Survivor, Not Victim

Being a victim and being a survivor sound similar, yet the difference determines how people treat you, hear you, and decide whether your story is valid. This difference has come up in several conversations recently, from ordination discussions, the current CoE safeguarding audit, and general chats. This has caused me to reflect on what I name, why I name it, and how I understand the harm I have survived.

We should distinguish the difference. So, what is the difference between a victim and a survivor? A victim is someone harmed by something they did not choose. A survivor is someone who has lived through it, healed from it, and refuses to let it define or silence them. Both matter, but the difference changes everything.

I am a survivor of childhood abuse that led to my adoption, my alcoholism, decades of spiritual abuse, and some I don't name. I have now healed. They are part of my story, but not the whole of it.

A friend, a priest, and my ADDO have all recently discussed reconciliation, moving forward, what do I do with the things I have named, what counts as spiritual abuse or institutional harm, and what is best left in the past. It's simple. Harm is harm. Abuse is abuse. Whether it makes headlines or not.

Reflection, prayer, guidance, and writing about fifteen years of institutional harm, thirty years of balancing my health, February's unsafe meeting, the bishop, not wanting to be alone with her again, and naming abusive priests has given me clarity. A few months back, I didn’t know what to do. I do now.

I am healed from past actions and have moved on. I'm not in danger. Two people I named were in my life fifteen years ago. Both are now far away. I am now different. I have grown as a Christian, matured in age, mind, and body, and would never allow those things to happen again. Years of being dismissed, abused, or diminished taught me to recognise red flags and to speak up. Those years reshaped my understanding of power, responsibility, and harm.

Then came the more recent harm. A priest, “Simon,” arrived in 2021 and was licensed in 2022. I protected his name on this blog. I am not sure I should have. He's back working in church leadership despite his harm. I don't know if the Church knows. He mocked disabled people. A woman’s limp became a joke. As if we don't suffer from being jokes already. He described disabled people as spiritually lesser and how we're possessed with demons and bad spirits. He pushed healing and exorcism without training and openly scoffed about not being authorised by the church. He blamed our “little faith” when miracles didn’t happen. His behaviour towards LGBTQ people is documented on Wikipedia. He also bullied women. Families left. The relationship with our sister church fractured. The damage was real. We’re now dividing our parish to be two independent churches.

Yet I don’t regret it. I complained, recognised his actions, and refused to minimise it. That came from surviving earlier harm, learning patterns, studying disability theology at college, listening to others, understanding structural, spiritual, interpersonal, accessible, and complict ableism, and the difference between equality and equity. It came from knowing when to fight, when to shine a light, and when silence protects the wrong people.

Healing narratives are complicated. Physical and spiritual healing, like Simon promoted, is a pandemic sweeping through congregations. Maybe it always has been. Maybe I just see it more clearly now. Either way, it harms people. Despite my issues with the Bishop, she commented on this. She knows its spiritual abuse. Healing should be the slow, steady work of naming truth, rebuilding trust, and learning to face the world again. Survivors understand that.

A friend told me recently that she used to minimise and excuse harm, saying things like “maybe it wasn’t that bad”. She did that until people did it with her struggles with Simon. She hated it. I understood that. I’ve lived it. Victims get blamed, questioned, and misunderstood. Survivors name it and refuse to shrink it. She helps others now.

Small things still continue. My ramp blocked the communion table and the route taken last Sunday. The warden initially didn’t place it out. He thought I could lead on the lower level. He couldn’t see the problem. Later, during communion, he didn’t fold it up for safe passage. He wasn't malicious. He simply didn't understand the barriers either I or others faced. The difference between equality and equity. People do not see what does not affect them. Ignorance is bliss.

Our parish has lived through that. Lies spread. Narratives formed. Our sister church believed them. The diocese and even fellow college students heard them. We became the church that “dismissed a priest”. We became the problem. The truth was lost in the noise. Survivors often are. It’s easier to absorb a rumour than confront uncomfortable truths.

The Church of England is trying to address this. After Archbishop Justin Welby stepped down due to his impact towards abuse, harm has become too loud to ignore. I believe Archbishop Sarah Mullally will make a big difference.

I want to help. I'm a survivor. I advocate, support, write, fight, shine a light, guide disability understanding, not only in church but wherever it's needed. I will not back down from naming abuse and harm.

Survivors do not stay silent. Survivors rebuild, help others, and choose truth over comfort. I am one. Strength that brought me here will continue.