The Power That Rests in Silence

Earlier this year I quit my well-paying, secure position as a careers counsellor in a private school to embark on the passion projects that had been beckoning me. Storytelling has a special place in my heart (for reasons that will be become clear as you read on), and inspired me to start my Story Nights events in April this year. I’d qualified as a WomanSpeak Circle Leader in January and felt ready to support other women to use their voices and speak their truth. Many of you may have thought I was nuts as I removed the safety net and chose to take the risk of self-employment, but there was something bigger, beyond these projects, that was also calling me.

Public Speaking

In 2018, I decided I wanted to become a public speaker; I had a story to share, a lived experience of a shift in perspective - a transformation - that I believed others would benefit from hearing.

Seeking opportunities to hone my craft, I researched storytelling and discovered Story Wise Women – a live, open-mic storytelling event for women. Every story I told began with careful preparation; I typed my ideas in Word, printed them out, read them and re-read them, edited, rehearsed in front of the indoor plants, recorded and played back so I could memorise every single word – it was important to me to use the right words. Every month, over the course of that year, I drove across town to the Wesley Ann, a bar in High Street, Northcote, to tell a story in front of a warm audience of around forty supportive women.

Sharing a Story of Power

Throughout that year I told the many aspects and parts of my story. One particular night, the theme was Power and this is the story I shared…

I'd never considered that I held any power, and yet there we were sitting in a county court courtroom waiting for the judge to pass sentencing.

The choice to be there had not come easily nor quickly. It had taken thirty-six years to find my voice and tell Mum about what had happened. I'd always considered silence the best option. When I was nine, I didn’t have the words to explain what had happened to me. I instinctively knew it was wrong, but I was confused and didn't want people to be upset or make a fuss and I honestly thought that I was okay.

But once I told Mum, I had a burning desire to let him know I was no longer keeping his secret.

But how to let him know? I fantasized for days about writing him a letter. “You scum bag, your secret is out now. Mum knows the truth about you...” But it seemed unsatisfactory. How would I know his reaction? Or if he'd even read the letter? I thought about calling him. This was far more ballsy, and I wondered if I even had the guts to do it... “Hi it's Karen. How are you going? Just wanted to let you know I've told Mum about what you did, and you should be worried because I might just report you to the police.” But it felt like an empty threat. If I was really going to do it, would I be calling him to threaten him? Wouldn’t I just go do it?

It occurred to me that the best way to let him know I’d broken my silence might just be to tell the police. But could you even report a crime from thirty-six years ago? I’d always thought I wouldn’t want to go through the ordeal of a court case and giving evidence in a courtroom. But now, it was all I could think about. I wondered if there were other victims and whether they had come forward? Maybe a statement from me would in some way help someone else? I began to feel like this wasn’t just about me, it became us against him.

Armed with these thoughts I called the police and told them that I’d been sexually abused when I was nine by a man who was once our neighbour. The detective was encouraging, she said it was entirely up to me, but given the amount of detail I could recall, there was a good chance they’d be able to make an arrest. “Really? An arrest?”

This was appealing. I didn’t really care if it resulted in a conviction or not. I just wanted to make this man uncomfortable. And to do that, all I had to do was write a statement. Which sounds pretty simple, but let me tell you, it was not easy. Oh, how I avoided it. It was like the school assignment that you’ve got two whole weeks to do but you put it off to the night before it’s due! Putting the details of my trauma on paper was confronting. But once I’d done it, I felt like I mattered and that I was being heard… and I began to understand that this process wasn’t so much about punishing him, as it was about liberating me.

Four years on from that initial phone call, the paedophile and I are seated in the same courtroom. I had gone there, not because I wanted to hear the judge’s sentence first-hand, but because I wanted to look him in the eye.

The judge asked him to stand to receive his sentence and I swung around in my seat to look at the dock at the back of the courtroom. All eyes in that room were watching me. The paedophile looked at me, first with curiosity, to see what I was doing - but as I continued to stare, his expression changed when he realised I wasn’t going to look away. His head dropped, and his eyes fell to the floor.

He didn’t look up again and my eyes didn’t leave him until the guard escorted him out of the courtroom. He was going to spend the next five years in prison.

As I stared at this man, I felt the shame that I'd carried within my body, since I was nine-years-old, shift. The shame that had been mine for so long, moved across the courtroom that day and it was now his shame and his alone.

I’d reclaimed my power.

But where had my power been?

He wasn’t wielding his power over me all those years, in fact, he’d never threatened me, such was his confidence that I’d never speak about it. I believe that the power was resting in the silence. That power exists in the taboo of childhood sexual abuse. It’s a topic that no-one wants to talk about. I get it - it’s traumatic, it’s unpleasant, and people don’t know what to say or how to respond. And it’s often met with denial. It’s simply easier to ignore it.

So, there’s silence.

Powerful silence.

He didn’t threaten me when I was nine; I wasn’t told to keep a secret. It occurred to me that I didn’t have to be told because the paedophile knew I wouldn’t tell.

He understood the power and the silence of the taboo.

Speaking From The Scar

I went from denial about my experiences and wounds, to trying everything I could to process what had happened to me and how I felt about it, to now accepting myself wholeheartedly. The fact that I was sexually abused will never go away; that’s a truth of my life, it’s my history. However, the intensity of the pain, the emotion I feel when I think about it and take myself back to my memories, are no longer there. The wounds are no longer open and I’m able to speak from the scar.

Obtaining justice through making a police report has been both validating and satisfying, yet the most healing came for me through speaking my truth. I started out telling stories because I wanted to let others know that speaking about childhood sexual abuse is important, but the unexpected outcome was a far greater depth of acceptance for myself and what I’d journeyed through than I could have possibly imagined.

Once I’d claimed my voice and was able to say “I was sexually abused as a child,” without feelings of shame, that’s when my wounds could heal and become scars.

The Discomfort of Childhood Sexual Abuse

I believe that as long as we, as a society, continue our discomfort with the topic of childhood sexual abuse, we feed the power of silence. The very power that every paedophile counts on to continue to do what they do.

The Australian Child Maltreatment Study (ACMS) 2021

Most people believe that to speak about childhood sexual abuse serves no useful purpose and instead, they choose to stay silent (it’s what I believed for thirty-six years and research tells us the average time to disclosure is 20 years), but the reality is that open dialogue can be the foundation of individual and collective healing and is the preventative measure we need as a society to disrupt the culture of silence that perpetuates the cycle of abuse. Let’s #breakthecycle

What can you do?

If someone speaks with you about childhood sexual abuse, be a safe space for them and listen. Don’t attempt to minimise their experience, be there for them and ask them if there’s anything they need. Words like ‘I’m sorry that happened’ are often enough.

If you were abused, I’m sorry. I see you and I send you love. I encourage you to share your story. With a loved one, friend or professional. If it’s a story you’ve held for a long time, share it slowly and with care - perhaps starting to write about it in your journal. Each time we share our story, we create a ripple. A ripple of understanding and an increased awareness and tolerance for the discomfort of the topic. Our voices are the greatest weapon we have against paedophiles. Share your story and #createaripple.

What’s next for me?

During recent months I’ve begun work on a TED Talk; fingers crossed I make it through the audition, and I’m currently putting the finishing touches on a book that is due to publish in November.

In my book, Speaking From The Scar, I share my experiences of navigating the court system as a victim of crime and explore the many ways I found healing for myself through a variety of practices and modalities. It’s for anyone who has also experienced childhood sexual abuse or would like to understand the impacts and why victims often struggle to find their voice. Beyond that, I’ll be creating a meditation program that supports healing.

If you’d like to stay up to date with my adventures, follow me on Instagram or sign up to my newsletter to find out when my book and meditations are released.

With love xx