It’s Just a Hand. What’s So Bad About That?
What I am about to tell is a true story, something that happened to me. Then I will talk about how it got to that point, including the methods my abuser used to groom and silence his victims.
This is one of several similar encounters I had with a man named Jonathan Welton, who at the time had a relatively large ministry, the primary component of which was a school called Welton Academy. I worked for him there, as the Missions Director, from April 2014 to August 2016. The story I’ve chosen to tell is the last encounter I had of this kind and one of the last times I ever saw him.
In this story, there is a conversation. Not between Jonathan and myself, but between three thought processes that were running through my head during the encounter. For the sake of the story, I have differentiated these three thought processes by giving them names. I have called one Reason, one Panic and one Deep Knowing. Additionally, there are my own genuine thoughts. When one of the three named thought processes are “speaking” they will be in quotations. When it is my own genuine thinking, it will be indicated through italics. It may be an unusual way of sharing an account like this, however it’s the only way I’ve been able to write it where it feels like how it felt to be in the situation. Try not to get caught up in anything more than the feeling. That is the main purpose of my telling this story and is the reason I’ve written it in both first person and present tense.
The Theater
We are sitting in a dark theater, it’s just the two of us, the movie Split is unfolding across the screen in front of us, he has reached for my hand, and is now holding it, entwining his fingers with mine. This is not someone I am dating or interested in. My stomach does not flutter, my heart does not skip in delight. There’s a stone where the butterflies should be in the pit of my stomach and it’s fallen down by my feet. My heart is beating hard, but not in excitement. What is that emotion? Is it fear? Adrenaline? I feel a distant waking of panic. I could just get up and leave. Please, get up and leave, I plead with myself.
Why am I afraid? I check myself. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, he loves me, I think.
I feel a sense of reason waking up. This man is my teacher, my friend, my mentor — he loves me, I think again, digging my feet into shifting sand. My mind goes back, back to the first time this had happened and how horrible it felt, how much I hated it then. But then he was also my boss. Then, it had been truly gross and inappropriate.
“He didn’t mean anything by it then and he doesn’t mean anything by it now,” says Reason. “If you were gonna get mad, you should have back then. Don’t freak out.”
Of course it was different. Then I could have been fired if I said anything, I think. But no! What am I thinking? He wouldn’t have fired me, why are you even thinking that?
I have opened wider the door for Reason to insert itself. “Yeah,” it says “What kind of psycho would fire someone for not wanting to hold hands? You’re being crazy. This is Jonathan we’re talking about. Remember, he loves you.”
Yeah, that’s it! I have to remember that. He wouldn’t hurt me, he loves me.
“Yes, he invests in you, teaches you, empowers you. Look at everything he’s done for you,” Reason isn’t holding anything back, making a strong case. But I still feel gross and now I also feel guilty for feeling gross. Jonathan couldn’t mean anything by his actions, and if he didn’t mean anything by them, my doubting him was completely repugnant and inexcusable to me.
If he’s holding my hand, it’s because he thinks it’s okay, I tell myself. If he’s not worried, why should I be? I think about his wife then. I wonder what she’d think, how she would feel. I have no idea what she would think or feel, because I don’t know her, not really. She’s always been too emotionally removed to reach. I then have a strange and revolting realization. Everyone around us must think we’re married; after all, he’s wearing a wedding ring and holding my hand. I want to vomit.
My conversation with Reason goes on in circles for what feels like forever. When forever is the length of a movie, how long is that anyway? Another voice, Panic, tinges the edges of my mind from time to time, trying to break through the voice of Reason. Screaming from far away, at the ends of tunnels, from the bottoms of the pits of my subconscious. It is too scary to open up to Panic, though. Panic would do something stupid. Panic would jerk my hand away, would stand up in the theater and tell him to go to hell. Panic would drive away and never speak to him again and then our friendship would be lost. No, I cannot listen to Panic, it does not have the answers and I am afraid it will ruin everything.
It’s not like Jonathan is doing anything so terrible. It is just a hand, after all.
Reason faithfully reminds me, “Yeah, it’s just a hand — don’t do anything crazy.”
And thus Panic is suppressed, and this strange form of Reason reigns the day. Jonathan holds my hand, strokes my fingers, tickles my palm. I do nothing. I respond in no way. I sit there so still I’m not sure I’m breathing, and when was the last time I swallowed? I know there has to be an appropriate response, but as much as I search myself for it, it cannot be found. It is shrouded by something misty and vague and I can’t quite see it, can’t reach it. I literally do not know what to do. I am a rabbit within the reach of a fox and I’m holding still in prayerful hope that the fox does not see me, does not pounce, does not take my neck in his teeth. My nose itches and I don’t scratch it.
I hold in the physical revulsion. And I convince myself that the reason I’m holding it in is because of something more important than my comfort. I convince myself that I can sit there still because of love and the trust there implied. I think because of “love” I can let it go, overlook it, that he can’t mean it the way I am taking it. Because “of course he has your best interests at heart”. The problem is mine. Always mine when it comes to Jonathan. He’s never been responsible before, and I don’t know how to start making him responsible now. The problem is in my perspective. It is just a hand after all, what does it matter if he holds it?
The movie finally ends, but as I’ll soon discover, the encounter is only beginning.
Read on as Dawn explains the process of grooming that led up to this abusive and difficult situation.
