“You’ve gotta deal with this, honey,” my mom told me. “You can’t keep burying it. It will destroy you.”

Whenever she suggested I see a counselor, I would absolutely refuse. I was not going to talk about it, and I hung on to any shred of control and choice I had. No one will ever know. (I don’t recommend survivors follow my stubborn example!)

Since I wouldn’t see a counselor, Mom searched for other options that would enable me to begin processing my feelings. “What about journaling?” she asked me. “No one will see it – just you. Start putting words to everything so it isn’t all bottled up any more.”

I spent the next few months wrestling with myself, with God, and with everyone else. I knew what I needed to do. I couldn’t choose what had happened, but I could choose how I responded. I knew what choices I needed to make, and I wanted – more than anything – to make them. I wanted to be done with the fear and shame. I wanted to be done with the grief. I wanted to feel whole again.

One night, I journaled the choices I could ­make – the choices I wanted to make:

I choose to give it up.

I choose to let go.

I choose to live with the consequences of what Larry Nassar did.

I knew that pretending those consequences weren’t there wasn’t working. I had to admit the damage and face it – not bury it any more.

I choose to not need an apology from him.

I choose to not hope he remembers sorrowfully what he did.

My healing couldn’t be dependent on Larry. I had to face, admit, and hold fast to the truth, no matter what he chose to do. I couldn’t make choices for him, but I could make choices for me.

I choose to trust God’s justice instead of wanting to deal with Larry myself.

I knew I’d take the first chance I got to stop Larry from hurting others, but I also knew I could no longer live obsessing about getting justice. The chances of ever seeing it were slim to none. If my healing was conditional on getting a verdict or jail time, I would never be able to heal.

I choose to leave it in God’s hands instead of wishing I could make Larry see what he took.

I couldn’t make Larry comprehend the damage he’d done. I couldn’t make him feel grief about it. But the truth wasn’t dependent on what Larry thought or felt, and I had to remember that.

I choose to forgive.

I choose to want Larry’s repentance and salvation because it is what he needs, not what I want.

I closed the folder I’d stashed my loose­leaf journal in.

I felt better.

I’d handled it.

I was fine. Two days later, I realized … it wasn’t that easy.

Letting the memories out, even a little, unleashed a torrent of anger and self­protection. All the lies I’d fought to bury for years screamed in my head more loudly than I thought possible. Your fault! You didn’t fight back! Who is so stupid they don’t even know what’s happening? You didn’t protect yourself because you didn’t care enough! Your fault!

I was angry. Did God care? Did anyone care? I viewed my parents’ concern as too biased to be reliable. Of course they cared – just as every parent thinks their newborn is the most beautiful baby ever. I was indescribably thankful my parents were on my side, but I couldn’t let myself trust their assessment.

I angrily scrawled another journal entry.

Is value lost when something is stolen from it?

I thought back to a week during my high school Sunday school class when a substitute teacher chose to teach on the story of David and Bathsheba, a narrative in which the ancient Israelite king David summons a young woman he sees bathing on her rooftop and then sleeps with her. The story gets even darker when David has her husband killed to cover up the resulting pregnancy.

“So what do y’all think about Bathsheba?” the teacher asked casually. “Does she bear any responsibility for this?”

I flinched. Oh no … please don’t go there.

Just then, a female classmate spoke up, pointing out that David, as the king, held Bathsheba’s life in his hands, and therefore, she couldn’t have said no.

Thank you, I sighed, amazed she’d had the courage to say something. I wouldn’t have touched that one with a ten-foot pole. Not at that point, anyway. I was too afraid I’d break down if I tried. But my relief quickly dissipated when one of the only guys in the class whom I respected jumped into the discussion.

“I don’t think that’s right,” he offered calmly. “She could have chosen death. This wasn’t abuse.”

Anger welled up inside me, and I held my breath to keep it from bursting forth. This wasn’t abuse? He held her life in his hands but it’s her fault? There was no way I was going to speak up. I wouldn’t be able to without someone figuring out why it mattered so much. But the anger quickly gave way to grief as the discussion continued to swirl around me.

“Mm hmm.” The teacher nodded casually.

He agrees. I wanted to get up and leave. This wasn’t just about me. I knew there was at least one rape victim sitting in that class too, and statistically, many more survivors. What if she couldn’t fight back either? Does she know it’s not her fault? What have we just communicated to these girls? I knew they would feel guilt for their abuse – and the sting of those words, untrue though they were, could be devastating – especially if they lacked the family support that I was fortunate enough to have.

I glanced over at my male friend. I knew his interpretation was wrong. That wasn’t even how the Bible told the story. Later on – in the part the teacher hadn’t bothered to address and apparently no one remembered – David is confronted with the evil he’s done in the form of an allegory. In the story, David is portrayed as a self-centered, powerful, rich man who stole and killed an innocent lamb (Bathsheba). Far from being assigned blame, she is referred to tenderly as an innocent who has been violated.

I knew from past experience that false ideas about abuse had a stronghold in the church, where wrong ideas often had a veneer of piety put over them and were adhered to both out of ignorance and firm conviction.

If they see Bathsheba that way, they would see me that way too – better off dead than violated.

Church wasn’t safe. Nowhere was safe.

By the time spring rolled around, things were a bit better. Getting my thoughts down on paper had at least helped identify some of the damage. I was feeling a little less tense and fearful. I didn’t have any answers yet, and I hadn’t really moved beyond the questions, but at least I was asking them, after refusing to for so long.

It’s going to be better now, right?

Wrong.