Reflections on abuse and Church's response

On a scorching hot day recently, I went outside to water my vegetable garden. As I went to turn on the faucet, an image I had just seen on a news page on my laptop computer came to me: a woman enduring terrible suffering in a drought in Africa. I stopped and reflected on the unfairness of it all: I did not have to depend on the rain to nourish my garden, which was only a hobby, but she and her family faced death without the rain.

I was sexually assaulted by a priest. I didn't want to begin with that sentence because I have never considered myself a "victim" or "survivor" of that trauma, but a person who has a life to live after it and knows something about the unfairness of it, as so many experiences in life are.

These are difficult times for all of us in this Church. I have spent time riding hopes of healing that would come from the new openness I sensed in the media, only to have those hopes painfully brought back down to hard ground as parish life in the Diocese in Albany changed little. To be frank, I have heard many, many more prayers for "our priests and Bishop" than I have for people who endured the horror of sexual abuse.

After several months of listening to hundreds of insensitive remarks about why people bring up things that happened 20 years ago, I found myself feeling like a victim of this Church, of the people of God, in a way I never considered myself a victim of the priest who raped me.

I have hesitated to tell my story, with deep concern that I could cause pain to people who have had experiences similar to mine but are in a different place in their lives today. Each of us is unique, with uniquely different experiences and significantly different resources to draw on.

The priest who raped me called and apologized two years later, terribly distraught and using words I hope I never have reason to hear again. I know that the lack of an apology can be the cause of great emotional pain for people who have experienced sexual trauma and been badly treated by Church officials who should have helped. For me, his apology has only recently become okay to think about, many years after I picked up the phone that day, totally unprepared.

I have also heard and read a lot about the strong views and feelings of anger that some people have toward the Church hierarchy. As an observer and as someone who reads about what happened to other people, I share that anger and disappointment. I have been most troubled by how hard our Diocese tries to keep everything a secret, knowing in my bones the terribly painful isolation that results from having a life story that can't be talked about. And no one learns how to listen.

But my own experience with the hierarchy was far better than many of the stories I have heard. My first contact with Bishop Howard J. Hubbard came about ten years ago, after I wrote a letter to a symbol really, because I certainly didn't know him personally. It was a terribly difficult, awful time in my life, which had followed several terribly difficult, awful years. I was ready to kill myself, though I didn't say that.

Much to my surprise (and embarrassment) I received a letter two days later from Bishop Hubbard, encouraging me to seek therapy, offering to pay for it and offering to meet with me to see if there was any other way he could help. It changed my outlook on everything.

When I got over my discomfort, I began to think in terms of justice; instead of accepting his help, I contacted a provincial superior of the religious order of the priest who assaulted me. That very same day, I received a call from the provincial, who extended a sincere and awkwardly moving apology, and said paying for therapy was "the least" they could do.

For the next six years, he sent me a card and a check each month for therapy, doing so even after he left the provincial job. Sometimes, I wrote back, and he'd write again or call. I shared some of my struggles, and he shared some of his, including his fight with cancer. He became a friend.

My problem with the Catholic Church is with all the rest of us: the people of God, priests and laypeople. Unlike our Bishop, one priest responded to me five years ago by interrupting after two sentences and saying, "I suppose you're going to go to the media. That's what they all do." Soon after, still in a lot of pain and turmoil, I approached another priest whose only words were: "Why are you telling me this?"

When I turned to my best friend for the first time, she stunned me by stopping me after three sentences with "That happened so long ago; just put it behind you." Recently, I walked into a parish center to find staff and parishioners talking about how all these "so-called victims" are "liars." It was frightening.

I've come to the conclusion that a parish is not equipped to deal with people like me; so when there's too much turmoil, when things stir and become too painful at Mass, I leave for a while. I left again last month. I don't really know what else to do.

I don't need more therapy. What I need is actually very simple but too difficult to create: the compassionate glance of people who have eyes to see...the gentle presence of people sitting nearby whose knowledge of my particular pain tells me I am welcome here...the opportunity to talk without pressure to.

I'm not sure why that's so hard to find or create, but I've lived long enough to sense it's impossible in a Catholic Church. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve, but nobody really wants me to either.

I'd like to hear from anybody who has an idea how to settle things with the Church, how to make it work or how to leave for good.

(Editor's note: The name of the author is being withheld on request. Anyone who would like to share their thoughts can send mail to: Anonymous, c/o The Evangelist, 40 N. Main Ave., Albany, NY 12203. Letters addressed in that way will be forwarded, unopened, to the author.)

(08-22-02) [[In-content Ad]]