The Healing Power of Horse Therapy for Trauma Survivors (Part 1 of 2)

 

*Warning. This article contains references to childhood sexual abuse

I grew up a crazy obsessed horse lover. From how they smelled to their warm and velvety noses to their kind and soulful eyes, I couldn’t get enough of these magnificent creatures. My mom had a small barn full of horses by the time I was born, so the love of horses was ingrained in me from an early age. My mother often rode on our property when she was still married to my father, her second husband. Each time I saw Mom on the back of a horse when I was a toddler, I would scream and scream until she would pick me up, put me in the saddle, and take me for rides where I would often fall asleep contentedly in her arms.

However, I did not have a good childhood. From as far back as I can remember, I was verbally, sexually, and physically abused by my mother and the various sick men she brought into our lives. I grew up knowing I was not wanted, a result of an accidental pregnancy, and that was something Mom often reminded me of as I grew up. It never once occurred to me to be hurt by those words. That was just the way it was in our house. We moved often. It was a lonely and terrifying childhood.

When I was seven years old, my mom married her third husband, an abusive pedophile named Fred. Fred owned several ponies and mules that he used for one of his businesses. Shortly after they married, I started riding one of his ponies named Sunshine. I had always wanted my own horse, so the presence of Sunshine was a dream come true. I rode Sunshine every chance I could. I was not a skillful rider at that age, and Sunshine knew it. Sunshine ran away with me and bucked me off, and rarely did she go in the direction I wanted her to. But that didn’t matter to me one bit. In my loving eyes, Sunshine could do no wrong. I thought of her often when I was not with her. Sunshine was my anchor in the confusing and terrifying world that I lived in. Every time I looked into Sunshine’s soulful eyes, the breath caught in my throat. She was just that beautiful.

When I was nine years old, Mom met her fourth husband, a truck driver named Emil, who was also a pedophile. Two weeks after they met, Mom and Emil decided to get married. After Mom divorced Fred, she married Emil, we moved to another state, and I was no longer allowed to see Sunshine. Without Sunshine, my beloved anchor, I was lost in the sea of abuse and terror that was my daily life. I was absolutely devastated. Every time I thought about my little pony, it felt like my heart was going to shatter into a million little pieces. When we moved, Mom brought her horses along, two beautiful and spirited Arabians named Jazon and Quazar.

It wasn’t long into their marriage that Mom and Emil took me into their bed and started sexually abusing me. Any fears that I had when Mom was married to Fred were quickly eclipsed when she married Emil at the level of abuse I suffered each day.

After we moved, Mom found a stable near where we lived to board the horses. Every day, I went with her to feed and water them. I loved the horses and often went into their stalls to brush and love on them. When the weather was nice, Mom rode in the fields surrounding the stables. Every time Mom rode, I watched her enviously, wishing I had a horse of my own to ride.

I suddenly knew without a doubt that I could ride this young and spirited Arabian horse

One day, shortly after we moved, as I stood in Jazon’s stall brushing him, I suddenly knew without a doubt that I could ride this young and spirited Arabian horse.

My fear of horses was gone. [Explain that while you loved Sunshine, you couldn’t handle riding her, so you developed a fear. This fear dissipated after you developed other skills and a greater awareness of horses. Right?]

When I told Mom that I wanted to ride Jazon, she looked at me skeptically, no doubt remembering Sunshine and all the trouble she had gotten us into. Jazon required a skilled and confident rider. At nine years old I was small for my age, but I was not the least bit concerned about how I would handle him.

Finally, Mom shrugged her shoulders and saddled Jazon up. After Mom hoisted me onto his back, happiness and excitement washed over me like a warm, comforting blanket, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Finally, I was riding again!

Even though Jazon’s saddle was too big for me, which made it hard to hang on when he spooked and bucked, which was often, it didn’t matter to me. I just laughed out loud at his silly antics and hung on tight. Nothing Jazon did scared me. He was a powerful horse and a challenge to ride, and I enjoyed every minute of being on his back. I couldn’t believe this amazing horse was all mine.

Mom and I were trail riders, and we rode as much as we could on the many trails where we lived in Wisconsin. We rode until our hearts were content, and we couldn’t have been happier.

The abuse was what I had grown up with, and that was my normal.

As I entered my teenage years, Mom lost interest in sexually abusing me, but Emil did not. When I was 13, Emil took my virginity. Every time I was abused, I lay there quietly, waiting for him to finish as I escaped into my own little world, trying to separate myself from what was happening to me. It never once occurred to me to fight back. The abuse was what I had grown up with, and that was my normal.

When I turned 15, I finally fought back against the sexual abuse. Emil did not take it well. After beating me up and violently raping me, that was the last time he ever touched me. I am not sure why Emil stopped sexually abusing me after I fought back. Maybe he thought I enjoyed his touch. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Even though Emil had been raping me for years, this particular incident had a devastating effect on me. I lost interest in everything in my life, including riding my beautiful horse. I grew up depressed, but after this incident, I reached a whole new level of depression, and it took an enormous amount of effort to get through each day. All I wanted to do was sleep. When Mom came into my room on the weekends to wake me up to go riding, I just ignored her, and she would storm out of my room, cussing before slamming the door. Sleep was all I cared about. Although I still loved horses, it would be many long years before my passion for them was rekindled.

As the years passed, without realizing it, I slowly buried the memories of the sexual abuse I suffered as a child. It was just too horrific for me to face. But as much as I tried to forget about the abuse, little did I know that my mind still held onto those memories. Several times a week I would get flashbacks of me being sexually abused as a child. I couldn’t make sense of those disturbing images that flashed randomly in my head, and I would kick them out as soon as they came in, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge them. But they always left me badly shaken, with a pounding heart and terrified adrenaline running through my body. It took an enormous amount of effort to keep that fake smile on my face and pretend everything was okay in my world.

After I graduated from high school, I went to college. Even though none of my family had gone on to get a higher education, I knew that was my ticket out of a life of misery. One very important lesson I learned from my childhood was that the only person I could rely on was myself. And I knew an education would take me to where I wanted to be, a career where I made good money and a life where I could make my own decisions. A few years after I finished my schooling, I got married, and we eventually started a family.

As I moved into adulthood, I rarely thought about the horses of my youth because it was bittersweet. As much as the horses reminded me of the happiest parts of my childhood, they also reminded me of the most painful parts. Although I always remembered the verbal and physical abuse, I had forgiven my mother even though she never once asked for forgiveness. I maintained a relationship with my mother long into my adulthood, naively hoping that she would outgrow her hatred of me. Deep down inside of me was still that little girl desperately craving her mother’s love and acceptance. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, but I kept trying.

As the years passed, the flashbacks continued to haunt me. Whether I was at work, the grocery store, or with my family, I couldn’t escape when these disturbing images would suddenly pop into my head. Once again, I had no idea why these images of me being sexually abused as a child would flash in my head. They just didn’t make any sense to me, but they always left me badly shaken.

 

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