Cat
The x-ray showed a chip in my mandible. The young doctor looked at me in a way that told me he did not buy my story. I had said I fell, my babies then diaper clad toddlers were restless on my lap as I remember looking away from the doctor, tears wanting to flood out of me, words wanting to vomit their way out into the open so that there would be no more secrets. But somehow I regained my composure, dressed and left as if it was a routine thing.
I had gone to the ER because of him several times over the course of our lives together. I never went to the same ER twice in a row, I never went if I had too many bruises everywhere and I never went without a story, a lie to back up my injury, to conceal what was my truth. I was letting my husband push me around and worse, that I was terribly embarrassed about it. I was given numbers for shelters, for safe houses that I could retreat to. Assured they would take my babies and me, keep us safe. But I never left because I rationalized that it only happened when he was drunk.
As it turns out, my husband was drunk a lot. He drank when we were dating, we met through a friend and we met at a bar. Drinking was a social past time of our single lives, melded into our married lives and then our lives with children. It was not until after I had my first child that his drinking changed, or rather that he changed from the drinking. He felt displaced or threatened by his son, and he began to drink more to cope with those feelings. He became a bully in the home when he was drunk and that is also when he started having blackouts. Blackouts that would protect him from the bitter memories of the evil things he was capable of while being drunk and the tool he needed to feign innocence.
Initially I went through stages with him, while I was learning about this new part of him that would be unleashed while drunk. I learned not to object to his actions, his behavior — it was like poking a lion at close range and he would attack. At first he apologized but after a few months that stopped. I learned to be sure that my children’s bedroom door was tightly closed and to get as far away from it as possible so that they would not be awoken, so they would not be witness to anything. I learned how to take a punch and that biting and hitting back would earn me much worse. Living with my alcoholic was much like living with someone who had two personalities at that time; he was, for all intents and purposes, my very own Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
It began innocently enough in the beginning. A slap and then an apology. A push or a shove followed by a request for forgiveness. Promises that it would never happen again would lead to it happening more frequently and more violently. Suddenly it escalated to dragging, punching, choking and much worse within a year’s time. Initially I fought back, breaking one of his fingers in the process, and he in turn broke and cracked my ribs, chipped my mandible and bruises — there were always bruises. I learned it was always better to not fight back.
This went on for about four years until finally one night my toddler boys came to my room, when I was on the floor after a beating, a broken, sloppy mess. Their faces, always a source of comfort to me, looked fearful and drawn. Their little chubby cheeks had big alligator tears running down them and that was my wake up call that my life had to change; if not for myself then for them. That was the first night I called the police on my husband, first night I pressed charges for battery, first night he was taken away in a squad car to sober up in jail. I would call several times over the course of the next few years until finally I went to court, pressed charges, and he was held accountable for his abuse. He was sent to anger management classes, put on probation, made to do community service and he stopped hitting me. The judge ordered him to not be at home or come near the home while he was drunk after that and he complied.
Years later he would get his final DUI, edging him into sobriety. He would embrace AA and the tools of the program in order to remain sober, in order to find a life that mattered somewhere in the ruins of what he had. And for me it took many years to see how my embarrassment was misplaced. I have lost many friends and family who did not want to stick around and see my bruising, knowing that they were powerless to do anything about it, because I did nothing about it and while I never understood my fear of being honest with the world around me, admitting I was abused in the end was the most powerful thing I could have done for myself.
***
Cat blogs at Wait. What? You may recall her son’s post on Violence UnSilenced back in June.
Wednesday Q&A: As a survivor, am I ready to volunteer?
QUESTION:
I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse perpetrated by a family member. I am now in my 30s, in a loving and committed relationship with someone who values and respects me, and I have worked hard to create a healthy and fulfilling life as an adult. I have been thinking about volunteering for my local women’s center, which helps women who have experienced sexual abuse and domestic violence. It’s an issue I care deeply about, but I’m not entirely sure I could handle it. So, I guess this is my question: As a survivor, how do you know if you’re ready to volunteer to help others?
ANSWER:
Congratulations on building such a healthy life for yourself and with your partner! And good for you for wanting to use your time and energy to help women in crisis. This is a question many survivors wonder about — and it’s a very healthy question to consider.
It’s clear this is something that is very important to you. And it sounds like many years have passed since your abuse occurred. This is an important detail. Most sexual assault and domestic violence programs suggest survivors wait at least a year (and often longer) after their abuse has ended before thinking about volunteering, to avoid becoming retraumatized.
A helpful first step for you might be to call your local women’s center and talk with their volunteer coordinator. Questions you can ask include:
1. What kinds of volunteer opportunities are available? In addition to working directly with clients, most women’s centers offer clerical and other in-direct service opportunities, too — like volunteering in the office, helping with fund-raising events, speaking to community groups to raise awareness, helping with the newsletter, writing letters to the editor, etc. You could consider trying one of these positions first. If you feel successful and comfortable, you could then think about transitioning to direct-service work with other survivors.
In addition, ask what types of direct-service volunteer opportunities they offer. It may be that while certain client populations may be difficult for you, others might feel like a good fit. For example, at the domestic violence shelter in my community, we have volunteers who don’t feel comfortable working in our children’s program because of the emotions that would trigger for them. But they are comfortable volunteering on the crisis line, because the population being helped and the degree of personal involvement required matches what they need to feel safe and comfortable.
2. What kind of volunteer training do you provide? Most crisis-based women’s centers provide fairly intensive training for new volunteers, before you ever work with clients (for example, our domestic violence program requires 40 hours of training, and our local rape crisis center requires 20 hours). The best training programs include role-playing exercises, too, designed to mimic real-life interactions with clients. Not only does training equip you with what you need to be an effective volunteer, it also acts as a trial period that allows you to determine whether the work feels like an emotionally appropriate fit.
3. What kinds of ongoing support do you offer volunteers? Most rape crisis and domestic violence programs offer ways for volunteers to check in with one another, process how they’re feeling, and talk about the challenges, stresses and joys of their work, all in a safe, supportive space. For survivors who go on to become volunteers, this ongoing support can be critical.
One final note: It’s important to gauge your feelings of comfort and safety — if your gut is telling you that a certain type of volunteer work is too much or too difficult, step back and consider other, safer ways to feel involved.
Good luck to you!
Please exercise the same safe, supportive, non-judgmental restraint in the comment section of the Q&A as you do for survivors, as many of them are reading.
Our volunteer expert, Carrie K., is a trained advocate who has worked with survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault, as well as their families and friends. Her background includes hotline advocacy, community education, and awareness and prevention programming around issues of domestic violence and sexual assault. She currently works for a domestic violence intervention and prevention program in Wisconsin. She blogs at rageisgood.blogspot.com
If you have something you have always wanted to know about domestic violence and/or sexual assault, please email your question to carrie [at] violenceunsilenced [dot] com.
Aunt Becky
Tires squealing, we merged out onto Lake Shore Drive seemingly oblivious of the Saturday afternoon traffic, patches of burnt rubber left in our wake. I gripped the Oh Jesus! bar over the door, my knuckles white, while I tried to breathe through my panic. I couldn’t let the four-year old strapped into the car seat in the back see my abject fear.
Nervously, I glanced at the driver, Matt, my ex from many years before and the father of my child. We’d been broken up for ages, but my upcoming wedding had him nearly off his rocker. Foolishly, I’d agreed to celebrate our son’s birthday together with a trip to the museum, and now we were stuck in his two-ton death trap barreling 80 miles an hour down the highway. Out of his mouth streamed a steady diatribe that had flowed unrelenting since he’d picked us up from our condo that morning. I was a selfish fucking bitch, I was ruining his life with my marriage, I was ruining my son Ben’s life, we belonged together, to raise our son together.
He seemed to forget the lies, his affairs, the fact that underneath his denial was the absolute truth that he hated me with a fiery passion.
“You’re such a fucking bitch,” he sneered through his teeth, punching the steering wheel and dashboard to drive the last two words home. “How could you do this to me? To US?” He gestured to the now-sleeping child; oblivious to the danger we were in. Quickly, he jerked the wheel right, pulling us into the right lane, as horns blared and brakes squealed. I sat quietly, knowing that this moment was not the time to correct him, not the time to fight. Now I needed to play my cards right in order to survive. To save Ben and I.
The tears began to spew from his eyes, hateful bitter tears, as he insulted my character. “You’re such a fucking whore,” he spat. “I’m so much better than you. You don’t deserve me. You’re a failure. You’re turning into your crazy mother. You’re mentally ill.” The insults were hurled viciously at me, occasionally punctuated by a punch to the left side of my body. The adrenaline coursing through my veins prevented me from even feeling them. I’ve never been so numb.
His car merged onto the highway and he changed lanes with frightening speed. I watched in horror as we crept from 90 to 100 miles per hour past other cars, narrowly missing their bumpers. I could taste the metallic taste of fear in my mouth as I tried not to vomit. Vomit would enrage him further. I saw a few sparks of metal gnashing upon metal, but just like that, we’d moved past. The exit that would take us back home loomed ahead of us, and I sat there, quiet, trying to placate him and telling myself to take deep, slow breaths.
Rather than merge onto my exit, he instead got into the left lane, narrowly missing a motorcyclist. His eyes narrowed.
Tentatively I asked him if he were going to take us home. “No,” was his reply. “I’m not.”
I considered calling the police but the hatred of all authority that Matt possessed made me acutely aware that this wouldn’t end well. I saw a massive car crash and decided to do nothing. I sat there, sweating profusely despite the air conditioning, the smell of fear and panic radiating off me like ugly cologne.
Onward and onward we drove, his driving and mood fluctuating dramatically between offering me diamonds and riches to just come back to him and telling me that he was going to take me to court and use my past depression as evidence of being an unfit mother. That he should just kill me now and be done with it, I wasn’t going to amount to anything.
Minutes turned into hours and I prayed that my fiance wouldn’t try and call me, knowing this would further enrage Matt and escalate the situation. I focused on survival, counting my breaths, and watching the clock tick by. I was powerless. Just as he wanted me to be.
Ben, thanks be to the Powers That Be, slept on obliviously in the backseat, where I nervously watched him out of the corner of my eye. He could sleep through anything, apparently, even a kidnapping. Poor kid, I thought, he didn’t need to see this, this had nothing to do with him. I was suddenly overtaken by a wave of sadness that things had gotten so bad. He hadn’t asked to be born into what quickly turned into a volatile situation. He didn’t need to know how cruel his father could be. He never needed to see his father debase his mother.
Just as I was contemplating what the hell to do when he finally had to stop for gas (getting out of the car was key, but having Ben strapped into his car seat made things logistically trickier), he quickly yanked the wheel right and exited the highway. He turned his car in the direction of my house, crying and cursing me all in the same breath, still intermittently punching me when the anger overtook him. I was numb. A doll. A waxy numb doll.
I don’t remember much of what happened after that.
Hours later, he inexplicably dropped Ben and I off at home. I quickly popped my son out of his car seat and out of the car before he could take away him from me. Without so much as another “I hate you,” he peeled off, leaving us in a cloud of burnt rubber, bruised and battered. But not broken. Never broken.
Never.
***
Becky blogs at Mommy Wants Vodka.
Rachel Ann
Today’s story is republished by permission from the author’s own blog. When she agreed to let it be published here, I asked her if she wanted to update it, add anything, edit anything, delete anything. She decided it could stand on its own. And even though the date is a little off, I couldn’t agree more.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Sentimental Reasons
Anniversary time can be difficult if it’s the anniversary of losing someone, or a marriage ending, or any number of unpleasant things.
Today is the anniversary of something interesting that happened in my life. A big turning point that started out as something small.
I was 19 years old and married to a very controlling man. He would follow me places and watch me to see who I was with and what I was doing. He would wait on the curb until I came home from girls nights and grill me and my friends about who we saw, where we went, what we did.
Today is the anniversary of me filing a restraining order against him. And tomorrow will be the anniversary of my first major hospital stay, when he found out about the restraining order and proceeded to break it – and me – into tiny little pieces.
That day in 1989, 20 years ago today, I took the first step toward being my own person and taking his power away. I had learned to be quiet, not rock the boat and to behave myself or else. Or else what? I mean what could he do, kill me?
He didn’t. Kill me, that is. He did a damn fine job on my self-esteem and an even better one on my jaw. I sat in the dark hospital room, in shock and unable to even cry, pain dulled with morphine, jaw wired shut. When I’d given him my heart, it did not come with instructions, he’d once said. And I needed to learn how to be a better wife so he wouldn’t get so mad at me. If only I’d done what he needed me to do, he wouldn’t have lost his temper and hit me. It was my fault.
I have to sit here and laugh about that little girl I once was. The one who believed in the good of all people. Who looked for the good in everyone, no matter how difficult they could be.
A nurse sat with me that night for a while. When she left, a police officer and my best friend sat with me. He had been caught and arrested. I didn’t have to testify because there were neighbors who witnessed what he did. Neighbors, by the way who are still my friends and are probably reading this. They can tell you about the girl who lived before May 7th and the girl who lived after May 8th. She was not the same person.
Many people would crumble after such an event. I admit that I can’t watch baseball because I hear the sound of bat on ball and it chills me to the core. I admit that I become angry whenever I hear a story of a woman mistreated, the man she goes back to, wishing his “I’m sorry” meant anything more than “come back so I can do it again”. There are too many who didn’t get the talking to that I did that night, 20 years ago. A man in a blue uniform, a complete stranger, looked me in the eye and said I was beautiful. Even amongst the bruises on my face, he said, he saw beauty and joy and life. “Don’t lose today. Don’t ever forget that you are strong and powerful and perfect, just the way you are. And anyone who doesn’t believe that and cherish you, every minute of the day, does not deserve to walk with his hand in yours.”
May 7th is the anniversary of the end of one future I could have had. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the beginning of a new path I chose with the help of a man in blue.
My song for today is “Sentimental Reasons” from the 50s. I sang it all day long, as I felt silly and sentimental about all I’ve lost. And the abundance I have made room for in giving up pain.
Sam Cooke sang “I love you for sentimental reasons… I hope you can believe me, I’ve given you my heart.”
Happy May 7th everyone. Care to sing along?
Rachel Ann blogs here
