Leslie
Speak out.
There is too much to tell.
What my brother did? What my other brother saw? What my mother did? What my father refused to hear?
Why I hurt myself?
It wasn’t his fault. He was my big brother, ten years older, my hero, he understood me.
He was just experimenting, just an adolescent. I was just five or six or seven. Have you seen a child that age? Have you babysat them too? Did you visit them in the night and speak in warm friendly tones about what you wanted to do? I was so afraid. I knew it hurt. It had happened before. Confident tones telling me to spread my legs, doing it for me. Pushing things inside me that hurt. He made them wet and pushed them in again. Many things. I was not a virgin after those things.
Locked in fear. I was such a little shy girl.
It wasn’t my younger brother’s fault certainly. He walked in. Saw. Backed out of the dark room into the hall. Left me alone. He was only five years older than me. He was … I won’t speak for him. His cowardice is his own.
My mother. Was it her fault? The beatings started with my oldest brother. The elder brother escaped with high school. It was far from our house, he didn’t have to return for lunch. He went to high school before I ever started elementary school. He was ten years older. But didn’t she beat my middle brother too? Because then there were just us two. By the time I was in grade two, middle brother escaped to high school. Brothers, why didn’t it stop?
Why did neither of you speak out?
I knew that C hurt me when he babysat and K saw. So it must be all right.
I knew they both knew I was beaten by mom at lunch. Most lunches. Year after year. Shame and fear. And they left me alone with her. So that must be all right too.
But. Our house backed our elementary school. We were 1 minute away. I had to come home for lunch. She could work up a good fury in that lunch hour. Shame, I was bad, I lost the library book, dragging me down the hall, down the stairs by my hair. It was my fault. (what?) I couldn’t even formulate such a question anymore. Lunch time after lunch time. Year after year. Shame, hurt and fear.
I knew I found it hard to go to school by grade 9,10,11,12. I seldom went. I failed every course. I didn’t graduate. A nice family, a nice neighbourhood, a nice school. No one asked why. Everyone must know. And they all thought it was all right too.
So I knew it must be all right.
I had friends. I went out with them. I spoke. Plastic words, underneath wondering what their families did to them. I knew they did something to them of course. Everyone did. Yes. Friends. I wondered what your families were doing to you.
And the years after? Why we tried to be a family. Us three. Without speaking. But when I wanted to speak out, about something real, I was shamed, blamed “you are just like mother” “my sister is a loser” “god gave you a pretty face but you have to work on your body yourself.”
I was silenced. Shut down.
But now I am far away. I still fear you. My stomach turns writing this and remembering this. Years of cycles of therapy. Of telling the boyfriend I lived with and working through a layer. Of moving away and being so free.
Of going back to university. Oh the pride. I went back to school.
I moved back. Of moving back into that cycle of shame. “come live with us until you find a place” “stay until Christmas” then “you need to move out” “I’ll see if I can help you (as the door swings shut on you laughing on the phone)
Yes, then I was still asking for your help. Your acknowledgment. I deserve to be here too. Beat me, violate me, shame me. Please accept me. Value me.
Winding more and more hysterical. Trying to tell Dad again. Fragments in the coffee shop, angry, hysterical, bitter. I told you I wanted to die when I was in high school, you laughed and told me you’d get me the gun. Was it funny? The years I lived with you in squalor, alone in my room, never leaving , not attending school? Could you really tell yourself that was your daughter’s full potential as a human? My how you lie. To yourself. Blind blind eyes. Mouth still talking, laughing. Ignorant old man. Vile old hands smoking, blowing away any plume of truth.
No more. I cut you all off. I did that. Good for me. Because you never stopped. Victim? Fuck no. Your victim? Not any more fuckers.
Self doubt, sure. Drifting through confusion of what I am, who I am, how to be, sure.
Fragmented words. Fragmented me. Still shut down. Still struggling just to live a normal life. Leave the house, work. No, don’t shut down.
Shut down and no, I can’t shut back up.
I am 48 today. I have worked hard to ease the layers of a horror these years. I realize how persistent I’ve been. I am proud.
I tried to erase the word horror. But I will leave it. It’s true but I am embarrassed for this truth. My gift to myself today will be to let this feel be. I have worked hard through spiral after spiral of ‘dealing with it’ talking through it, reading about it, getting up in the mornings, going to work, my underneath mantras fighting my ‘of course I know it’s not me’ in the world outside, the ‘real’ world mantras I try to learn.
It wasn’t their fault
It wasn’t that bad
It happens to almost everyone
We can all fix it together as a family
I’m not angry
They aren’t to blame.
Yes they are.
But then some truths have slowly come, floating up through. 40 years. Trying hard to let them come through the darkness.
I know these things. I am a mother. A good mother. My child is safe. I do not make him my victim. I have love. I have friends. I have truth. I have a best friend called a husband. I have a best friend called a woman. I have deep friends. They all know. They all know about me. They love me. I love them. I do wish I loved me too. Life is long, this could emerge too.
So about those others. Who hurt me. Who didn’t stop it. Who did not speak out.
Why the hell not?
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Anonymous, worried about her friend
I haven’t been afraid of anybody for years. Ever since I removed myself from my abusive childhood I have vowed to never let someone control me through fear. I WILL NEVER be hit again. I WILL fight anybody that tries to harm me, my children, my husband, or anyone else I love… or so I thought.
I have a friend that I love so very much. She has a beautiful soul. She also has a boyfriend that beats and rapes her. She left him recently and filed a restraining order against him for his latest rape. He says he did nothing wrong because he can have sex with her whenever he wants.
She has 4 children and is pregnant with another. The youngest and her fetus are his children. She’s scared to be alone and without him. She doesn’t want the youngest 2 to grow up without their father. He has already slapped her oldest upside his head in anger. He says he’s going to change, don’t they always? Like every other abuser he doesn’t change, he has realized he can do what he wants because she will always take him back. Before she was pregnant with his first child he beat her with her purse, strangled her with the strap, and kicked her while she was down. For the life of me I can’t understand why she has started talking to him again. She says he had a wake up call. She says that every time. She’s not safe and her children aren’t safe yet she continues to take him back. I live in fear of this piece of shit killing her. He escalates the abuse and rapes with each “wake up” call he has.
What do I do? How can I save her? I’ve offered her my home and my shoulder. I try to instill confidence in her that she can do it on her own. She keeps saying it’s so hard to leave him. I have to stop myself from wishing death on him daily, sometimes hourly. I keep telling her if he loved her he wouldn’t abuse her, he wouldn’t take every penny they have and get the woman and children he “loves” so much evicted. He loves his drugs and gambling more than he could ever love her. Why can’t she see she deserves so much more? My rational mind knows it is all part of the abuse; he has her under his thumb. He knows she’s not going anywhere. My heart screams each time she takes him back WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! MAN UP AND MOVE ON!! I know it’s easier said than done I’ve lived it but the first chance I could get out I did.
My heart hurts so much for her and her children. I keep telling her she’s creating a cycle of abuse by allowing them to witness this crap. She owes it to those kids to teach them to be wonderful humans. She shouldn’t be giving them the example mommy gets beat so I need to find a man that will beat me or my step dad beats my mom so I need to beat my woman to prove my love. I’m so angry with her for keeping the children in this environment. She needs to let them go live with their father if she’s going to stay with the boyfriend. It’s bad enough her life is in danger; the kids shouldn’t be kept in a dangerous situation.
I’m scared of this man. Scared he will hurt me for trying to help her, but I’m more scared of what I’ll do if he ever comes near me. Every time he hurts her all I can think about is making him bleed and beg for mercy. All the anger I have from my prior abuse make my blood boil with revenge. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t like feeling this rage; it’s an emotion I haven’t felt in years.
I’m angry, scared, and brokenhearted. Why? Why? Why?
I know this is rambling and thrown together, I just don’t know how to put it to words any other way. Do any of you have any suggestions for me? Please help me find a way to save her before it’s too late.
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Editor’s note: We are running this piece so that its author may find some catharsis and comfort here, but it is not the mission of this site to give advice because we are not experts. Violence UnSilenced is simply a blog, not a panel of trained professionals, and any advice its readers leave is not endorsed by Violence UnSilenced. Also: Women in abusive relationships are six times likelier to be killed during or after leaving their abusers, and so “why doesn’t she just leave” is not as simple as it sounds and establishing an escape plan with the help of an expert is a critical component. This subject has been addressed twice on this website, once here, and once here, but most importantly it bears repeating that Violence UnSilenced is NOT intended to take the place of an advocacy organization. Please contact your local domestic violence org for expert advice if you are in a situation like the one described here. You may find additional information and resources here.
Jeney
I was thirteen years old when it happened. That tender age when you are finally a ‘teenager.’ When puberty is in full swing and your self-esteem is beginning to develop. That age when a whole life of opportunities begins to open up around you.
That was when my innocence was stripped away from me.
That summer, I spent a lot of time with my best friend, Nicole. I slept over at her house almost every night. We would stay up late watching MTV in her room, pretending we were rock stars, and walking to 7-11 in the morning for Slurpees and Sour Straws. But that wasn’t the reason I stayed over at her house so much.
You see, a year before I had been molested by my mailman. The same man my mom baked cookies for every Christmas. The same man who brought treats for our dog when he delivered our mail. The same man who molested me and seven other young girls on his route.
My testimony helped put him away. And although he was rotting in a prison cell somewhere that summer, I still had nightmares about him coming to find me. But Nicole’s house was in a different town and a different postal code. Nicole’s house was safe.
Until one night in late June.
It was hot that night; sickeningly, disgustingly so. Nicole’s mom let us sleep on the couches in the front room that night. There was a cross-breeze between the kitchen and the front room windows as well as an oscillating fan we could point at us while we slept.
The details of that night are pretty blurry to me. I blame it on the fact that I was so young and half asleep. But I know it’s because I suppressed the memory.
I was woken up by someone’s hand down my shorts. It’s so damn cliché to say, but I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I honestly thought my mailman had broken out of prison and found me.
Once I started breathing again and my heart wasn’t about to crack my sternum, I rolled over onto my stomach.
I just wanted it all to stop. I heard the hurried footsteps as my attacker hid around the corner. I hoped he would just stay there. I wished I would just fall back asleep. I prayed I would just die.
It seemed like hours before I heard him come back out and felt him near me again. I’m sure it was only minutes, though. This time he started pulling at the hem of my pajama shorts.
It is funny how your mind can be absolutely numb but race at the same time.
I think I kicked my leg a bit. Or maybe I moaned. Whatever I did, it worked. He ran back behind his little corner again. I leaped off the couch and made like a bat out of hell to Nicole’s room where I immediately started crying.
The remainder of the night (morning?) was a complete cluster.
I found out that my mailman did not break out of prison and had come to find me as I had convinced myself he had. The man who molested me that night was Nicole’s uncle, who happened to be a very close family friend.
It took months for me to be able to talk to grown men again, including my father. It took years of therapy to stop having nightmares. It took many more to admit to myself it wasn’t my fault.
But it only took one night to tear my life apart.
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Jeney writes at Just a Lost Soul Swimmin’ in a Fishbowl.
Samantha
“Hearts and Lights”
It took me four times to leave.
Four times isn’t so bad, I tell myself now. In fact, it’s better than some. But looking back, I wish I hadn’t made it to four.
The counselor at the domestic violence shelter I had called the minute he stepped out the door told me that leaving was my choice and I’ll know when I could no longer tolerate living there anymore.
The day before, he had cleaned and loaded his rifle while telling me that he could never live without me.
The weekend before, he’d threatened to kill my cat.
The week before was the first time he had hit me.
The month before was the first time he trapped me in the bathroom.
The year before was the first time he would come up to bed, reeking of alcohol, and begin groping me. Pushing me down, forcing my face into the headboard or wall and hammering away at me until I thought my jaw would break or I’d be ripped in half.
What I wish someone would have told me was how hard it would be to be without him. Suddenly, the world looked backwards. Songs took on new meanings, my own boundaries had changed, and sleeping became one of the biggest challenges of my day. As much as I dreaded his weight next to me, it became unbearable to not have it there. I cried, I ached, and I just fucking hurt.
I attended a support group briefly after I left. One of the best examples the facilitator gave us involved two paper hearts. On one heart, we were to write the traits that describe us. On the other heart, we were to write the traits of our abuser. We were asked to take our hearts and glue them back to back. Then staple them. Then use tape around the edges. We put them aside until the end of group. The facilitator instructed us to pull them apart without leaving pieces of one heart on the other. It was impossible.
Pieces of my heart are gone and pieces of his have replaced it. That is how intertwined we became. He and I were miles of Christmas lights knotted, weaved, and tangled together. My lights don’t shine right being all tangled in another’s.
The thoughts crept in: it’s easier to just let it be. It’s easier to leave the lights tangled and let my heart be glued to yours. Because it hurts to be pulled apart and it’s uncomfortable having to untangle my life from yours. I know what your heart looks like and what your lights can do.
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Editor’s note: Samantha wrote this nine months ago, and as of today has been free from her abuser for three months. She adds that she has found great support on the website Band Back Together, a collaborative blog founded by past VU contributorAunt Becky.
