Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and freedom.
But the personality formed in the environment of coercive control is not well adapted to adult life. The survivor is left with fundamental problems in basic trust, autonomy, and initiative. She approaches the task of early adulthood――establishing independence and intimacy――burdened by major impairments in self-care, in cognition and in memory, in identity, and in the capacity to form stable relationships.
She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she re-encounters the trauma.-Judith Lewis Herman
I love to write. I currently own two journals; one for just everyday thoughts and stress relief, and the other for lyrics and poems. Writing my thoughts and feeling has been a great coping mechanism for me sense I could write full paragraphs. So, about second or third grade.I had a bit of a rough childhood, but not a terrible one. I grew up with lots of love and was actually very spoiled with materialistic commodity.
My loving, very beautiful mother was a workaholic. As kids we don't understand how we accumulate such fancy clothes and backpacks, but I knew. "I have to work to provide for you. I have to keep food on the table and clothes on your back!" Not a problem from my mother. My sisters an I understood this very well. Finances were never our biggest fear.
My mother and step-father (I do despise that term, step-father.) made enough to make ends meet and then some. We never worried about having empty bellies or dirty clothes. Our real worries came from making sure our homework was done before dad got home, And especially and more importantly the house being clean.
My mother and step dad met when I was eight months old and married about a year later. I was roughly two years old during the ceremony. I don't remember any of it or my step dad pushing my mom into the laundry basket after they were officially united in holy matrimony. That is a memory my mother had and has reiterated to me and my sisters countless times. The three of us don't recall why or it even taking place, but we definitely remember most of the 13 years that followed.
Among many things my father (yes, my father, the man who raised me and shaped me into an adult.) has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) when he was young it wasn't a common thing. He went his whole life dealing with this condition unmedicated. Understand that persons with OCD don't just want things a certain way, but truthfully believe they need them that way.
As you can imagine, it was tough for the five of us as a whole. When I say a clean house mattered most I most definitely mean it. Let me explain that I am by no means making excuses for a man to abuse his wife and children. I'm simply making a point that untreated mental illness has consequences as does everything else. I'm also giving you a background of who I am and how that came to be.
My earliest memories with my father are fantastic. We had many great days tied with many bad days. He took us to the mall often and pumpkin patch every fall. I don't remember a lot of things that happened to me.There are few times I was hit in the back of my head for something silly. Once I had come out of the bathroom while my dad was cleaning the computer and he said he hated me, but i think he was just stressed out.
I remember the time my dad destroyed the living room because I had my homework spread across the living room floor when he came home from work. He literally shoved everything off the dinning table, entertainment system and tossed them over. When my mom called her brother he agreed with my dad as if he was in the right to be upset about it and to act that way. I remember more witnessing both of my sisters distress after being beaten or yelled at.
One memory that plays over and over is one of the nights my oldest sister, Tabi, ran away. I don't remember what my dad and her were arguing about, but I think my sister needed medicine for her ear ache and was first arguing with my mom. In some form I think my dad was trying to defend my mom. My sister and him stopped going back and forth when my dad opened his arms as if he was about to hug her, which we all knew in that instant was absolutely not what was about to happen. He swung is hands together and they landed on each of Tabi's ears. He hit hard and I could tell because she crumbled to the floor, like her legs were jello, sobbing.
The last straw for my mom was not when she left and we lived in a women's shelter for a couple of months, but years later when my other sister, Amanda, fell (my mom said she was pushed , but I hardly believe he would go that far) down the stairs and after he whooped her.
These seem like tragic stories and they are and there are many more. When I was growing up I didn't know this to be unusual. I thought this was how families lived. Daddies were to be feared. Movies were fake and no family was like 7th Heaven not even Jehovah's Witnesses, which we were. I still to this day firmly believe that what we went through wasn't as bad as anyone says it is. That's probably do to how people reacted when my mother called for help the few times she did. I mean worse things have happened to others.
I'm not telling you this so you will pity me or so you will hate my father. I Iove my father dearly I spend time with my father as often as I can. My father was sick then and he still is. Anxiety, OCD, depression, bipolar disorder and insomnia are all very serious chemical imbalances in the brain. No, there is never an excuse to be violent, but unknown conditions and untreated conditions can cause unwanted, irrational, uncontrolled, unexpected behavior with people you love.
My father is a good man who grew up very frustrated and angry and he never new why. He had a short fuse. I grew up into a wonderful woman. How I grew up did shape me and not without my own mental abnormalities.
When my mother left my dad I stayed with him. Not because I felt bad (well, maybe I did a little bit; kind of karmatically he had gotten hurt at work pretty bad. A fork lift rolled back onto his foot.) but because I knew life with him and I knew him. He's my dad. I didn't want to leave my dad. I was glad I stayed and I'll never regret it. I think it's what created my personality the most. He changed drastically and that allowed me to find my voice with him out loud. He never hit me again. He did threaten me once and only once more. I was able then to tell him no. I was able to tell him if he ever put his hands on me again that I would leave and never come back. It was harsh, but I felt it was necessary to put my 15 year-old foot down. I was scared he still might have, but he didn't.
I wont say that was my last abusive relationship, because patterns are a very real aspect of what abused children look for in relationships, but it was the very last time my father threatened or hit me. Sense then our relationship has been as normal as it ever was. To me it was always normal. The unusual thing would be a life without him. He may have done bad things but hes a great man and I give him extra credit for the woman I've learned to become.
I now have a daughter of my own. She is three years old. I promised myself and her that she would always know she is loved. She wont be able to relate to my childhood in some aspects. However, I do believe discipline is a part of loving a child. Children need firm parents and to be taught respect and for that I am grateful. Children learn from what they see and I have made a vow to show Emma love always and to apologize when I feel like I have crossed a line with her. To teach my child respect I will treat her with respect.
Abusive relationships are not okay by any means, but sometimes the situation is complicated. It is true that I have grown up too fast and I exhibit my step-fathers behaviors. I do have a very short fuse and lack of patience. Those are habits I can break. My father will always be my father and he will always have a hand in who I am; smart, funny, witty, kind, empathetic, etc. Maybe it's odd that I give him credit for those aspects of my personality, but without him who would I be?
