be his since He was the pastor.  It was my fault. I was ashamed, embarrassed, and remorseful. I was willing to beg for forgiveness from him. I was terrified he would never want to see me again. I was relieved when I later found out he wasn’t mad at me. At the same time, I was mortified when I realized he wanted to continue fostering a sexual relationship. What?! It didn’t make sense to me. I soon learned that it was just the price I had to pay to have love and security in my life. That destructive thought pattern continued for many years leading me from one damaging relationship to another.

I began to hate him. I hated myself. I was so full of guilt and shame that I thought about killing myself all the time. He just continued on. I hated him more. I would sit and listen to his sermons during church on Sabbath feeling like I was the problem and God was mad at me. God was going to punish me for ruining one of his pastors. I couldn’t get away from him. He’d arrange to see me through my mother and, if I refused, then my mother would get upset. I imagine that she thought he was such a good role model for me and I was desperate to keep her happy. I felt I had nowhere to turn. Not to mention that I didn’t want him mad at me, either. I tried to reason with him by asking questions about what we were doing. “Wasn’t it wrong?” I asked. I was always led in circles that ended with the blame on me.

I was given some reprieve when he moved away my junior year. After seeing a movie special about clergy sexual abuse, I decided to confide in our church youth leader. Knowing that the pastor was coming to visit soon, I had become suicidal. I was scared. I had started cutting my arms and doing other forms of self-abuse. The events that followed my disclosure are fuzzy in my mind. I remember it being a time of absolute chaos and horror. My mother fell apart emotionally and she became physically ill. Home life was a nightmare. School life was worse. I was embarrassed to go to school because all my peers knew my shameful secret. Everywhere I went, they knew. I just wanted to die. The reality of the whole situation was too much for me. Not to mention that now, he certainly was mad at me. I crashed emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I had been living this secret life for so long—I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I hated the church. I hated, really hated, pastors. I wanted the school to burn to a crisp. I was full of rage. I also, shamefully, missed him. 

Not long after I told, I left the church for several years, experimenting with sex, drugs, and alcohol. I hated myself more. My mom started using drugs and alcohol again and within five years she passed away. I felt that was my fault as well. If I had never told, she would be ok. If only I had… After five years of running away from anything spiritual, in desperation, I reached out for God. I wanted recovery. I didn’t want to continue down the path I was heading. Though I didn’t go to church right away, I began a spiritual journey.

Six years after changing the direction of my life, I came across a “Hope of Survivors” conference ad in a magazine. I knew that I did not read that ad on accident. I had been searching for help and I believed that God had placed it there before my eyes at the exact moment that I was willing to take advantage of the help. I was amazed at the wealth of information on the website. There were others like me! Thirteen years after I told, I was still bogged down with guilt, shame, and remorse. I constantly wondered if telling was the right thing. I worried whether he was mad at me. I felt dirty for missing him. Also, I knew there was something wrong with the way I interacted with men. I seemed to be a magnet for abuse. I was desperate for change.   

I don’t remember the specifics of the conference because I was an emotional wreck. From the moment I walked in the room I was flooded with a plethora of emotions and memories. I did not fight it; I just let it all out. I wanted to soak it in and avail myself of whatever spiritual help that was available. I was surrounded by caring people, most of whom had been through a similar ordeal. I walked away from the conference feeling different from the day I arrived. A miracle happened to me during the conference. 

I found out: It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. Even though I was not a virgin, it wasn’t my fault. Even though he didn’t beat me and tie me down; it wasn’t my fault. Even though I was 16 years old and ‘old enough to know better,’ it WASN’T my fault. Even though I didn’t tell for years, IT WASN’T MY FAULT. It was never my fault. I could sing a song of freedom: it wasn’t my fault!

What a weight to be lifted from my shoulders! I used to believe to my core that I was to blame. If only I had… went through my mind constantly. I used to dream up ways to apologize to him for the damage I caused in his life by telling. The extension of this guilt that permeated other aspects of my life is immeasurable. It wasn’t my fault. I was told that before, but now I believe it. Something changed and the guilt is gone. I haven’t missed him since.

To this day, I have not questioned once in my head whether or not it was my fault. I’ve been blessed with the confidence of knowing that it wasn’t my fault. I feel like I’ve been set free from bondage. That is not to say that everything is magically healed. I attend church regularly and feel like an alien when I step through the doors most weekends. Sometimes, I immediately feel a ‘fight or flight’ response and am almost paralyzed with panic. It usually goes away if I wait it out. It is exhausting. The fight I have to go through to just get to the door of the church is indescribable. On the other hand, once I make it, I occasionally feel a sweet peace sweep over me, calming my every anxiety.  

I’m still healing...

[END OF STORY]

If you are a survivor of pastoral abuse, we would love to hear your story and possibly make it available on this web site for others to read and renew their hope. You can use a pseudonym if you choose and rest assured that all personal information will be kept private and strictly confidential. Please contact us.

Please note: We do not necessarily agree with or endorse all the information contained in the survivor’s stories. We do, however, feel they have some valuable information that could be useful to you in your recovery. It helps to know you’re not alone, that others have shared your pain and have healed, by the grace of God, in their own time and way.