I've been sitting here wondering how to explain my experiences with abuse. Which experience to share?
There are fragmented moments in my memory of molestation, rape, incest that happened when I was a child. There are more images so crisp and clear. Memories that still shock me with their vividness. Rape, beatings, harmful words, exploitation, pain.
Please do not pity me.
I am stronger for every experience. I am more aware of the foulness that a child and a woman can experience and overcome.
At the age of around 5 my sexual experiences with men began with a neighbor. I can almost feel the old mans ragged breath on my ear. I can hear his words again, almost feel his hands on my sacred places, as he described how my body would mature and change. I stood there numb, confused, so stiff and still.
I celebrated the day he died.
There was also my friend's brother, not long after the previous incident. I had gone to see if my friend wanted to play, but she had gone out with her mother. Her brother in cited me in to wait. He showed me some pictures of naked women, telling me that when I grew up I would look like them. I was confused at the response my body had to his touch and lay there like a doll. He took advantage of my wearing a dress to slip his penis past my underwear. The second that it touched my Hymen, I began to fight and ran home. In shock and fear I ran home, and quietly went into the restroom where I got sick and hid my underwear with their spot of blood in the trash.
I had a family member that I looked up to, almost like a big brother. He gave me "special" attention when we were alone. Young and just starting to bloom into womanhood, I trusted him when he said that his "special" attentions were normal but a secret.
I repressed those memories. A child's mind going blank to protect itself from experiences that a child should not have to endure.
The day my friend's brother came back into my life, my world shifted.
I was surprised at the primordial, murderous rage that filled me. At the young age of 12, I could have easily slit his throat as memories flooded my brain. Touches, words, pain. I felt and heard them again.
I was betrayed.
I ran home. Told my mother all. We both cried. She told me that I should have told her when those "things" were done to me. It was too late to do anything about them. I should not have LET "them" do those "things" to me.
It was too late for her to help her daughter.
She never told my father, but neither did I.
My mother played a very strong role in how I would view men and sex during my formative teenage years. (She is also a subject for another time.)
As a preteen I was encouraged to wear make-up, high heels and short tight clothing. Granted I was informed and taught that there was a fine line between sexy and sleezy, but aggressively encouraged non the less.
It was part of the culture that I grew up in. A young women must act and dress maturer than her age. Marriage to an older man was the ultimate prize. Marry young, have lots of babies, bow to your husband's every whim, keep quiet, know your place and above all be complacent.
Thank the Universe for my father! (I'll explain his quiet foundational role in another blog!)
At 15 I was raped by a stranger at knife point. Young and naive I kept quiet while the man conducted his business with the body my mind had escaped from. I don't know how I got home. I came back to myself in the shower. Scrubbing hard in the steaming water while tears of repulsion ran down my cheeks.
I almost committed suicide that night. Once again my father played a quiet, vital role.
Within a year I was dating a very handsome young man. We considered marriage. We were happy except when we argued. One night he beat me. A slap on the face followed by punches to the stomach. While I lay on the ground he wrapped his hands around my throat. He screamed and yelled. After be left I crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep.
Two nights later, he came to apologize. We started arguing again. He knocked me down and started kicking me. He left me on the ground and drove away.
My parents were gone both times and the neighbors never called the police. I never told anyone at the time.
Skip forward a few years. At 20 I met a man that I would marry. We would have three beautiful children. I followed him clear across country. Away from my family and friends. He became the center of my world.
He had a habit that I eventually joined in. He liked Meth and marijuana. I used to worry when I would be at work, because he would go hang out with his friends, our children tagging along. He encouraged me to take part in his indulgences and I did. My excuse was that it would keep him home.
It did and our relationship deteriorated. He was passive-aggressive. He was too smart to hit me, but he was good at playing mind games. He could reduce me to a mumbling mess of tears and self loathing with a few words. He played upon my past, my low self-esteem and my weaknesses. His favorite taunt was warning me that he could disappear into Mexico with our children and I would never see them again.
I feared him. I used to wish he would just beat me, so that I would have physical evidence of the abuse he enjoys doling out.
I sobered up. He left us and filed for divorce.
He is a psychological abuser. He still plays his games to this day. He knows he has no hold on me with his lies and taunts.
In a twisted way, I owe him thanks. He was the last straw, so to speak. I have opened my eyes to my strength and will.
He still plays his games, but now with our children. Unfortunately Idaho has no laws against psychological abuse. I protect them as I can. It breaks my heart that I can't stop or at least make his visits supervised.
I have lived through several forms of abuse. I am still working on my self. I take it day by day.
I refuse to call myself a victim. Having a victim mentality implies that my abuser still has power over me.
Being a survivor means that I have taken back control of my life.
This is only a small part of my self portrait. A small example of some of what I have survived.
If you have experienced abuse, don't be shamed into keeping silent. Speak out. It could help others know that there are other survivors.
To state again:
Abuse comes in many forms...and hurts anyway that it is dealt out.
Open the dialogue.
Be aware.
Report it.
Seek help.
Share your story.
Let the healing start.
We need to share the pain to lessen the hurt.
We need to pass on the message that "It Shouldn't Hurt To Be A Child".
Blessings and Love,
~Faye~
