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Mary DeMuth
8,676 followers -
I'm the author of over 30 books; I help you live a new story..
I'm the author of over 30 books; I help you live a new story..

8,676 followers
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Hanging out with people who dream up wickedness is NOT a formula for growth or peace.
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Feeling lonely? Like no one is praying for you? Well, I will! Tune in today--just a few minutes. You'll hear a scripture, then a prayer prayed for you.
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Very interesting interviewer!
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This continues to happen.
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Humbled and grateful to have a conversation on this new podcast!
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If you'd like to read the 7 Deadly Friendships, you could win a copy of your own by commenting on this post!
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I can attest that one person's few minutes of predatory behavior does harm someone else--for years. Some of you have questioned whether I've healed, and some have told me to move on. Believe me, I have pursued and chased healing most of my adult life. I am doing well. I'm not fully healed, but I am healing, and have experienced so much growth.

My anger today comes not from my own story but on behalf of those who are in the early stages of their healing, who are finding the news cycle triggering, who are being threatened, berated, and eviscerated on social media simply for telling their stories.

We must understand the nature of trauma. We must understand that, in the moment, most abuse victims don't fight, don't flee, but freeze from the trauma. I froze. Even so, I TOLD SOMEONE. But that someone lied to me, told me she told someone in authority, but did not. So the rapes continued. And continued.

It took ten years to tell again. And even then, I found it hard to convince the one I told that it happened.

Today during the #kavanaughhearings, Dr. Christine Ford said this: "“They were laughing with each other . . . two friends having a really good time with one another.”

I cried. Although I have a strong memory of the abuses from the past, I had forgotten the laughter. The bantering. The casual lackadaisical nature of the perpetrators, as if they were painting airplane models or skipping rocks. It was so dismissive, their laughter. I was the inanimate object (oh how I froze, terrified), and they were the happy-go-lucky teenagers doing hellish damage to my young soul while casually carrying on with their lives.

They moved on. I'm unsure if they continued perpetrating. One of the abusers died over a decade ago, and I can't recall the name of the other (I was only five). But when I ventured back to the scene of the crime, I knew the sidewalks, remembered the topography, stood above the ravine where the brambles tore into me. It was a victory for me, but a painful one to. Because it did happen.

Healing comes in layers, they say. And I believe them. Today another layer exposed itself with laughter while tears reminded me of the tenuous nature of trauma.
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