Tricia
I sit at the computer screen, fear engulfing my heart, as the tears flow freely down my cheeks. I have come to a point where the weight that I’ve carried in my heart and soul for the past maybe ten years, has become an unbearable burden. A burden, that if if I don’t put down, might well consume me, consume the parts of me that are still intact.
To the outer world, I am a strong woman, a loving mother, an idealist, a passionate person who cares about helping the underdog. A teacher who wants nothing more than to teach her students to be authentic versions of themselves, to follow their own dreams, to be themselves and make their way in a world that too often dictates what we “should” be, a world that allows others to overshadow our authenticity.
In my inner world, I feel my self-esteem slip away quietly, all that’s left some days is a whisper of the person that used to be me. The girl who would fight to the end for something she believed in, the girl who would stand up for herself and others and the mother who would put myself in front of a moving vehicle to protect her children.
A small whisper in my heart, urges me to face the light, to take out the shame and hurt and wounded-ness and to look at them for what they are, knowing that this is the only path to healing.
On the outside, I have fear, fear that I am not good enough, that I wasn’t good enough, that I might be insane, or damaged, or that it’s all my fault that I am where I am, that I’ve lost who I am. Those thoughts and fears torture me late into the night, as I question my sanity over and over. Did I fail? What did I do wrong? What did I not do at all? Do I really deserve to be broken, splintered, like a glass thrown against a wall – did I cause myself to break?
Deep inside, I can’t hide it anymore, I don’t want to hide it. I might hide my name, my identity, but I know that I am not alone in this; that by speaking out, by taking that first brave step towards the light, that the beast with which I wrestle will no longer be invisible, no longer have power over me, no longer be the monster that has haunted my dreams and experience the past few years.
The me that is in there, the funny, loyal, loving, caring, passionate me, is all but invisible, yet it urges me to find it, it makes it’s presence known. It’s in the constant tightening of my chest and the feeling that I might not get air to breathe, if I don’t let it out of it’s cage, release it from the prison that has kept me trapped all this time.
I always thought abuse was being hit, being physically attacked, being hurt on the outside. I thought that the women who allowed people to do that to them should be able to walk away. But, I am one of them too. I didn’t see it happening and I didn’t see the scars till much later. There are no scars on my body, and for that I am grateful, but the scars on my soul lie just as deep. The shame is even deeper.
What happened to me is much more insidious. It’s subtle. It doesn’t come at me with a fist, it comes at me with an onslaught to the soul, that renders me powerless and speechless and scared. It deprives me of my courage, it strips me of my self-esteem and it tears at my joy and happiness. There have times I’ve almost wished it had been a fist (sadly so) and not a comment, a put down, a belittlement, because then I’d know I must have done something to deserve it.
It’s confused me. It’s ambushed me at times when I thought I was strong. It’s crept up on me and wrapped it’s tentacles around my heart, holding me hostage in a parasitic grip. It’s made me question my mothering, my sanity and my goodness. It’s stripped me naked emotionally and spiritually and made me feel worthless and useless, even when I knew deep inside that wasn’t true. I bought it. I believed it. I allowed it to happen, so it must have been me, something was defective in me that I couldn’t stop it happening.
Words are powerful things. They’ve ripped my heart to pieces, they’ve raged at me and make me shake with fear. They’ve made me submissive when that’s not my nature, they’ve scarred me with a depth that I’m not ever sure will heal.
These words have taken on many different levels of meaning, but they all hurt deeply in places that no one can see. There was the stay at home mother, who did “nothing” and contributed “nothing” to our financial status. There was the woman who when grappling with a deep and overwhelming postpartum depression was “a sick woman”, and “unstable person” and an “unfit mother”.There are the emails and texts where I hear over and over how worthless I really am as a woman, a mother, a person. Those words still make me flinch if I hear them or read them or encounter them anywhere. Those words hold a power that no words should hold over a human being.
There are the lies spread around like fertilizer about my heart, about my children, about my situation, about my part, about who I am. There are the punishments – the withholding of money or support when I challenged the way things were or tried to fight for what was mine. There are the lies that were told repeatedly, so repeatedly that I almost started to believe they were true. Almost. Lies that extended to, and damaged my children as much as they damaged me, bit by bit, eroding away trust like an old battery that rusts and is rendered useless.
There are my beautiful children, used as pawns to bully me into submission and to accept that I was not worthy of any kindness or empathy. The cold, hard meanness that was dispersed like the wind blows pollen, constant and ever being fertilized. The strong, feisty child of mine, who stands up for herself and her brother and is now starting to pay a heavy price for her courage.
There are the dreams, where I scream, where I frantically try to find my voice, but it has been muted, suppressed and the screams are silent. The fear of rocking the boat, the hours spent trying to fix a situation that my children were in, to plan activities that are distracting, that don’t leave them with too much time or energy to annoy him, in order to make it more bearable for them. The feeling that my once brave voice, the voice that spoke out for countless others had been silenced forever.
Mostly, there is the guilt, the deep, ugly guilt that I have not spoken out, stopped the cycle, helped myself up again, that I have been beaten down time and time again and although I am not beaten, I feel depleted of any strength or courage.
Writing this is bringing me glimpses of the person I once was, the unfailing idealist, the believer in the good of all people, the one who would fix everything and everyone. Except that some people can’t be fixed and it was never my job to fix them. My job is to fix myself, to protect my children, to rise back up and put this subtle torture out into the light, examine it and see it clearly for what it is : manipulative, abusive, and emotionally life-threatening.
I can survive. I will survive. But I needed to spill my words along with my tears onto paper, into a safe place, where all those who have walked this path can embrace me and catch me before I sink any further into the abyss that my life has become.
I have to dig deep, I have to find my roots so that I can one day blossom again and heal the scars and beliefs that are embedded into my psyche. I yearn to hold my head high, to live with the integrity and fearlessness that is a huge part of what makes up me. Believe that I, as much as any other human being, is entitled to be happy and fulfilled and that my children are equally entitled. I ask your help. I need your strength. I don’t want to sit in the dark anymore. I’m not invisible. I am here, facing the sun, the warmth, the light, waiting for spring. I am breaking my silence.
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That Girl
That night forever changed me. That night haunts me when I least expect, blurring my vision, chilling me from the inside out, numbing me even though I once again feel the ugliness of his words, the way he spoke to me and the shock I experienced during and after the event.
He offered to drive me home but when he passed my street and drove to a small parking lot by the lake, I knew something was not right. It was February. It was freezing outside and it was getting late.
I remember feeling anxious, stiff and heavy, unable to move or speak. He ate quickly, and then suddenly, he pushed me up against the door and pulled down my pants and underwear before I could even blink. The weight of him on top of me made me feel as if I would fall right out the door. Please let me fall out the door so I can escape.
He was angry when I finally found the strength to push him off of me. Very angry. He demanded that I “finish him off,” and when I sat there, speechless, he took care of the job himself. It was a violent act and even though the entire experience lasted only a few minutes, it’s taken me years to get beyond it.
After that night, I began to numb the pain and dull the memories with drugs and alcohol. It was easier that way. It was easier for me to pretend that I was interested in sex. It was easier for me to feel comfortable in my body again. It was easier for me to comprehend what happened that night since I continued to blame myself.
It was my fault for putting myself in that situation. My fault for calling him back, for leading him on, for agreeing to let him drive me home.
No one believed my side of the story. They had seen me flirt with him. They had seen us arrive together and watched us leave, just the two of us. It was his word against mine and his story was much better. He bragged about having sex with me to the other guys in the locker room. By the next afternoon, everyone “knew.”
I hung my head in shame and slowly disappeared. There were only a few months left until we would graduate from high school. Between that night and graduation day, I chopped off all of my hair, started wearing baggy clothes and hung out with an entirely different group of friends, people who didn’t care what others were saying about me and couldn’t care less who I did or did not have sex with. People who didn’t ask questions.
That night affected every relationship I had after that. It affected my self-esteem, my body image and the way I viewed sex. It was no longer something special or something that brought me closer with men I was involved with, in fact, it had quite the opposite effect. I would love ‘em and leave ‘em before they could even attempt to hurt me. No one could hurt me like that ever again. No one could hurt me if I didn’t allow myself to feel.
Drugs and alcohol provided me with a false sense of entitlement, a confidence that was meant to intimidate men and make me feel powerful. I began to flirt more and initiate sex with men I barely knew. I thought this would prove that I was in control of my body. I thought this would prove to be a deterrent against that thing ever happening to me again. That thing, that word that I have a hard time saying. The ‘R’ word.
Hearing that word brings flashbacks, instantly. I’m suddenly that vulnerable girl again and those ugly feelings take over and bring damaging thoughts to the forefront. It’s not something that I want to be reminded of and yet I have no choice. There are many unexpected things that bring about the senses, emotions and memories of that night.
I’m a mom now, a mother of two young boys. They’re just babies and yet I find myself wondering, and worrying, about how I will teach them to respect women – and themselves – and whether or not they’ll have a healthy and realistic view of sexual relationships.
I’m a wife now, with a husband who loves and respects me, who is gentle, loving, whom I feel safe with in every way.
I’m a woman now, no longer that girl. But I mourn for her. I mourn for the many young men and women who are lost to sexual abuse, or abuse of any kind. I wish I could go back in time and let that girl know that it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault. IT WAS NOT HER FAULT.
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That girl blogs at Happy Healthy Hip Home.
Maasiyat Jaan
I am a survivor. I am still surviving. I haven’t moved on, but I have moved forward. I guess that is better than not moving at all. There is so much to tell that I don’t know where to start or what parts to leave out. This is the first time I am publicly acknowledging what I lived through. It has always been a closely guarded secret. One I tried desperately to forget. If I could forget, then it meant it never happened. If it never happened, then I wasn’t damaged, broken. If it didn’t happen, then I would be worthy, loveable. Wanted. Unfortunately, that isn’t reality. It did happen and acknowledging it will bring a sort of closure on it.
I don’t remember how it started. Family members tell me that when I was about 3 or 4, my father use to give me a bath. He always locked the door and sometimes when he came out he would have an erection. No one ever asked why or questioned. Ignorance was bliss. Not knowing meant not having to take responsibility. Ignoring it meant it wasn’t real except it was very real.
The first memories I have of being sexually abused by my father start at about the age of 6. I can remember seeing him standing in the door of my room. Closing the door, slowly walking to my bed. Kneeling beside me and sliding his hand underneath my Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. His breath reeked of alcohol as he kissed me on the cheek. I would lie there with my eyes closed. In my mind, I would imagine myself far away. Running through a meadow. Laughing, happy. Anywhere but in that room. Sometime he would have me sleep in the bed with him and my mom. They would have sex. Sometimes afterwards he would rub himself up against me. Wiping himself off on me. I don’t know if my mother didn’t know or didn’t want to know, but she denies any knowledge.
My father physically abused my mother. Actually he beat my mother. Physically abused makes it sound too civilized. What he did was not civilized. I was terrified. There were times when my mother would threaten to leave him, but she never did. She always went back, and it was always worse for a while when she went back. I learned if I wanted any peace at all I had to be on his side. When she would try to leave, I would beg her to stay. Lesser of the two evils. I learned to play the game. I was good at it. My father taught me how to lie and manipulate. Even today I can do it so easily. I can lie with the smoothest of ease. I feel more comfortable when I am lying. Sometimes I lie about the most stupid things. The most mundane things that have no importance whatsoever, but I can’t help it. I don’t even realize I am lying sometimes. It is just something I do. Like breathing. I don’t have to think to breathe and I also don’t have to think to lie.
When I was 8 or 9 years old, my mother had a nervous breakdown. She was hospitalized. My father and I went to visit her. I locked myself in a bathroom. I begged the nurses to please not send me home with him. I told them I was sick to please keep in the hospital with my mother. He told them I was just upset that it was the first time I had been away from my mother and I didn’t want to leave her. They would believe him, pat me on the head, and say “Don’t worry. Mommy will be home soon”. He would smile and take my hand, as we walked out to the car. Once in the car, he told me when he got me home he was going to kill me. I believed him. As soon as we got home, I locked myself in my room. He tried to get in but I climbed out my bedroom window and ran to the neighbors. I called my grandparents (my mother’s parents) and they came to pick me up.
After that my mother divorced my father and I went to live with my grandparents. While the divorce was in the process of being finalized, my mother and I had gone back to the house she and my father had owned to pack some things. She was in the bedroom with her newest boyfriend. I was watching TV. Suddenly the window behind shattered all around me. She and her boyfriend came running out of the bedroom as 3 more shots were fired. I just put my hands over my head and curled up into a ball on the sofa as glass and wood splinters flew all around me. My mother’s boyfriend grabbed me and threw me in the bedroom closet. He thrust a .410 shotgun in my hands and said, “If anyone opens this door without knocking, shoot first. Ask questions later.”
There I sat in the dark closet. I don’t know how many more shots there were. 6 or 7. Then silence. I heard a car tire squeal, and then suddenly the closet door was opening. No one knocked. Panic stricken I cocked the gun. I don’t know if I would have really fired it or not, but before I had a chance to find out my mother screamed and said, “No, it’s only me”.
“You didn’t knock,” I’d say. “Sorry I forgot. Let’s go,” she replied.
Later I would find out that it was my father who had tried to kill me that night. In his mind, I was the reason my parents were getting a divorce and if I was out of the picture, then they could live happily ever after. This wouldn’t be the last time he would try to “get me out of the picture”. He would try 4 more times. Obviously he didn’t succeed.
He was never prosecuted for any of these crimes. Not even for the sexual abuse. I attempted suicide the first time at age 13. My therapists and doctors all thought it best to not report the abuse. They thought it best to keep things quiet. I was 16 the second time I tried to kill myself. This time the doctors reported. Totally in shock that it hadn’t been reported the first time. Three doctors and two nurses would lose their medical licenses due to their handling of my case.
When I got out of the hospital, my father was charged with molesting me. I was still very much messed up in my head. Later I would be diagnosed as bipolar. I was almost 17 when I met a guy, fell in “love” and got married. By the time the case against my father went to court I was 3 months pregnant. The case was thrown out thanks to the large campaign contribution my father made to the DA’s election fund.
The first time my (now ex) husband hit me was two weeks before we got married. The last time was six years later when I finally had enough of his physical and emotional abuse. I was tired of coming home to find women in my bed. I was tired of the pain I felt inside mostly, but I had two young children that needed a mother. There was no time for what I needed. So I pushed forward. I did what I had to do to survive, to feed my children, to make it through the next day.
Finally after a few years of this, I snapped. I am certain I was having a mental breakdown, but I could talk my way out of Alcatraz if I had to. I convinced the doctor to treat me as outpatient and then I fled. I went to another state to live. Things were okay for awhile. I was managing. Then what little I had managed to build was suddenly ripped out from under me.
I would call the kids’ father and tell him that he had to take them. I knew I was coming apart slowly. I could feel my insides unraveling. Once the kids were safe, I totally lost it. I left the country (USA) and moved overseas. I went from one abusive relationship to the next. When I was 12 I had started cutting myself. Mostly on my ankles, but now both my arms were totally covered with scars. I always wore long sleeves. No one ever questioned why.
Eventually I would become a live-in whore for lack of a better way to describe it. I knew a guy who wanted a “girlfriend”, but was married. He lived in one city but worked in another about 8 hrs away. He would go into work on Monday morning and leave to go home to his wife on Thursday afternoons. He kept an apartment in the city. I lived there rent free. He paid for everything. Gave me money for clothes or whatever I wanted to buy for the days he wasn’t there. All I had to do was be available on the days he was.
It was during this time that I met my current husband. At first he didn’t know the reality of my situation, but eventually I would tell him. I thought he would run away, but instead he asked me to marry him. I said yes. It took a few months to make the arrangements, but once they were made I left and never looked back.
My current husband is good to me. Treats me with a respect that I didn’t know existed. I am still struggling to come to terms with my past . It’s hard to look in the mirror knowing what type of person I allowed myself to become. It has been almost 7 years since I last saw or spoke to my children. I am certain I never will again, but a part of me believes that is for the best. I think of them constantly. I pray for them, but I am not able to care for them. There is so much more that I have lived through, but due to limited space I have left it out. I write anonymously because I know I will never find a better place than where I am now. While my husband knows the truth about my past, his family does not. It is still a secret I carry within.
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Maasiyat Jaan writes at Inside the Bipolar Mind.
