My pastor sat in his chair and steepled his fingers as he listened to my confession. When I finished, he asked me, “Did you enter this relationship with your consent?”
I thought about my constant stream of nos, the boundaries pushed and prodded over and over, the desecration in my most vulnerable moment. I thought about what Jana, my therapist, had taught me about premeditation, and how Annie, my abuser, knew what she was doing far before I knew what she was doing. I thought about the numbness after the assaults, the disorientation, the bone-deep weariness, and the feeling like I had nowhere else I could go and nothing else I could do.
No, I did not consent to this.
“Did she ask you to keep secrets that would have destroyed her family and her career?”
I thought about the night I made her leave, about “If you tell anyone, I’m toast.” I thought of what Jana had taught me about the dark secrets and inside information, about how Annie had trapped me in a web of intercession and secret keeping.
Yes, the information she’d asked me to hold would have been destructive.
Did you have a choice?”
I thought of how Annie had manipulated my intuition, teaching me that my instincts weren’t voices to trust in my decision making. I thought of how she twisted Scripture to her advantage, making me wonder if maybe I had been taught the wrong truth about so many things. I thought of how she told me this intimacy was the way of the church, that the only real choice was to obey—or not to obey—the laws of love. I thought about what Jana had taught me about undue influence, about coercive control, about the effects of sedatives and sleep aids. I thought about how I had learned that accountability becomes complicity only when you have all the information.
No, I did not have a choice.
He asked other questions about consent, about power imbalances, and about timing. He listened, he was quiet, and he thought.
Then he said, “Tricia, an affair is a mutual agreement, not a power play with only one person in charge. She knew what she was doing, long before you knew. That’s what a predator does. This was patient and premeditated and calculated. She waited for her moment, and I’m sorry to say, but with the death of your husband, she was handed a perfect storm.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eye contact intentional. He said, “It stops today, Tricia. You are safe now.”
I remember crying at the relief of those words.
He said, “Today, you will send an email to her, severing all contact. She may not contact you in any way, through any avenue. Copy me on that email, and she will know you are no longer alone in this. If you hear another word from her—ever, in any way—then you and I together will contact her employer and report this abuse.”
I followed his instructions that day. That was the last time I talked to Annie.
He showed me the way out, actual steps to take to break the chains she had on my life. I think back on it often, the day he said, “It stops today, Tricia. You are safe now.”
The strangest thing happened when I brought my shame into the open. I didn’t die. I actually began to heal.
Jana
I would have been remiss as her therapist not to ask those questions, and we had had those direct conversations. But when it came to the hard questions of her culpability, particularly in light of her spiritual context, she wanted a second opinion. Everyone is always entitled to one.
When Tricia’s pastor confirmed that she had been the victim of abuse, the target of a predator, I do believe she believed me for the first time. She began to see the truth: All along, she had been a butterfly caught in the web of a black widow.
When Tricia went to her pastor, he got an essential piece right that too many get wrong: He did not victim blame. Let’s talk about this.
Victim blaming is the practice of questioning what the victim could have done differently to prevent a crime or offense from happening. It implies that the fault of the crime lies with the victim, rather than the perpetrator. Victim blaming is sometimes more subtle than overt, and people may lean toward blaming the victim without even realizing they are doing it.
Questions like What were you wearing? or Why were you alone with them? are examples of blaming the victim. Statements like You should have been more careful or That would never have happened if you had left immediately are examples of blaming the victim.
A person shouldn’t have to “be more careful” or “leave immediately” in order to stay safe from the harmful choices of another person.
When abuse occurs, it is the perpetrator’s fault.
It is never the fault of the victim.
Being the target of a perpetrator’s manipulation and abuse is traumatic in itself, but being blamed for the perpetrator’s actions, even subtly or unconsciously, may lead a victim to feel as if they are under attack once again. The risk of victim blaming is the reason a lot of people live in their shame for far too long as it cycles into further depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress.
Tricia’s pastor did not victim blame.
He clarified who was at fault, and he helped Tricia cut off contact so that her abuser would be dissuaded from reengaging. He partnered with her to guarantee her safety.
Tricia Lott Williford is a writer, blogger, teacher, and co-host of the podcast Let’s Talk Soon with her brother Rob. A prolific writer and ghostwriter, Tricia is the author of many books. She lives in Colorado with her family. Connect with her and follow her writing at https://www.tricialottwilliford.com/.
Jana Richardson, MA, LPC, and trained in EMDR, is a seasoned therapist with decades of expertise in counseling victims of trauma, grief, and addiction. Jana has presented internationally as a mental health educator with an emphasis in oncology. Jana lives in Colorado with her family.
Taken from You Are Safe Now: A Survivor’s Guide to Listening to Your Gut, Healing from Abuse, and Living in Freedom by Tricia Lott Williford and Jana Richardson, MA, LPC © 2024. Used by permission of NavPress. All rights reserved. Represented by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.