The Goodness of God

Nov 3

9 min read

I was abused.

That is the first time I ever wrote that. I haven’t even ever said it out loud.

I’ve only talked to a few people about being abused.

I’ve talked about what I endured.

But I had never made the statement… I was abused.

That second one brings tears. It brings sorrow and hurt and betrayal.

But also I feel undeserving of the title.

I wasn’t sexually harmed. I wasn’t beaten or neglected or had my bones broken. I have no visible, physical scars.

But there really is no other word to describe what I went through for well over half of my life.

Those people. Those people deserve that title. They have earned it, I don’t feel that I have.

Words.

Words hurt me.

They drew blood.

They changed me.

For most of my life, I was mentally, emotionally, psychologically abused.

It isn’t any easier to write it a third time.

I could fill pages with what I had to listen to throughout my life.

The yelling.

But, really, it wasn’t the yelling that was the most damaging. It was the truths that were mixed in with lies, which then made the lies believable.

I have filled pages actually, I pray there will come a day that I am brave enough to share them.

I know there are others out there who have been through the same.

It is not uncommon.

I think, for me, what hurts the worst, is wondering who I would be if my abuser never entered my life.

Or if my abuser never abused and was simply a loving, giving, person in my life.

I would like to say that I mourn that ‘other me’ but I actually don’t.

God has been good, even through the darkness.

There was always light.

I am who I am because of God.

I pray daily that He uses me to help other victims and survivors to see their worth, to break free from their own abuse, and to live.

Would I have spent so much time learning about abuse?

Would I have minded my own business and just let others deal with the hurting?

Would I be a selfish minded, entitled person, completely oblivious to the darkness of abuse?

I don’t need to answer those questions. That was never God’s will for me and I have found contentment with that.

He did bring me through abuse and now has given me the opportunity to use the evil that was done to me, for good.

November 6, 2026 is a date to look forward to.

Every HAVEN Conference so far has left me lighter, reassured, and strengthened.

To sit in an auditorium with many other survivors, advocates, and believers who desire to learn, grow, and help is incredible.

To listen to the speakers, most of whom, if given the choice, would have rather not become experts in such a cold, dark sin, speak from the heart about their experiences, their wisdom, and their understanding, is strengthening.

To hear their words, this year about trauma, will be oh, so reassuring.

God is there.

He is there in that auditorium blessing the words, the work, the people.

He is holding my hand, He is lifting me up, He is giving me peace and safety amongst friends.

The long term effects of abuse are often overlooked or forgotten.

Many see abuse and see the short term effects of it and there is sorrow and a desire to help and learn and comfort.

But after time, after the bruises heal, or the other abuses stop.

After disclosure and counseling, many victims start to look ‘normal’.

Many victims, unless you knew of their abuse beforehand, could fit into a crowd and establish new relationships with no one the wiser.

The thing is, at least for me, and I know for many (and quite possibly all) other survivors, the effects continue.

Some are physical, some are mental. Some can be seen and some are hidden in the depths of our being.

“Walking on eggshells” is a phrase most of you know.

With victims, this feeling doesn’t stop when their abuser is removed from their life.

Oh, absolutely, there are many days without fear—praise God!

But all it takes is a chance encounter, or a text, or even a comment made by an acquaintance that is unaware of your history.

Or maybe a comment speaking positively of your abuser and their good attributes.

Suddenly, we are thrown back into that oppressive darkness.

For a few days, or even weeks, we become hyper-vigilant.

Checking the entire store's parking lot for their vehicle before we dare go in.

An inability to go to functions that our abuser might go to, or, at the very least, the need to have two or even three friends along for security.

Every text, every ring, every vibration of the phone sends our heart rate up - is it them?

Yes, they could be blocked, but given the misunderstanding of abuse, all it takes is our abuser to start telling all who will hear that we are bitter and hateful and holding on to anger, not willing to talk to them, and we, quite suddenly, become the aggressor.

The comments that declare good things about our abuser are painful.

Yes, absolutely, we all desire God’s work of repentance in them.

We all desire to see true, heartfelt good works come from their hands.

But, at least for me, full disclosure hasn’t been possible yet.

It’s terrifying.

So, to hear about how wonderful the abuser is, shakes the foundation of where I stand.

Was it abuse?
Am I exaggerating everything that happened in my own head?
Am I the aggressor?
Maybe they have changed!
Maybe they have realized their sin. Should I invite them back in and let them have another chance?

These thoughts will spiral for days—concentration is hard, face to face communication is hard, my mind constantly goes back to the abuse, to events, to words.

So to sit in the here and now and have a conversation is exhausting—it takes so much concentration and effort to remain focused on what is right in front of me.

Another constant struggle is friendships. It should be straightforward, right?

It’s not.

After having been demeaned for years: being told your friends are only there out of pity, or they are only there because you have something to offer: a car, or a place to hang out, or maybe money, or being told they keep you as a ‘charity case’ to make others think they are nice because they hang out with you, it is incredibly hard to make a deep connection.

It is constant:

Why do they want to hang out with me?
Why do they want to talk to me?
What do I have that they want?
Who told them to come talk to me?
What’s wrong with them that they have no one else but to come talk to me?
Are they taking pity on me or do they actually want to spend time with me?

And then, maybe a friendship has begun, but the questions and worries don't stop.

Am I talking too much?
Am I talking too little?
Do I act needy?
Am I too loud?
Did I ask too many questions?
Did I talk too much about myself?
Did I talk too highly of my kids accomplishments?
Do I sound like I am bragging?
Are they actually a friend?
The questions are endless and cycle around and around.

And all stem from the fear of pushing this friend away.

This friend, who probably really doesn’t want to be spending time with me anyway.

It feels like walking a tightrope.

Closely connected to friendships is trust.

When someone so close to you, so ingrained in your life, abuses you, it destroys any trust you had, not only in that person but in everyone.

Those friendships that you already struggle with, become that much harder when you don’t trust.

There’s a constant tug-a-war—you want to do what you can to keep and build a relationship, but you also want to push them away because you can’t trust them with who you really are.

Your innermost thoughts, struggles, and history can not be trusted to just anyone.

There is constant doubt. I want to trust them, but what will they do with that trust?

I trusted my abuser and they used it against me.

I trusted my abuser and they told my embarrassments, my low moments, and outright lies about me to their own friends.

One that I trusted with who I am, used it as a weapon against me.

How do you trust anyone, when you’ve been betrayed by one for whom trust should be assumed?

I think I can say that the hardest effect of my abuse is that I have yet to gain trust in my own perceptions, thoughts and motives.

When I thought someone was friendly, my abuser said it was pity.

When I was in incredible pain, my abuser said it was nothing.

I was a wimp.

Everyone had that kind of pain and didn’t complain like I did.

When I thought I had a flattering outfit on, my abuser said I looked like a stuffed sausage.

When I put makeup on, my abuser said I looked like a clown.

When I cried when a cousin died or an infant in my church died, my abuser said they were fake tears because I wanted attention.

When help was needed and I volunteered to help, my abuser said I was trying to make myself look good and seeking attention.

When I was sick, my abuser said I was a wimp, faking it and making the symptoms seem worse than they were.

I was consistently, almost constantly, being told that my reality wasn’t real.

My abuser was the one who claimed to be truthful, to have my best interests at heart.

Who cared so much for me they were the only one who would be brutally honest with me.

What I thought wasn’t right.

What I saw wasn’t real.

What I felt was inaccurate.

Today, I constantly ask others if I am actually sick or if it’s ‘normal sick’.

When I broke a bone, I’d make the statement that it hurt, but then would ask: is that normal?

I struggle with sorrow and tears.

When they start to fall, I feel like I’m faking and pushing tears out.

When a distant family member died, I didn’t know if I should go to the funeral or not because I didn’t want people to think I was trying to integrate myself into the family's pain and sorrow.

I will help anyone with anything, but if helping means that my name needs to be published, it’s an almost immediate “no”.

I know my motivation is to help, but there’s a little voice in my mind that questions if I am doing it for attention.

Even writing this article is hard.

No, not the literal writing of my thoughts and experiences, but the thought of sharing it.

Of others reading it.

The loud voice in my head is saying ‘everyone has someone in their lives like this. Your thoughts and experiences are nothing special. You simply can’t handle the truth that was told to you.’

That voice is loud.

I want to listen when it says I can’t trust others to read this and tell me the truth—that it’s bad writing, and no different than the experience of the rest of the world.

I may not have trust.

But I do have HOPE.

I have hope that even if only one person is helped by this, that is enough.

There are so many more effects of abuse.

I can’t begin to list all of my own, let alone all of the effects that others experience that I do not.

Many effects of my abuse are life-long, but praise be to our loving, heavenly Father. He not only upheld me through all those years of abuse, but continues to work in me healing and growth.

Unbelievers like to claim that our “invisible man in the sky” must be uncaring to allow evil to happen.

We know differently.

God didn’t leave me through that time.

To say that God doesn’t exist would make my abuse absolutely pointless and would lead me straight to depression.

There would be no reason for it.

But my God promises that “all things work together for good.”

I am a testimony of this promise.

Abuse shaped me—yes, there are a lot of bad effects to overcome, but it also forced me to grow in my faith and trust in God.

It gave me a desire to comfort and help others escape the agony of abuse.

It gave me a drive to help bring learning to those who were ignorant.

It gave me patience, empathy, and humility that I may have gone without.

I pray that my great, good God uses this post to work comfort and assurance in other victims and survivors.

You are not alone.

Not only are there others out there who understand or have lived through what you are going through, but you have a God that promises that he will ‘never leave you or forsake you’ even when it seems like others do.