Yeah, that’s me. Asleep against the wall after standing (and occasionally sitting) in the corner all day.
I was an abused kid. This is my story, then and now.
This web site is a collection of writings and artwork in progress for what will eventually be a book. The content on this site is an incomplete and unedited view of things along the way. Many posts are a work in progress and may seem to end abruptly. The timeline jumps around a bit because past and present are often connected in strange ways. Part of my purpose with this site is the process of working through the narrative. I’ll circle back around and wrap everything up in a coherent fashion for the book.
Ultimately, I’d like this to be a valuable resource for those in similar situations. I am determined to make sure the cycle of abuse stops with me. I’ve worked through the effects of the abuse to become a reasonably healthy adult. That process included lots of therapy, lots of reading, and a great deal of trial and error. I learned how to stop my Groundhog Day of bad relationships by setting proper boundaries. I stopped immersing myself in the awful chaos that was killing my soul, no matter how familiar and comfortable it seemed. I want to help others do the same. Hopefully, by sharing the wisdom I’ve gathered from personal reflection and trusted advisors I can help someone avoid some of the mistakes I made so they can get to their healthy sooner. I’d especially like this to be a resource for teens that are in the midst of the abuse. It’s a lonely and isolated place, and it feels like there is nowhere to turn. I pray this can shed some light into the darkness and offer hope and the knowledge that things will get better.
Please feel free to add comments or thoughts, I’d love any feedback you want to share.
A not so fond look back at events that happened long ago. Remembering and feeling can be cathartic if we allow it. Emptying leads to growth and release from the twisted grasp of the past.
Day turned to night. My stomach managed to work in some serious hunger pains amongst the flipping and flopping. Lunch came and went. So did dinner. Somehow I didn’t get a Stepford mom waltzing outside with a bologna sandwich and a tall glass of chocolate milk. Dad did manage to shuffle outside with a flashlight, looking sheepish.
She is not finished yet. The “bowl on the floor” trick was just the warmup. She slams open the lock on the basement door and clomps down the steps. I hear some muffled shuffling of objects, then sit in dread as once again those pudgy feet take to the stairs. She appears in the basement doorway, dog collar and leash in hand.
I’m spluttering. Taking huge heaving breathes, desperately searching for oxygen that won’t come. There are food particles plastered to my face. I am drenched. My clothes are clinging to me in oddly twisted folds. I realize the stench I now smell is me, the heat baking the dirty water to my skin.
I hated that cold linoleum floor and the hard brick walls. I hated the ubiquitous white-faced school clock whose hands never seemed to move. I hated the doors constantly opening as people filed in and out, sending a new blast of cold air over me every few minutes.
My eyelashes are brushed with a black thing that looks like a skinny sea anemone. She pulls out some of my baby sister’s pink hair clips and fastens them to my head. My stomach is churning. It’s going to be a long, shameful walk down the bus aisle today.
As my brother said once, it’s a wonder I’m not gay. I know that’s probably not the most politically correct statement, but there is some truth to it. Because Lord knows mom did her darnedest to emasculate me as much as possible.
She swings the hammer again. Chards of ceramic fly around the kitchen. She keeps swinging, trying to break off more and more pieces. Chunks slam into my skin. She’s at full throttle now, swinging and screaming and foaming at the mouth. She tells me how much I deserve it.
I didn’t survive in a vacuum. No one does. There are people that help us along the way, a divine Creator that works in direct opposition to the evil that oppresses us, and an internal fortitude to which we don’t give enough credit.
Growing up, my brother was the closest thing to a father that I knew. Yes, a bizarre statement considering I had an actual father in the house, but Dad never really filled the role of trusted advisor and wise sage.
Given that mom was a master hypochondriac, my siblings and I assumed that she’d be around to torment us forever. It was a bit surreal when she went to the hospital and never made it back out. Ironically, it happened not long after I began writing this book. Here are some of my thoughts tied to those events.
I wrestled for a while about whether or not to give a eulogy at my mother’s funeral. I did not want to disrespect the dead, but I also did not want to paint a false picture of sunshine and lollipops. At 1:30am the night before, I force myself to crack the laptop and start writing.
There was no closure. There was no moment of enlightenment. No chorus of angels shrouding her in light and allowing her a brief moment of humanity while she hesitated at the crossroads between this world and the next.
The natural human response is kindness. And it’s occurring to me now, she doesn’t have that natural human instinct. She was never able to feel anything but her own suffering, her own anguish, her own torment. Someone broke that part of her. So she lashes out. At everyone and everything around her, including her children.
Gathering up the chards that lay around me and puzzling to together the other lives and circumstances that made things the way they were.
Mom was always vaguely obtuse about Grandpa. She never seemed to like him much, but he remained a figure in her life. There was never any time with Grandpa alone.
Child abuse. Those two words have such strong connotation. They evoke vivid imagery. Some of it is accurate. My mother detests the movie “Mommy Dearest,” in part because it probably reminds her so much of herself. I have never seen the film — I have a very difficult time watching things like that, for all the reasons you might imagine.
Putting the mirror back together takes time and hard work. That mirror will always show the cracks and seams, but it can be made whole again. The reflection is beautiful.
Sometimes it’s ok to be a little angry about the injustice of it all. It’s ok to let that emotion seep in and throttle wildly through your veins. It’s ok to ask “why me?,” knowing full well there is no answer to that question.
At some point you start to realize that you are actually the parent to your abuser, and probably always have been. The primitive thinking and behavior consistently shown by them requires a deft touch to navigate. All of this means that in many ways you grew up too fast and lost your childhood, and that childhood needs to be mourned, and if possible, experienced anew at an age appropriate level.
I’m hardwired with an overabundance of curiosity and a finite supply of time in the day. It’s a bad combo. It also keeps me stuck. I am constantly biting off more than I can chew, and subsequently choking as a result.
I am learning how to relate to women in a new way. Not as anything, really, other than who I am, in that moment, and who I can be, in an open, honest, loving relationship over the long haul. It is a significant work progress. I am not fully formed, but I am inching ever closer.
Receiving love has always been a difficult thing, and even hearing those simple words can be difficult to take. I just am not sure what to do with them. Perhaps more accurately, I just don’t trust them.
Unless they’ve willingly embraced and been completely consumed by evil, which is an entirely different beast that manifests in truly horrific ways, then the abuser has the ability to see that their abuse for what it is. And that’s a problem on many levels.