The Nitty Gritty (1.27.18)
The information contained in this article is for mature audiences. You have to figure out for yourself what that note of caution means. I was sexually abused by my father at age 8. I was a child. The topic and experience of sex was forced onto me against my will when I was in the 3rd grade. I didn’t have a choice as to whether or not I wanted to learn and experience this foreign topic. My intention through this writing is to heal myself and to help others. These are the Nitty Gritty details of what sexual abuse looks and feels like. I’m not an expert. This is my experience.
I knew that I would write a book about my sexual abuse one day. Back in the late-90’s, B.K. (Before Kids), I played around with the title Thriving Past the Trauma of Incest. No, that didn’t sound catchy. I liked the attitude of thriving rather than surviving, so that felt good. Fast forward, three daughters later, in 2008, I became Mommy Moo Moo. I thought, how the hell am I going to manage being a voice for children’s stories with this shit in the background? Note that I did not say closet. I also thought, what if I become a national name brand and then someone from my past that I disclosed this information to during my healing journey called the National Inquirer and said in a raspy voice, “Hey, have I got some information for you about that Mommy Moo Moo.”
Well, the cat, or the pussy, speaking in today’s vernacular, is out of the bag. The pussy came out 2 years ago tomorrow. I was led to share my story with the general public on my Musings page through dreams, songs, and my spirit pushing me forward with this task. I felt relieved to let the pussy out of the bag, but the relief has not been as significant as I would like it to be. I’ve talked before about how I’m a healaholic over this sexual abuse crap. I acknowledge, I release, I pray, I visualize, etc., etc.
My husband and I saw Spotlight on our date night when it came out in 2015. For me, this movie about priests sexually abusing young boys and the Catholic Church turning a blind eye to this epidemic, was powerful and inspirational. I was touched by how these journalists became the nagging voice asking questions and digging to find the truth. I’ll never forget Rachel McAdams’s character knocking on the door of one of the male victim’s homes and asking, “Did so and so do such and such to you?” The guy said, “Yes. I don’t want to talk about it.” and tried to close the door. She quickly fired back and said, “Well, people need to hear the details.” I thought to myself, “God, people are disgusting.” But now I realize that people need to be hit over the head with a 2×4 in order to wake up and smell the coffee. People need to read details in order to believe the person’s story. How fucked up is that? Well, we’ve got people like Trump who lie all of the time, therefore it’s challenging to figure out the truth from the bullshit. Throw in information overload from this digital era and people become numb the majority of the time.
This past year I thought, okay, I’ll write the book, eventually, and sell it as an ebook for 99 cents. That way the story will only go to the people that need to read it and I will make a little cash off of this pain and suffering. Trust me, I really prefer to create magnificent children’s board books than go down that road, but it seems to be a nagging message in my head.
Well, I was getting ready to receive a massage this past week, shared whatever was on my mind with the massage therapist, and then headed to the restroom to empty my bladder. As soon as I got in the hallway, I heard “Nitty Gritty.” Apparently, whatever I had shared with my massage therapist was related to that piece of information and this title rang out loud and clear in my entire being. “Nitty Gritty.” “Well,” I thought, “it’s catchy and it certainly cuts to the chase.” I also received the information that I am to share the details of my sexual abuse in the Mommy Moo Moo’s Musings so that it can help other people. Yay. As if my Musings articles aren’t already heavily loaded with “Healing Sexual Trauma” articles. And, I also sensed, “Debbie, let go of the financial incentive.” “Seriously? Okay. Done.” I got my marching orders, so here we go. Let the fun begin.