I don’t cry in public

I don’t cry in public. Maybe a few tears during an emotional scene in a movie, or when I smack into a tragic moment in history, like at the 9/11 Museum in NYC. But otherwise, no tears. It’s not because I don’t feel sorrow or joy; I just don’t do big public displays of emotion. I like to fade into the background and you can’t really do that when you have mascara black tears streaking down your cheeks.

In the days and weeks following the molestation I didn’t even do private displays of emotion. I cried twice. Definitely not my normal. But, I can assure you, it had nothing to do with the amount of emotion flooding my heart. I’ve never felt so many overwhelming emotions at the same time, or for so many months in a row. But, I couldn’t release it. There wasn’t time. I had too many things needing my immediate attention and, above all, my son needed me to be in control so that he could recover. I couldn’t allow myself to break. But, I worried that keeping it all in was going to damage me forever. I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t want this terrible event to impact my ability to connect with others.

Still, I continued to push back the tears. Eventually, I realized that I was able to cry for other people. I could even cry for fictional characters. On the days when I had enough concentration to watch a movie, I started choosing ones that were emotionally charged in the hope that I might respond with a few tears. It was a safe way to let little bits of it out without losing control. Like releasing a small trickle of water so the pressure doesn’t burst the dam.

Weeks turned into months. The East Coast became nothing more than a distant memory. We made it through the Grand Jury hearing, the first day of school, moving into our house. We trudged through one confusing and numb day after another. As we survived each milestone, the pain that threatened to split my soul in two, and the anger that I attempted to tamp down with every breath, flared up into a fierce, burning inferno.

I shattered into a million tiny shards of myself. But, I still couldn’t cry.

Then, on the last night of my November trip to New York, I saw Hamilton. Honestly, it was perfect. The music of Hamilton has been the soundtrack of my last year. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it, but I can say that if they ever need someone to stand in at the last second, I’m the one they should call. Pick a character, any character, and I can sing their part. Granted, no one wants to hear me perform. Hell, not even if I did it for free. Anyway, my point is, I know the story and the music well. And, sitting in my seat that night, I knew what was coming. During Act II there are four songs that pack a huge emotional punch and they come one right after the other. As ecstatic as I was to see the show, I was a little worried that I might come undone right there in the middle of the Richard Rogers Theater.

But, something amazing happened. As the story progressed, I stopped worrying about whether I might cry. As we marched ever closer to those songs, I knew it was going to happen. I was going to cry in public. And, for the first time, I didn’t care. I accepted it.

The initial notes of Burn began and, as Alexander Hamilton’s wife, Eliza, was singing about the pain of his betrayal, I let go. Obviously, I didn’t want to distract the people sitting around me, so I cried quietly, tears streaming down my cheeks, my shoulders shaking. Even through the jaunty, upbeat beginning of Blow Us All Away, I cried. I knew it was about to get worse. Much worse. The Hamiltons’ nineteen year old son was about to die. And, while the details are thankfully not an exact match of my own tragedy, the emotions are very much the same. In less than thirteen minutes those four songs submerged the entire audience into the dark, stormy sea that had become my life, Eliza Hamilton’s life, and, apparently, the life of the woman two seats to my right who was crying just like me. Disbelief, betrayal, loneliness, anger, despair, agony. And then, hope. Hope that forgiveness was somewhere in the future. Hope that time would allow me to heal and move forward. Hope that someday the paralyzing, emotional desert that had taken up residence in my head and in my heart would embrace the storm of tears, and would allow the return of the rich, beautiful landscape that was there before my life imploded.

I wish I could say that ever since that night I have been able to let go of my pain. But, I can’t. For several more months it was a struggle to find me again. But, as my son progressed with his own healing, so did I. And, with the help of family, friends, and counseling, we have made enormous progress.

A month ago, we went back to Corning for the trial. The days just before were a challenging mess of nerves and fear, but we made it through. And, on the first day of the trial, my son stood up in court, in front of his former step-father, and let the truth be heard. He stood up for himself and took control over his fear and his pain. He took the power away from his abuser in one fell swoop. I am thrilled to report that he is returning to the child I remember from before the trauma.

As for me, if this journey has shown me anything about myself, it’s that I never give up. I just keep going, slogging through the mud, until I am back on solid footing once more. I am relishing our days full of work and school, making dinner, doing chores. I’m ok with life being a little bit boring for a while. And, as we move ever closer to the one year anniversary of our family tragedy, I am turning my attention to healing myself. I want to focus on one issue after another until I feel that I have repaired as much of the damage as is possible to repair.

Forgiveness is a very distant spot on the horizon, but one that I know I will never stop striving to reach. And, I have no doubt that I am moving in the right direction. For weeks now, I have been waking up with happy thoughts in my head and a smile on my face. I’m ready to greet each new morning. That return to normal proves to me that I can’t stop fighting until I’m all the way back. No matter how long it may take.

The defendant was found guilty of both counts. Sentencing will be at the end of this month. The trial was challenging, to say the least, but we had an abundance of support. I don’t have words to express my gratitude for the NYS Victim’s Advocate, Lisa (funny how she has the same name as one of my dearest friends), who guided me through this entire ordeal, and Mr. Wallace, the prosecutor, who answered my never-ending questions. I would also like to thank my dad who accompanied us and who whisked my son away from the courthouse after his testimony, and my brother, who sat with me through the whole thing. Thank you for holding my hand during the really horrible parts. I love you guys. To my mom, my friends, my extended family and all of the people who have helped us and reached out to tell us that we are in their thoughts and prayers, thank you.

We are fortunate to have so much love and support around us. Not every victim of sexual abuse is as lucky as we are. I urge each and every one of you to find a way to help the individuals and families who are struggling to recover from traumas like ours. In the coming months I will be posting some suggestions for organizations that offer support to victims and their families.

And, finally, the photos from this post come from my March trip to NYC. When the trial ended after only two days, we needed somewhere to go for the rest of the week. My brother had never been and it seemed the perfect opportunity to get away from the pain that accompanied the trial. Just like my trip in November with my friend, Lisa, we walked. Not quite as much as she and I did, only 15 miles in two days. But, in my favorite city, with my father, my brother, and my son by my side, we were able to take one step at a time away from the trauma. We were able to take one step at a time toward happiness and healing.