-Approximately 92 to 98% of child sexual abuse cases reported are proven to be true. The large majority of false reports occur in parental custody disputes.
Please be forewarned that content might include
details of abuse and potentially triggering language.
Have you ever experienced being at the movies when a collective groan rises as the lights do because the denouement crashed into an abyss of implausibility or simply lacked resolution? Patrons file out positing how they would have finished the script. Sometimes, a website might accompany a feature film, listing “alternate endings” within the outtakes, character bios, and tie-in promotions.
While driving the other day, “I got to thinking,” as they say. I contemplated, what if I were able to write an alternate ending to my life’s story? Often, I feel like an observer waiting for a film of my life to come to an end. What if I could interrupt the projector’s reel, depositing frames with completely different storylines at some point, changing the trajectory? What if . . .
I draw out a mental timeline, scanning back, and back, and back—all the way to conception. Where would I jump in? At what age? I pull from memory-banked image files; in each one, my eyes reflect back like a fawn confronting car headlights. I see myself as that terrified toddler; shrinking kindergartener; awkward, anxious sixth-grader. Nope. After a while, I crumple up the imaginary page and acquiesce to what is.
One can dream. If you read between the lines, you might decipher that there is no good point to change the course of my life’s story–not unless I’d been conceived in a Petrie dish that were then carried away from the laboratory to alternate parents, that is. And even then, there’s DNA involved. Who’s to say that without life’s traumas to derail my capacity to be a deliberate participant in my life, I might not have turned out to be a psychopath, serial killer, or otherwise horrible person? There’s that.
I won’t dwell on the evil that might have been. More importantly, I see that I need to resolve again to seek to be an active participant in my own life. Passivity might masquerade as legitimate contentment, but it can never feel true joy. Maybe I need to take an active step in finding what makes me happy. For now, I’ll tread from pen to paper; eventually, maybe I’ll take an actual, living, breathing, step. Secondly, and this was supposed to be my point before I got off on a tangent, an alternate ending constitutes fiction, plain and simple.
Heads up, any haters of the #metoo movement and all you truth-evading FMSF people: if I were to lie about what happened in my life, I would not write about abuse. A fabricated story of my childhood would be a fairytale about peace, love, joy and happiness—a life without child sexual abuse. To tell the truth, I’d rather write a scrubbed, made-up, happy tale. Believable? Yes. True? No. The lies I’ve told were to keep people happy. To cover evil. To make others look good. I’ve omitted truth for far too long. It isn’t “my truth,” “my reality,” or “my perspective”. It’s the truth. And I will tell it—if only as I write.
FMSF stands for “False Memory Syndrome” Foundation. The FMS term, invented by two credibly accused pedophiles, was generated in response to a victim’s memories of abuse. The third FMSF founder was an avowed pedophile and “career defense expert” for other pedophiles. Although “False Memory Syndrome” was coined in 1992 when the foundation was established, to this day, there is no DSM codification of any such “syndrome”.
“Attacks On The Credibility Of Abuse Survivors Are Not Justified by Research,” Article by Michael Salter appearing in The Guardian.
The initial victim of those who established FMSF is an accomplished PHD Psychologist. Link to her bio: