Julia

I am suffering from bad flashbacks of abuse as of late. The most prevalent flashback? Having my head bashed against the floor repeatedly until I was unconscious.

I was left lying in the hallway. My mother was downstairs in the kitchen and did NOTHING to stop it. She said–how can I ever forget?!–’You guys fight it out.’ I screamed for Catherine to stop, I begged for someone to help me, but nobody did. I ended up crawling into my bedroom and falling unconscious again for almost two days. I vomited repeatedly and blood came out of one ear. I know now that I probably had a mild concussion. Nobody called an ambulance, checked on me, or helped me. I remember hearing activity going on in the house through the haze of my pain and fading awareness, as if nothing had happened. My mother did nothing to protect me.

I now know years after the fact that Catherine said she hoped I was dead. She said that to my little sister, who was worried that Catherine had killed me. My little sister was around 7 or 8. I never called the police afterwards; I feared that nobody would listen to me or that I would be hurt more in retaliation. And, this is only one incident of many.

I ended up attempting suicide soon after… and that’s a whole other story in itself. The end result was being given up to the state/made a ‘ward of the court’. I was ‘in the system’ for almost 4 years. This included an abusive foster home where I was fed one meal of ‘shit on a shingle’ a day and locked in my bedroom at night. I called my ‘guardian’ ad litem and asked her to get me out of there. I was accused of lying that I had been ‘sexually abused’ at this foster home. By whom, I don’t recall. I never said anything like that! I then ended up living with my uncle and aunt. He put plastic on my bed since he ‘knew I was a bed wetter’ (I was 16 at the time), and tried to send me off for the summer by throwing a paper bag full of camp brochures in front of me and saying ‘here- fill up your summer; we don’t want you here.’ He got rid of me by telling the judge that they were afraid I would ‘kill their dog’ and that they locked their bedroom door at night. I’ll never forget that, either. I ended up in a ‘treatment center for girls’ after that, and was kept until I was 18. Drugged, sent to ‘group therapy’, forced to pray, told that I was crazy and worthless. I then returned home at 18- I had nowhere else to go- so, I had to act like none of this ever happened. The things I have done to survive… the dignity I have sacrificed… the lies I have bought and sold.

Catherine is now a doctor- how did she swear the Hippocratic oath with a straight face? My little sister is an alcoholic and a cutter, and has relationships with creepy military-type guys. She has a degree in social work, which she may or may not ever use. But, hey- at least she has one. It’s more than I have. My mother is retired and has remarried some asshole who I hope to never meet. How nice that they have successful vocations; successful and fruitful lives, and I can barely live day-to-day life. They ruined me; ruined my life- and they don’t care or have to suffer any consequences for it. They get to exist as humans, and I am forever broken. Erased. How do I end this pain without ending myself? I burn with a desire for revenge- for retribution that will never come.

January 31, 2012 | Filed Under Uncategorized | 8 Comments

Denni

How can anyone live through the the pain and write about it ? For me it isn’t easy even after all of these years. It has been 31 years since my entrance into the world of the living. Because for me, the years of pain and panic were dead years. And even now as I write this, thoughts come into my mind of maybe it was just a tad bit my fault. That somehow I was a small cause of the brutality that I lived through–and I do mean lived through.

I was a lucky one. Really lucky. Because right up to the bitter end I just didn’t know if I could make it one more hour or day.

When I met and knew I was going to marry this guy, because he was so charismatic, I thought that there just might be something wrong with him. Nothing major, nor anything that I couldn’t help him correct. We were going to help him together. (All in my mind, you understand.)

Everyone liked him. Or so I thought. And not everyone liked me. Or so I thought. And there is where it all begins.

I am inferior, dumb, stupid, lowly, disgusting, ugly, sick and how about cancerous to top it all off ? There is more that came from HIS inferior mouth and mind but why go over it all ? You know what he said to me, what he called me. Anyone who has ever been in my position knows very well what he said and thought. You know whom I’m talking about. All of you reading this. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it ? This is a first for me after all of these years and I can feel the anger and tears coming up inside of me. They are there. Still there after all of this time. Does it ever go away? Maybe it never should so that we can help others who don’t really know how to get out.

Without writing a book here I can tell you that I was so abused verbally and physically that when I got divorced I was mentally the same age as when I got married. And I was sick on and off for all of those years. Emotionally and physically. This person, beast, man, sick person, you name him. He is like all the rest that we all know and fear. Hate? No. I don’t hate. I think he is pathetic. To do what he and many others have done to us for so many years of our lives. But we didn’t allow them to take our whole life. We got out somehow, some way.

He embarrassed me, humiliated me, hit me, beat me, beat me, beat me, and beat me more. I think maybe he really enjoyed it in some sick way. Even though he told me how sorry he was each and every time. He dragged me around the house by my hair, pulled it out, spit on me, threw things at me, poured food on me, kicked me, and beat me again.

Everything in the house had to be perfect. Only perfection was accepted. Except for him. He was NOT perfect. His clothes had to be ironed. And they had to have a perfect crease and look perfect. The house had to be spotless. No spots. And I couldn’t go out to any kind of enjoyable event or when I got home he would do that thing again. BEAT me. You get the idea. I was under his control. Always. And I better know it. Or else. He would do that thing again. Beat me. Oh that word. It is always there, isn’t it? Will it ever go away? Yes, when we leave. And that’s what I did. Eventually. I got out. And would you believe that almost to the bitter end he really really did it again? I mean all out just BEAT almost everything out of me. Almost. But I did get out.

We can all get out. I did. You can too. You must. Not just for yourself but for everyone else involved. Children and family. All of us. It is like we are all one big family. We understand. Even when you think no one else does, you know we are here. We want to help. We can give you support.

Please don’t let whomever it is do to you what was done to me and others like me. We are too important. Others need us. We can help. We can do it.

I today am a grateful person. I have much to be thankful for. And I have accomplished many things. Join me. Be the person that you can be, too. It was hard but I did it.

Thank you so much for reading this.

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January 26, 2012 | Filed Under domestic violence, survivor story | 6 Comments

Elizabeth

I always wanted to be invisible after that first time it happened. I wanted to watch you, but I didn’t want you to see what I was up to.

I remember sitting in my parents’ living room with my eyes shut down, while my breathing became rather shallow. I didn’t want you to hear me either.

I was always in my Sunday best – patent leather shoes with shiny buckles, poppy necklaces and frilly silly girly dresses that were held up by skinny little legs that sprung to life at the drop of a Broadway tune coming from my father’s HiFi. But now I wanted to dissolve into one of those Tom Collins drinks that made their way around at my parents’ shindigs. In between all the merriment and my father’s wit that rivaled Oscar Wilde, there he was. Some one had let the devil incarnate in.

Everybody loved him. What was not to like? His laughter was contagious, his dance moves were legendary and he could hold his liquor. But he gave up his soul a long time ago. Maybe he left it at home? What the hell did a 5-year-old know?

I did not have a shy bone in my body. I could entertain anyone at anytime. Even if they didn’t ask. I was your girl. I wish the little me could have hung out a little longer. But I understand. You had to go. You had to join the underground. Changed your name and burned your dance card. But he kept coming back and searched you out. Who let him in?

This was when adults knew everything. But they never knew this. I think my father would have killed him if he knew. But instead they shared cigarettes and war stories.

Your lap was like a portal into Hell, and I wonder how many other little girls felt pain when you pushed them down on your lap. Our big tulle and taffeta skirts hid what you did to us. Such a clever man you were.

But I had no one to tell and had no words to describe what had happened. I just knew that it hurt.

I realized if I stopped dancing, if I stayed with the other kids downstairs, if I never went near him again, then I could be safe. Funny how my 5-year-old self became the mother/father figure who saved my own life.

I stuffed that pain down inside just like I used to stuff green peas into my mashed potatoes. Thinking that this crime against my innocence would never resurface. But these memories always do. It’s all a matter of time. For the longest time I did real well in the stuff-it-and-snuff-it department.

Until I was 25.

I was living in San Francisco at the time when I was slammed against the wall with my memory, my hidden truth. My own personal earthquake had disturbed the sleeping beast and its black eye winked and welcomed me back home. It was that subtle.

I remembered what he had done to me.

I am so grateful that this sickening truth came back to me after my very anguished teen years. I can almost guarantee that I would have not survived those years.

I tried to find out if he was dead. I wanted to be afforded the opportunity to sit with him.

I was always told that I could give looks that could kill. And I would have taken a really long hard look at him.

I did find out recently that this man died in 2005. I have to say that I did not think about him that much over the years and for one very good reason – if I succumbed to what he did to me then I would have given up my power. There was no way I would allow him to take anything else from me. When I grasped that belief, I knew that although he violated my small little body, he did not get to my soul. He may have messed up some issues I had with trust, but when the right people showed up, I was able to let me defenses down. I won. He lost.

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Elizabeth writes at My View From the Edge.

January 24, 2012 | Filed Under sexual abuse, survivor story | 18 Comments

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