The Second Wound

In 2010, I publicly came out as a survivor of childhood clergy abuse. I made the rallying speech at the protest against the Pope's visit to Britain, standing before some 20,000 people. I travelled to Rome to join other survivors in protest, and became involved in uncovering more of the abuse that had remained hidden for so long.

It was an extraordinary time in my life. Painful, certainly, but also empowering. After years of silence, I had found my voice, and I was determined to use it.

What I hadn't anticipated was the price I would pay within my own family.

Some people I had grown up with, shared my history with, and loved all my life simply turned thwir back on me . 

One said it should all have been dealt with years ago. Some were embarrassed; another thought it was "unfair" that I had spoken out when both the perpetrator and my mother had died and were no longer there to defend themselves.I had purposefully not dealt with this openly when she was alive; she would have been terribly hurt.

I found those reactions almost unbearably painful.

I had expected resistance from the institution I was challenging. I hadn't expected to lose people I loved.

There is something particularly cruel about that second wound. The original abuse had already taken so much, but speaking about it cost me relationships that had been part of the fabric of my life.

Sixteen years have passed.

Recently, another family member has made a gentle attempt to heal the rift, and initially I was delighted. I wanted to believe that we might find our way back to one another. After all, these are people I loved, people who shared my childhood and so many memories.

But as the possibility of meeting has drawn nearer, I have found myself becoming increasingly reluctant. In fact, I have realised that I simply cannot do it.

Not because I am angry. Not because I want to punish anyone. But because I am afraid of being hurt like that again.

And there is something else.

We cannot go back to what we were.

There is a very large elephant in the room. I don't want to revisit the abuse, rehearse the arguments or ask anyone to account for what they said sixteen years ago. But neither can I pretend that none of it happened.

I have spent much of my life encouraging people to face painful truths, to find their voices and to move forward. Perhaps I need to recognise that moving forward doesn't always mean going back.

I can miss those relationships without wanting to resume them. I can treasure the memories without pretending that the intervening years haven't changed things.

And I can acknowledge that the people involved may have changed, just as I have, without feeling obliged to put myself in a position where I might be wounded again.

I think there is a particular sadness in grieving people who are still alive. There is no funeral, no final goodbye, just an absence where something precious used to be.

Perhaps reconciliation will be possible one day. Perhaps it won't.

For now, I think I have to accept that some things cannot be restored to what they once were.

We can forgive without forgetting. We can love without returning. And perhaps we can find peace without reconciliation.

Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is to leave a door slightly ajar, without feeling obliged to walk through it.