Statistics

The auditorium was dark except for the plum purple lights lining the walls. The speaker was on break, and we were supposed to have ten minutes of freedom before being herded back down the halls like sheep. I noticed groups of students making their way to the halls despite the lack of overhead light. A young man’s voice came through the speakers: “Our apologies for the overhead lights. Please remain seated until the problem is resolved.” He sounded so formal, like we weren’t a bunch of college students serving as a captive audience for tonight’s speaker. What was her name? I really struggled with names.

Nearly five minutes later, the overhead lights flickered on, revealing the almost-empty rows of seats. Apparently the announcement was as effective as those “do not eat uncooked” warnings on cookie-dough packages. Evan swung over the seat next to me and plopped down, his aftershave making me wish my nose hadn’t begun working again as of two days ago.

“You feeling any better? Maggie said you actually took Ibuprofen.” It was a known fact that I avoided drugs of all types as if my life depended on it, which I thought it most certainly did.

“Ya, I can smell and taste again. Though I am regretting both since you sat down.” The scent of pine and manly things seemed to coat my mouth. Why did he need to use so much of it? It’s not like there’s much to shave!

“Splendid.” He pulled out his phone, and his thumbs began moving faster than any two thumbs should move. The lights flashed, causing his thumbs to move even faster. For someone who could care less about community nights, he still refused to use his phone while they were in session. The speaker climbed up the stairs. Her hair reminded me of wild straw, though that might have been because the spotlight was illuminating her every step like a search light. The lights people were seriously struggling tonight.

“Childhood abuse is crippling.” She paused, waiting for students to settle into their seats again. “Not only does it cause lasting emotional damage well into adulthood, it also destroys relationships.” I reached for my headphones and sent my pencil pack sliding onto the concrete floor. Evan elbowed me. His eyes completely brown in the dark room glared at me.

“What’s wrong with you!?” His whisper sent more aftershave in my direction. I just nodded towards the stage and tried to untangle my headphones. I’d almost won the battle when the words came, shoving their way into my mind without so much as a knock.

“Did you know that nearly half of all adults who have been abused as children go on to become abusers?”

That night in the auditorium was three years ago, yet those words haunt me. They haunt me in my dreams and when I am awake. But most of all, they haunt me when I feel angry. Most people would say their worst fear is death or loneliness. Maybe they say it is pain or even public speaking. What is my worst fear? It is anger.

I am sure the speaker had a purpose for stating that statistic that night. I just didn’t hear it.

For me, feeling angry means I will turn into my Dad. It means I will hurt those I love–that I will leave them with permanent scars on their bodies and souls. I know that this is not rational. I understand that I am my own person and that I make my own choices, but nothing incites more fear in me when I sense anger within.

About a week ago, my sweet German Shepherd teenager decided to bolt out of the house and go running. It was finals week, and I was exhausted. So when my doggo raced out of the house for her little joy-run, I was MAD. I marched out after her, scolded her in my deepest voice, dragged her back inside by the collar, and then put her in timeout in the corner. This may seem like a rather-typical day for a dog owner, but I spent an hour in my room crying that night. I had felt angry, and I wanted my dog to suffer. That was something my Dad would do.

When I was a child, still in elementary school, I didn’t know any better. When something hurt me or made me mad, I hurt it back. I stepped on a sharp stick? I broke it in half. Paper cut? I tore it up. I accidentally ran into a door? I hit it. The darkness is inside me.

Sometimes, when irrational replaces rational, I wonder what would happen if my students’ parents knew my story. Would they even let their children in my classroom? Would they trust me? Do I trust me? Sometimes I think about my future family. Should I even bring children into my broken world? I could not bear the thought of hurting them.

Statistics hurt. Memories hurt. This world hurts! But, I am not a statistic, and neither are you. There may be nights where I cry out in fear because I feel the darkness stirring inside of me, but I don’t need to fear the darkness. There is a Light inside me that overcomes the darkness. This Light is my hope. Here is the truth: I am not trustworthy, and I do not need to trust myself; I just need to trust Christ. And that, that I can do.

Have I ever hit my dog? No. Will I hit my children? No. How? Because I have something that my Dad did not have. I have a Spirit within me. A Spirit of love and peace, of kindness and gentleness. A Spirit of self-control. I am redeemed.