Cross of Scotland

WARNING: Sexual assault and human trafficking are mentioned throughout the body of this submission, as I am a REAL SURVIVOR of human trafficking.

How many times have I been openly criticized for keeping that old cross? It was forged in 1811, created in Edinburgh, Scotland. It's the only remaining artifact I have that was ever given to me by the man who forced me into human trafficking. I can understand all too well why people would think I would want to get rid of such a momento, but it seems people are entirely too closed off when it comes to finding out why I'd prefer to keep it instead.

The peridot cross had originally been his grandmothers. She passed away several years before I moved to Scotland to be with this man. Back then he was someone I still believed was a good person with a kind heart. He said he loved me. He said he wanted to be with me. I'd known him for several years by then and I believed him. I believed IN him. When his grandmother passed away, he saved that simple cross as a gift to me, knowing how much I loved antiques.

I don't wear the cross for so many reasons. Instead, it just rests in my jewelry box, surrounded by other precious items that I treasure. I don't show it off. I don't take it out. I don't believe my husband has ever seen it. But so many people ask me why I refuse to ever get rid of that cross because of the connection it has to the awful human being who gave it to me.

Seven years, I knew that man. We met through a dating website and kept in touch for seven years. When finally he convinced me to give up my career, my home, my car, and my entire life at the beach in California to move to Scotland and marry him, it was based on my trust of him - trust that took seven years to build. Within a week he had all of my documentation and started trafficking me. Seven long years were diminished into a nightmare existence in only seven short days.

"It's a cursed object. You should throw that in the trash." She had been my best friend for several years, and though she didn't know the details of my 152 days of torture and rape, she did know that I had been subjected to unspeakable abuse at the hands of the man who gave the cross to me. How could I explain to her why I refused to get rid of it?

"Give it away to a homeless person or pawn it," my adopted brother told me. He didn't know what I'd been through but he knew abuse was involved. He knew something inside me felt broken. He wanted what was best for me. He worried about my mental health.

"Donate it to a museum." Total strangers wanted to weigh in on the matter and had what they thought would be amazing advice for someone they knew so little about. They knew only what I told them, and their reaction caused me to start thinking about how I framed my story. Perhaps I wasn't conveying what I really wanted people to know about me.

That cross is a reminder of what I survived. Hidden deep within what limited items I owned and was allowed to have access to while trapped in my own personal Hell, it gave me hope that things could get better. It reminds me that even in my darkest hour, hope can lift its head and whisper to me "I'm still here," even from the most unlikely of sources. The man who abused me and trafficked me gave me the symbol of faith and hope without even realizing it, all because he just knew I liked old things. It was a gift, not of my own hope, but of his own desire to convince me to trust him. But I've been openly criticized for keeping it.

For a number of years I introduced myself as a survivor of human trafficking. I would step on stage and tell my story of survival to a waiting audience. People would stare at me with their mouths hanging open, unsure of what to say or do in response. They would listen intently. After exiting the stage, some would even approach me to congratulate me on having survived such horrors. Occasionally someone would ask if they could hug me while their eyes brimmed with tears, on the verge of weeping for the person I once was. Sometimes someone would tell me the old saying that “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.” I finally began to correct them. I could not and would not give that sort of credit to anyone who ever abused me in my lifetime. Those abusive, horrible people didn’t make me stronger. I was already strong. I just needed to find that strength that existed and bring it forth on my own. Finding my own strength is what helped me to fight back in the end. The strength I already had was the only reason I ever survived. 

I don't hold this peridot and pewter cross in my hand and think to myself "remember all those times I was raped? Remember all the people who abused me?" How could I? I look at it and think to myself "Remember everything I survived? Remember how God carried me through to the other side?" This cross has more meaning to me, both good and bad, than most other things I've ever owned. I won't part with it. I can't. I won't wear it, either. But every now and then I might just take it out and look at it. I might think to myself of how far I've come on my journey since I first held it in my hand all those years ago.

I'm no longer a victim of abuse. I'm not just a survivor of human trafficking. I'm a strong, incredibly independent, determined, powerful individual with a mission to help others to escape human trafficking now. I speak openly about my life and my experiences. I'm a tower of strength, refusing to give in to the pressures of a society that wishes I'd do nothing more than just be silent in the face of my abusers and what the media wants the world to think is the “real” image of human trafficking. I speak up when other victims and survivors are silenced. When the news and spectators only want to talk about the abusers and traffickers. When the victim is nothing more than a silenced statistic. 

I am a survivor. But I’m also so much more. I’m an advocate. I’m a fighter. I’m a public speaker. I’m a believer. This cross is real, and so am I.

I love this old cross. I think it will stay exactly where it is - safely tucked away in my jewelry box. That way, the next time I need a reminder of hope and of God's love, I know exactly where to find it.