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Twelve years ago I’d just begun talking about sexual abuse with a counselor. Before I confronted my parents, I resolved to gather as much support from my friends as I could. I scheduled time individually with four or five of my closest pals to talk, and when two of them listened to my story and then told me about the physical and sexual abuse they’d experienced, I was blown away.
It’s not like I didn’t know the statistics. The numbers are whispered by aghast (and yet inordinately interested) talk show hosts or printed in shiny magazines so frequently that they hardly seem real. Twenty-five percent of girls and seventeen percent of boys will be sexually abused by the time they are eighteen. One in four. One in six.
So why should I be surprised that nearly every time I mention sexual abuse, someone discloses to me?
I shouldn’t be surprised, yet whenever I hear a disclosure I am. I’m surprised, and shocked, and horribly saddened when people disclose, especially when the people disclosing are ones I love.
There’s undeniable power in the telling of abuse stories. Each time the story is told, a weight of shame and responsibility is lifted. Eventually it occurs to the teller that there’s no need to feel disgrace or guilt. There isn’t now, and there never was. They did nothing wrong, not in being abused or in talking about the abuse.
I won’t blindly encourage folks who have thus far stayed silent suddenly to start spilling. But maybe they’ll begin thinking about considering even the possibility of someday (someday soon) telling someone.



