Dear Prudence,
I was sexually abused on a regular basis between the ages of 2 and 7 by my maternal grandfather. I told my parents when I was 15. Thankfully they were supportive and cut him out of our lives, but after that we never spoke of it. Once I was out of the house, I started down a really self-destructive path—alcohol, drugs, spending money, neglecting family relationships, you name it. In college, I lied frequently to make myself seem more interesting or to get attention. Some were fairly harmless (“I’ve been to Nepal!”) and some awful (“I had a miscarriage,” which makes me sick to admit). I had no self-esteem and a tremendously damaged view of sex. I didn’t really care who I slept with, including a close friend’s boyfriend. I became utterly disgusted with who I was. In my early 20s I moved to a different state and committed myself to therapy, which I’ve continued ever since. For the past 20 years I’ve been consistently responsible, honest, and possessed of a strong conscience. I’m proud of my life now. The problem is I still really struggle with knowing that I was ever that person. No one I know now knows that part of my history, but I feel sadness and guilt almost every day. I don’t know how to forgive myself, because doing so would feel like I’m saying it was OK, and it wasn’t. Not for myself and not for the people that I hurt with my lies and irresponsible decisions. How do I reconcile who I was then and who I am now?
—Struggling to Forgive