The Brighter Side of a Darker Thing

Copyright © 2013 Kathy Leigh Berkowitz.

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Lyric from Hush-a-bye, Billie by Karen S. and Victor L. Ferguson. Copyright 1973. Reprinted by permission.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-8156-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-8157-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-8155-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013900144

WestBow Press rev. date: 1/11/2013

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Introduction

The Ugly Truth

An Exchange of Goods

Places to Go

My Sign Said Healed

Of Teacups and Baby Dolls

It Is What It Is

Texas Memories

Remembering Mama

Lovely Wings

Grandma

Hush-a-bye, Billie

Healer of My Wounds

Unveiling the Family Secret

Staying at Home

The Beauty of the Yellow Room

Off to the Counselors

Exploring the World

So This Is Me

Justice Not Served

Sadness Settles In

Downsizing

Unraveled

Busy Bea

The Adjustment

A Very Strange Year

And Change Begins

Headfirst

Child Mom

Filled with the Spirit

Made in Japan

It’s Time

Wrecked, Rescued, Rebuilt, and Reassigned

For the Families and Friends of Survivors

The Suspended Bridge

Open Letter to the Darker Thing

One Last Thought

Epilogue

Resources

About the Author

Held by Him

I am not alone, O God,

For You are here with me.

Loving, caring, all-contained,

Your grace envelops me.

And when I stretch my hands up high

In search of mighty arms,

You hold me fast until at last

I’m safe from every harm.

September 26, 1997

Kathy Leigh Berkowitz

Foreword

Kathy Leigh writes from her heart and lives her life as a victorious and blessed woman of God. She is able to place the reader within the pain of her past experiences. However, Kathy Leigh offers such hope that the pain becomes a promise of God’s unfailing and unconditional love.

Jeff Allen, PhD, CAP, CMHP

Mental Health Professional

Lake Wales Christian Counseling, LLC

Acknowledgments

I give my thanks to Dr. Jeff Allen and his wife, whom I affectionately call Miss Kim even though they are married. Without their help and constant encouragement, an ample supply of Kleenexes, and tremendous prayer effort, I don’t know how I would have gotten through the writing of my story. I am also eternally grateful to my loving husband, who on many occasions reached for my hand during church. One such occasion was when another survivor shared her testimony of how God healed her. I sat quietly and sniffled, squeezing his hand and wishing I could say the same. I am here to testify that healing in Jesus is real. He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust (Psalm 91:1–2). I would also like to thank the pastoral staff of Winter Haven Worship Center in Winter Haven, Florida, for their guidance in helping me cross through the forgiveness portal. And I thank Pastor Walt Nelson and his wife, Miss Tina, at First Assembly of God in Lake Wales, Florida, now known as Impact Church, for always being there to listen and encourage me with the Word of God.

Introduction

LIVING IN THE NOW

Someone once told me that when you are writing your story, you need to begin where you are right now, look at what God has done in your life, and move backward from there. So where am I now? If, in my youth, someone had told me that one day I would write for a newspaper and get paid to talk to the most wonderful people all day long, or that I would take the plunge of telling my story by writing a book about it, I most likely would have thrown my head back and laughed out loud. Seriously. I would have laughed like Sarah did in Genesis when the Lord said she, who was barren, would bear a son. When I think about where I’ve come from and where I am going, I remember how after I got a job as a reporter for The Lake Wales News, a friend asked me what my plans for the future were. I answered, I don’t know where the boat is going. I just know I am in the boat. And I laughed.

I have so much to be grateful for: this life of mine, the people I’ve met, and my life in the raw experiences. I’ve been so blessed. And the journey has only just begun.

There’s a lot about me that at first glance a person would never see. But that’s how it is with survivors. I am a survivor and proud of it.

There are survivors of sexual abuse of all races and nationalities, in every corner of the world. I know I am not alone.

What do survivors look like? They are business people, farmers, accountants, food servers, day care workers, college presidents, city managers, police officers, homemakers, authors, artists, mechanics, and so on. Many will never share their stories.

A woman I know told me that after her father had sexually abused her and her sister for years, she eventually confronted him and told him that he was not going to do that to them anymore. And yet, miracle of God, she cared for him in his old age. I asked her how she dealt with her abuse, and she told me, I just shut the door on that part of my life. This amazed me. Yet the more I think about it, I realize I did the same thing.

A few people in high school knew about my abuse. As I have grown more comfortable with sharing my story, countless other people now know, too.

I am not writing this to tell you—if you, too, are also a survivor of sexual abuse, the Darker Thing—that you must share your story in a like manner. Your personal calling is different than mine, and God will lead you on your own journey of healing. Yet I will tell you that it was reading a newspaper article completely detailing another survivor’s story and the things she experienced as a result of the Darker Thing that gave me a sense of freedom and encouraged me to continue sharing my story.

When my aunt and uncle heard I was writing this book, they urged me to finish it. There are people who need to hear what you have to say, my aunt said.

I looked at her in disbelief—why, I don’t know. I bit my lip, cried at the thought, and languished for the larger part of the summer of 2012 in an effort to finish this book. But whether the manuscript will be many pages or just a few, I must finish it, for it is time to flip the light on so the Brighter Side of a Darker Thing can shine.

You see, God created us because He loves us. And we survive because of the hope within us to see brighter days. I knew the title of this book had to be The Brighter Side of a Darker Thing, but honestly, I wasn’t sure what the Brighter Side was for the longest time. What good could come of this experience, this abuse and the dark secrets kept hidden for so long? I prayed for God to help me finish this book, and not only that, but also for Him to set the captives free.

It became quite clear to me about a month ago that you are the Brighter Side. I am the Brighter Side. Jesus is the light that shines on us both. The Darker Thing was the abuse and the force behind it; it serves only as a black velvet backdrop to our beautiful lives. We have value, we are important, and we were created to do good works, to enjoy life and love, and to have hope for the future. ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’ (Jeremiah 29:11).

So hello, Brighter Side. It’s time to put the Darker Thing behind us.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms (Ephesians 6:12).

When photographers take professional portraits, they often use a backdrop to accentuate the subject. When the light, perhaps from a window, plays across the person’s face, the backdrop simply serves to capture the beauty of that moment in time. This discovery brings me peace. The Darker Thing makes the Brighter Side shine.

Welcome to the Brighter Side of a Darker Thing.

The Ugly Truth

I remember it like it was yesterday—the sights, the smells, and the searing pain that traveled throughout my body. I remember something happening, something sinister that I could neither understand nor explain.

At nine years old, I was no longer a little girl.

I drew a bath so hot it scalded me and scrubbed myself vigorously with scented soap. As I looked up at the window, warm rays of sunshine poured into the little bathroom, lighting every curl of steam that rose from my heated sanctuary. Life had changed drastically, and I wondered why.

It has taken me three decades to share my story. My abuser was a family member whom I will not name directly for the sake of privacy. I thought he was my buddy. At least, he acted like he was. He bought me pretty things and took me out to eat. He toted me to the skating rink and dropped me off at the movies. But he always gave me strange hugs and squeezes, which had started when I was around seven or eight years old. I felt uncomfortable but did not know what to say. So I said nothing.

After losing the flower of my youth at nine, I suddenly felt extremely guilty, but I didn’t know why. This buddy now took advantage of my poverty-stricken home. He offered to take me shopping in return for certain sexual acts. Each time he hurt me, I slipped deeper into a fantasy world of my own. I visualized myself having a baby—it was the only way I could endure the pain. I now know that this is called disassociation, a way of coping with trauma by focusing your mind on something else.

Hours passed in that dark room that smelled of alcohol and machine oil. The stench seemed to seep into every part of my senses, and afterward, I always bathed in hot water, scrubbing myself with soap and dousing myself with perfume, lotion, and powder to make myself smell nice.

Relief came when we left the house and went shopping. Then I would return home to show my parents all the pretty things I, or rather my abuser, had bought. The list of things was extensive and expensive. It wasn’t unusual for receipts for groceries, bath soap, dolls, books, clothes, purses, and shoes to total two hundred dollars. I brought home all kinds of things, even a bone for the dog once. I eventually discovered that succumbing to the abuse was a way to get things for my family.

Mama was ill much of the time, and Dad worked long hours. He operated in only two modes: work and sleep. I truly have never blamed my parents for what happened to me, though I felt that no one understood my pain. That said, the intensity of my self-blame fueled internal flames of hatred for my own soul.

Life went on. I spent almost every weekend at my abuser’s house, except for a few blissful months during the summer when I left Indiana and spent time with my grandparents, who lived in Florida.

An Exchange of Goods

There are those who give and those who take, but sometimes, it is confusing who is which. Sometimes people both give and take in an attempt to reconcile the debt owed them for the services they provide.

What is the definition of a prostitute? For years, during my bondage and before my healing, I didn’t think it made a difference whether the John was someone on the street or a close relative. The way I saw it, a prostitute works for her pay and pays for her work, yet never feels the value of the soul she has just sold for a bowl of soup. She has become an object, the