THE SCREAM

"Stop judging by appearances, but judge justly.” John 7:24

Each week I had a lesson to teach I would pour over the readings, the suggested activities and prayers and then sit back and think, "If I were sixteen again and they were teaching me this, what was going on in my life that would have helped me to hear the lesson?"

John changed things up, too, bringing a bit more creativity into teaching. After a few Sundays our class got bigger. Kids were bringing their friends.

Teaching the CCE class was something I looked forward to and it didn't take long before Theresa approached me to help with the high school youth activities and retreats. In many ways I was a teenager again, getting a chance to rewrite history and this time I was the one with the courage to lead the others in the right path. I saw the spirit of each and every kid, regardless of their background, their social status, or perceived intelligence. Their spirit is what gripped me and I wanted them to recognize their worth.

My spirit burned with a passion I had never felt before. If I could do anything to help these kids I was going to do it. At home I spoke incessantly about the kids, their issues, and the lessons I learned along with them.

Neal supported my work with the teens but he didn't get what fueled my passion. When I tried to get us involved at church with adult bible groups or small circles he would come along but it was a fight every step of the way. I was desperate for us to be on the same page spiritually, to come along with me on this journey but he felt what I was doing was more of a hobby and one that didn't need to include him.

A slow but deliberate hairline crack formed between us. This added to the layered issues of sexual intimacy and petty disagreements.

Instead of a kiss hello when Neal walked in the door an argument would ensue. “Why is it so important to go to the Jones’ for dinner tonight? We don’t know them.”

“Yes we do. They sit next to us every Sunday. Quit acting like it’s the end of the world. It’s a spiritual dinner club.”

“Yeah with people we don’t know. This is not what I wanted to do on a Friday night.”

“But what about what I want to do? We always hang out with your friends. Why can’t we make friends together?” Animosity and frustration boiled in my blood. My voice rose octaves higher than needed for a simple argument.

It could be a different circumstance but the fight would remain the same. Neal would storm back into the room where I was or at times we’d be nose to nose neither backing down. “We always hang out with my friends? Always? What about the Bible study you drag me to? Or the stupid pot luck dinners? And God-forbid we try to get out of Mass at a decent time. You have to stay and talk to everyone on your wait out.”

I couldn’t fathom why he’d be adverse to events that were meant to bring us together. It felt the more I tried to encourage a spiritual connection between us the further it drifted us apart.

God had a hold of my heart and though I knew I needed to bring Neal into the fold with us I still held onto pride. It was easier to add a layer to the wall between us and focus my efforts on Ryan.

Ryan’s destructive and aggressive behaviors grew more intense with each month. A special on Autism aired on the morning news and I couldn’t help but correlate it to Ryan on all fours rocking and humming when he was upset, or when he banged his head on the back of the couch.

“Neal I want to check out that Autism school that’s near us. Before we put him in the pre-K 3 classes.”

He threw his hands in the air."There is nothing wrong with Ryan. He is a boy. That's all. When are you going to let this go?"

I’m not wrong. Neal’s lack of support for my mother’s instinct left me lonely and frustrated. And it was my instinct alone. A few months earlier I managed to convince the pediatrician to get us into a specialized clinic at Texas Children’s Hospital to do an evaluation on Ryan. The pediatricians at Texas Children's Hospital witnessed Ryan in the midst of a meltdown, a tantrum so intense it sent him underneath the table rocking on all fours and humming because he didn't want to put the blocks in the order the doctors asked.

Normally my blood temperature would rise and I’d be embarrassed by the behavior but I rejoiced in the action. Thank you God! They see him at his worse and they will help us.

A week later we received a letter that explained he was a normal, hyperactive little boy who had a mother possibly suffering from postpartum depression.

I’m not depressed. My heart sunk. Why won’t anyone believe me and help Ryan?

I didn’t want to find something wrong with Ryan. I wanted to figure out if there was something we could do for him. He was three and almost ostracized socially. I didn't want him to continue through life one step behind because no one fought for him. Being shunned and classified as 'different' was not a future I wanted for my son.

"Let me take him for at least a few weeks." I pleaded my case. "Let's give it a chance. If it is clear to me he isn't autistic then I'll take him out."

Neal left the room resigned. “Do what you want.”

The first visit was more of a consultation, a trial meeting to see if Ryan fit the criteria to be in the school. At three years old he had an exemplary vocabulary but couldn't look anyone in the eye. He rocked on all fours, hummed, and beat his head against the wall. The fact that he could communicate with words set him apart from the usual autistic spectrum but the rest of his behaviors were near textbook.

Mrs. Ford smiled as Ryan ran outside in the playground area. "It is clear to me Ryan isn't autistic." Ryan hid in the belly of a cement tube that served as a tunnel for an obstacle course. "His speech is exceptional and I can see many ways in which he is trying to communicate but doesn't have the right words."

My heart rose and fell in one swift moment. Grateful Ryan wasn't going to spend his life struggling with the label of autism yet defeated because that meant everyone else was right. It was me. I was Ryan's problem.

"Now," she continued, "I wouldn't be surprised if he had Asperger’s syndrome, which is on the same spectrum as autism but they are high functioning and often brilliant kids. Their issues are more on social and sensory integration."

Suspended in uncertainty I looked over at the mouth of the cement tube searching for signs of Ryan emerging into the real world. "So what do I do?"

"I'd love to have him come a few days a week with some of our older students. His vocabulary and communication skills are so good I think he could help the other kids, plus we can work on the sensory issues."

Desperate, I took her up on the offer and enrolled Ryan for two days a week. We didn't have the money but that didn't matter. I owed him everything.

One afternoon I went to pick Ryan up from his new school. A little five-year-old boy waited to be picked up as well. He wouldn't look at me or talk to me when the teacher tried to introduce us. Instead he held his hands up to his face, fingers spread apart and clapped. Ryan saw this as a behavior to imitate. I gently took his hand and walked him out to the car. When we got to the car he froze like a statue and refused to bend a limb to get into the backseat. He already weighed at least 50lbs which felt even heavier when I picked him up because of the resistance. Once in the backseat in a glass shattering, high pitched tone he screamed.

Seth, who was asleep in his carrier, woke and wailed in unison. Sweat trickled down my face and from my armpits as I did everything I could to get him to bend his body and sit in the car seat. For five minutes Ryan's arms were plastered to his side and his scream sucked the oxygen from the air.

Defeated I crawled out of the back seat, slammed the car door, and fell against it unable to stand up because the sobs stole my strength.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I heard the teacher ask from the doorway of the school. I looked up and saw her standing there with the little boy at her side.

I shook my head. "No." I managed. "He'll stop in a minute." But I wasn't certain he would. I took a deep breath and opened the back door.

Leaning all the way inside without physically climbing in I yelled above his scream. "Ryan if you'll let me buckle you in I'll get you a new train!”.

A whoosh of air filled the car with silence. Ryan cooperated and relaxed. Even Seth's cry turned to a feeble whimper.

With trembling fingers I buckled him in and managed to get behind the wheel without losing the last thread of patience that kept me from insanity. It was a short ten-minute ride home but both boys were asleep when I pulled in the driveway. In a state of rest it was easy to see how delicate and fragile their lives were in my hands. I pulled Seth's carrier out of the car first and placed him in his room, still asleep in the carrier, and went back for Ryan. I leaned in and put my hands underneath Ryan's armpits and hoisted him into my arms without waking him up. I sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the face which resembled my own.

What am I going to do?

That weekend I left the boys alone with Neal for two days while I chaperoned my first youth retreat. Theresa asked if I would give a talk for the retreat and she needed another adult chaperone. More than willing to get a weekend away from my responsibilities as a mom I agreed and prepared for the talk on the gift of the Holy Spirit - right judgment.

For the first time I felt called to speak about the first rape. “I admit I wasn’t an angel when it came to my relationship with Paul. I flirted. I promised things I knew I wouldn’t carry out. I felt it was what he wanted to hear and I was desperate to be loved. I had turned away from the love of God and looked to man to fulfill the void. But,” I paused and walked away from the podium. “That doesn’t give Paul the right to have taken something precious from me when I said no.”

“I did not want what happened that day in his room. Yes I had placed myself there. Yes I had made empty promises. But I said no. And what he took from me that day was not his to take. When I walked away that day I felt I severed the final tie between God and I. That was the enemy speaking to my heart because there is nothing I or you can do to ever make God love me or you less.”

“My judgment was off. I did not respect myself or know the Holy Spirit that was within me. I listened to the enemies lies and believed I was not worthy of God’s love and redemption. There are many actions of mine I would change if I could go back but most importantly I wish I would’ve talked about what happened. But the shame kept me silent.”

All eyes were on me. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I felt the spirit within me rise. “Had I spoken and admitted to someone what happened despite the decisions I made to put myself in that situation, I know I would’ve received the help I needed. Instead I chose to listen to the lies of the enemy and continued to walk down the dark path of self-destruction.”

Girls wiped tears away. Boys bent their heads unable to look at me. “The gift I have now is that today is a new day. I am renewed in Christ. I am learning to use the gift of right judgment to follow God's will daily. Trust the gifts of the Spirit that is within them to hear God's voice and make the right choices.”

I delivered the talk on the first morning and throughout the day the kids came up to me and thanked me for what I'd said. With every hint of praise I got flustered and brushed it off. "It's not me, it's God."

I didn't want to receive praise because I didn’t feel worthy of receiving such praise for offering the truth of my bad decisions. I believed everything I said to the teens but knew I was still a work in progress accepting it for myself.

Victoria, a teen we’d hired to babysit the boys from time to time, came up and gave me a hug. “Can I talk to you alone?” There were rules in place through the church where no adult could be alone with a child unless they were in a room with other adults and could be seen. Considering what I'd been through in my past I was happy the church had such rules in place. We walked over to a corner of the meeting hall and sat down on the carpet.

"You said something in your talk that really got to me today.” She was a striking young woman with dark brown hair that fell like satin to her waist with wide eyes that matched the same deep, rich brown of her hair. She was one of the girls that came into CCE with an entourage of girls around her. She was never alone. Often she'd come wearing her volleyball uniform having come from a game or practice but she rarely missed a class.

She was the same type of girl I wanted to be when I was her age. Cool and confident. The fact I reached her through the talk made me sit up a bit. "Really?"

Victoria looked down and nodded. "You said you believe you could have saved yourself from a lot of bad stuff if you had only talked about what happened to you?"

She needed me to expand. "I know I can't go back."

She looked away again and kept busy picking at the threads of carpet.

“But I think about how I behaved after I was raped. I felt like I wasn't worth anything so I acted that way too."

Big sorrowful eyes looked up at me.

"I can't help but think if I had said something to someone and maybe gotten help that I wouldn't have made some of the bad decisions that caused even more hurt in my life."

Victoria nodded again and picked at the carpet.

It was clear she had something she wanted to share. I empathized with how hard talking about whatever it was that troubled her could be. God please give me the right words to say. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

She nodded. We sat like that with my back against the wall staring at her bent head as she picked the threads of worn carpet for what felt like many minutes. "What if you aren't sure about something? Like, what if you don't know if something is bad or not?"

Deep inside it was clear to me this young girl hurt in ways which affected her deeply. I felt like we were balancing our way along a tightrope and with one swift move we'd both come tumbling down. "Well, I guess the first question to ask yourself is how does whatever 'it' is make you feel? If it makes you feel shame or uncomfortable or even angry or hurt then whether it's considered right or wrong it is still important to talk about it."

Again she nodded. We balanced through another stretch of silence when she finally looked up again. "Thanks, Shannon. I guess I need to think about some things." She got up off the floor and went to join a circle of giggling girls.

My heart pounded. What is she not telling me?

The following week I made a point to talk to Ryan's teacher about the habits he picked up from the other children with more severe cases of autism. "He is doing so well," the teacher responded to my concern. "His presence here has been great for the other kids because he vocalizes perfectly. I know they have their habits and I'm sure Ryan is picking up on those but give him some time, I really think we are making progress."

Anxiety festered all day and I couldn't get my mind off Ryan and what was best for him, or Victoria and what it was she wanted to divulge. Both children suffered silently and in both cases I felt powerless to help.

Again Ryan let out a scream that would make any horror film producer proud and again I fought, forced, and pleaded for him to get in his car seat for the ride home. And the new behaviors made their way home.

Ryan sat at the dinner table, screamed and with his fingers wide clapped his hands. He didn’t want to eat his peas.

"That's it." Neal through his napkin on the table. "I've had it with this school. He didn't do that before he went in. We're taking him out." He said with a finality I knew not to argue. I wasn't sure I wanted to argue at this point. Neal was right. Ryan wasn't autistic. It was time to face the truth - the problem was me.

In desperate need of a night out Neal and I got a babysitter which lent for a great excuse to have Victoria come over. She'd begged to babysit the boys and I figured maybe it was also because she wanted more of a chance to talk. Victoria came by an hour before her time to babysit. I was dressed and ready to go for the evening and getting the boys fed and ready for bed when Neal let her in. He excused himself to take a shower which left us time to talk.

"I brought some pictures of my birthday party we had last weekend. Do you want to see?”

“Sure.” I stopped what I was doing and took the pictures. The first was of Victoria with a man who didn't look old enough to be her father but not young enough to be a brother either. They sat next to one another on a bench. "Who is that?"

“That's my volleyball trainer.” She reached down to take the picture away. She pointed out her brothers, her mom and dad, and in every picture she was in, the trainer was next to her or close by.

A weird feeling invaded the pit of my stomach. I didn't want to jump to conclusions but it seemed odd that her sports trainer would be so close in all of the pictures. "How long has that guy been your trainer?"

She fiddled with the pictures and put them in her backpack. "Um, I guess it's been since I was nine, I think." A flicker of sadness made her eyes dull and face fall. "Yeah, it's been about five years. We do everything together. My mom even lets me go to tournaments with him."

My pulse quickened. "You mean tournaments you have to stay overnight somewhere?" She looked away and nodded.

The air in the room was stale. It was as if I could feel God stopping time so that we could have this conversation. "Would you stay in the same room with him?"

She kept her eyes down. "Yeah but you know, I slept in a separate bed. He does everything with us. My parents love him."

"Is he married?"

She looked up then and I could see we had reached a point of the end of the conversation. "He was but they've been divorced for awhile. So where are you going tonight?"

Months passed that felt like a continual recurrence of the day before. We took Ryan out of the autism school and enrolled him in Pre-K 3 classes at the Catholic school. Intellectually he surpassed the other kids but socially he received 'reds' and 'warnings' every day. I exhausted efforts trying to come up with incentives for him, behavior charts with 'Way to Go!' and 'You Rock!' stickers for the days he came home with a 'green' which meant no warning and stars for the days he managed a 'yellow'. If he received so many for the week then we got to go to the McDonald's playground that weekend.

Little did Ryan know taking the kids to the indoor playground was more of a reward for me. Seth was a one-year-old with places to go. He had the same energy and curiosity as Ryan without the unexplained tantrums. He had a smile on his face from the moment he woke up to the moment he fell asleep. If he got upset he let you know but he was easily pacified.

Summer edged closer which meant the CCE classes and youth retreats and activities were coming to an end. The teens did mission trips and conferences during the summer but I knew it would require more time than what Neal was willing to give.

Victoria babysat more often which gave Neal and I time to get out of the house and mingle with friends which helped us reconnect but the evenings often led to bickering and arguing. The highs and lows of our marriage were exhausting; there were many days my future looked bleak enough that with idle time thoughts crept in of what my life would be like as someone else crept in. I envied everyone around me who appeared to be better off financially, with husbands who had high profile jobs and the newer homes in a decent neighborhood.

I had girlfriends but I couldn't explain what I felt to them because I didn't want them to think of me as a jealous, envious, or an ungrateful person. I didn't want them to know we struggled to keep up. I was ashamed which led me to feel even more ashamed.

The only source of worth I felt inside were the moments I worked with the teens. I embraced the truth of God and felt empowered when I shared this with the girls who talked with me about their issues. One of the teens couldn't stop 'cutting' to release anger, and I was able to find a way to bring the issue of the anger to surface and orchestrate her willingness to talk to her mother and receive professional counseling. The high from this achievement of getting her to talk was like no other I'd felt, and I wanted to do more. I was addicted to the passion to bring others to Christ. The reward surpassed anything I could receive physically or publicly.

In May Victoria graduated and invited me to her graduation party. I was honored to be invited, and I knew her trainer would be there. I wanted to witness the dynamic between the two. I don't know what I expected to see because the party was like any other typical graduation barbecue. Her parents were inviting and friendly, her siblings interesting to talk to, and her trainer had as much right to be there as I did. I left chiding myself for passing judgment on my part.

A week later Victoria came by unexpectedly.

"I have pictures from prom and graduation I thought you'd like to see?"

Perfect timing. Seth and Ryan were down for a nap and I was folding laundry. "Absolutely." I waved her to the couch to sit. "You want something to drink? Water? A Coke?"

"I'm good, thanks."

I sat down next to her and flipped through the photo album. It didn't take long to see that her trainer was also present for the prom pictures. An uneasy feeling swirled in my stomach. "Your trainer sure does do a lot with your family.”

She sat back, rigid. "Yeah, to be honest I wish he didn’t."

The next photo was of Victoria in her red, floor length sequined prom dress and her trainer with his arm around her waist. He smiled brightly. She grimaced.

I put the album down. "Why is it I don't get a good vibe when I see these pictures of you with your trainer?"

Her eyes bulged and she shifted positions. "Um, I don't know.”

"It's just," I continued with caution, trying to find the right words. "Let me see...it's that he is so much older, he is divorced, and yet he is always around you."

She didn't blink, her eyes still as wide as half dollars.

"Doesn't he train other girls? Is he hanging around them like this?"

She shrugged and finally looked away.

Silence filled the air for an excruciating few minutes. Somehow I knew if I remained still and quiet more would be revealed.

The couch pillow that was wedged in her lap became her focal point. "Remember at the retreat I asked you how do you know," her voice shook, "if something is bad or not?"

"Yes.”

"Well, I think I know I just don't know what to do about it."

"Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head and pressed her face into the pillow. She shuddered and lifted her head. "That's the problem. It's complicated."

"Okay then tell me what you think is bad.”

She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. "I can't believe I'm telling you this." She looked up as if to God to ask permission. "I don't even know if it's any big deal."

I sat silent, afraid if I breathed too loud or even blinked the moment for her to break free would pass.

"He has trained me since I was nine-years-old. When I was eleven my mom sent me to tournaments with him and we would stay in the same room. He was like an uncle or something; I really didn't think anything of it. We stayed in the same bed and he never touched me or did anything to me."

The uneasiness in my stomach boiled as I listened.

"By the time I was in eighth grade I was thirteen and he was so much a part of our family that going away to tournaments was what we did. My mom would even come with us sometimes and stay in the same room. He would get two double beds then, and mom and I would share a bed."

She paused and picked at a loose thread on the pillow. Her face fell deeper into a grimace. "But when she wasn't with us he got closer. At first he wanted to cuddle and then he kissed me. I was shocked and scared.” She looked away. “But that's all he did. He said he loved me and always wanted to protect me. As I got older more stuff happened, but he made it seem so natural, almost like we were going out or something."

Natural? I fumed inside and put my hand over my mouth because I didn't trust what might slip out.

"It's been like that ever since. It was weird at first. That's why I never dated. I felt like it would upset him. My first date was for prom.” She sat back and sighed.

Lord, please give me the words to speak. "You know that's not normal, though, right? I mean, you know whatever it is you guys did that was like a 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' wasn’t okay for him to do? He had no right to put you in that position."

She kept her head leaned against the back of the couch but turned her face so she could see me. "That's where I get confused."

"No man has the right to touch, snuggle, cuddle, kiss, or whatever else with a child.”

"But I was thirteen before he even started the cuddling. It didn’t feel bad.”

The urge to scream was so strong I had to physically swallow it back. "You were a thirteen-year-old child who was put in a compromising position."

She doubled over and the years of confusion, shame, frustration, anger and stolen innocence rushed forth like a tsunami. I reached over and put a hand on her back to reassure her. I resisted the natural instinct to hug her because I knew that in this situation physical contact was not always welcomed.

"I don't think he is a bad person!"

"It's okay. You’re not to blame. Do you understand? I know you have feelings for him, how couldn't you? You spent most of your life with him. Something went haywire in his head and instead of being your father figure he looked at you to give him the affection he needed. It is a sickness."

She looked up at me then, her emerald eyes were now a deep jade. "He treated me like I was his girlfriend. He got so mad when I told him I was going to prom,” her face puckered with distaste, “like I was betraying him.”

"None of this is right. Trust me.” I put a comforting hand on her arm. “You need to talk to someone who can help you. Have you told your mom?"

A slight snarl escaped her lips.

I was shocked.

"Honestly I feel like my mom practically pushed us together." She broke into a torturous sob filled with anger. "Every time I tried to tell her I didn't feel comfortable going with him anymore she insisted anyway. One time when I was fourteen I tried to tell her about the kissing and she got mad at me! She told me I needed to quit pushing myself on him. That if he did anything else it was my fault because I was asking for it."

A flashback of my grandfather saying the same thing about my mother and sister nearly sent me over the edge. I leaned in to grab her hand. "Victoria, this stops now. You will not stay with him anymore, right?"

She nodded.

"Do you want me to talk to your parents? Maybe I could talk to your dad?"

She shook her head. "Dad is clueless. He has so much going on at work and my mom is always talking about my trainer like he is a god or something."

"What about counseling? If you asked your mom about getting counseling would she ask why?"

"I don't know. Maybe?"

"You need to talk to someone about all of this.”

"But I told you and I feel so much better!"

I squeezed her hand. "And I'm glad you did, but I'm not a counselor and if there is one thing I know it is that when you've been through what you've been through, you need to be able to talk to someone in detail. Someone who is a professional and can guide you correctly."

"Well, I leave for college in two months. Maybe I could get counseling at school?"

Now what? What if she wouldn’t tell anyone else? What do I do legally? She wasn’t a minor anymore so I knew I couldn’t go without her permission to the authorities or her parents. I certainly didn’t want to lose her trust and stop talking to me. I knew she needed someone to confide in. I knew I needed someone when I was her age. "I'm glad you told me. Thank you for trusting me."

It was edifying to help Victoria recognize she was in an unhealthy situation and see her change from a young girl who was bent in knots of insecurity to a young woman with the knowledge that she deserved more than to be forced into the relationship.

She convinced her parents she wanted to leave for college early so she could do some courses in summer school which meant she had the resources to receive the counseling she needed.

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