Kelly
[Editor’s note: There is a several month wait list to post on Violence UnSilenced, so sometimes the time lines on pieces are a little confusing. Kelly has posted before on VU as "Kay"--she sent her submission in March and it finally ran in June. Back in March, right after submitting her piece to me, she wrote a second piece and she asked that I post it anonymously; this is the piece that is finally running today. However, over this past weekend she sent a postscript letting me know she no longer wanted to be anonymous, and why.]
I’ve written and submitted “my story” to Violence Unsilenced as “Kay.” I reread it occasionally, half anticipating, half dreading the day it’s published. But lately I find myself wondering if I’m telling the right story. My past, that story, is something that I’m dealing with. But there’s so much more to my story, a whole other story I can’t seem to force myself to write. And publish? I can’t even imagine. But today? I need to. Yet I find my fingers frozen at this point, afraid to go any further, at the same time knowing that I NEED to.
I read every story that’s published. I comment on each one. I feel the pain, the shame, the anger, the confusion, that each writer shares. I commend each author for being courageous enough to share. And then I pick the stories apart in my own mind, comparing them to my own. Not the one that’s been written, but the one I’m avoiding.
Because I have no bruises, no scars, no blood, no violence. Nothing that justifies what I feel. I should be grateful that I have a husband, a husband who doesn’t drink, or beat me, or cheat on me. And I am grateful that my husband doesn’t do those things, believe me, I am.
But there’s still that small voice inside my head, the one that cannot be silenced, no matter how long I ignore her for. No matter how much I argue with her, how many times I make excuses or how many ways I try to justify it.
It’s that voice that has pushed me to talk to others, to try to instill in them a belief that THEY DO NOT DESERVE THIS. That same voice has allowed me to talk to rape survivors, reminding them that it is NOT their fault. So why can’t I believe this voice myself? Why can’t I allow her to speak freely, to my heart, to my soul, to the rest of my mind? To the parts of me that have shut down and stopped caring, the parts of me that have hardened over time, covered in that invisible scar tissue?
People are quick to say that abuse comes in all forms – physical, sexual, psychological, verbal, emotional. But even I, a survivor of assault, cannot convince that other part of me that verbal and emotional abuse is just as damaging to the soul, to the psyche, as physical abuse is. I would never say to another victim that the non-physical abuse she’s suffering through isn’t abuse. So why do I continue to tell myself that?
Every time that look crosses his face, the combination of disgust and ridicule, I feel it like a fist.
Every time that tone of voice, the condescending, belittling reminder that I am not important, not worthy, is heard, I flinch.
Every time I hear the comments on how wrong I am, how I “should” be, what I’m screwing up now… I’m suddenly a child, not in control again, feeling violated and ashamed.
It’s never obvious. He won’t call me a whore, or a stupid bitch. It’s so much more subtle. It’s the knowing that I’m not worthy of a hug, a kiss, a “Happy Birthday,” a gift, a touch on the shoulder. It’s the constant condescending attitude, the implication that I am nowhere near good enough. It’s the constantly being told what I’ve done wrong, and that I’ll never learn. It’s being told that I need to change, but then told that I’m too weak to change. It’s starting to make those changes… and then being told that they’re the wrong ones. It’s being told that I’m too needy, too demanding. It’s tiptoeing around, afraid of making too much noise, and sending him into a rage. It’s keeping kids and company quiet, because he might get irritated. It’s feeling alone and ignored, but being afraid to say anything, because that WILL send him into a rage. It’s stating my feelings about his online affair with another woman, only to be told that it’s nowhere near as bad as what I did to him in the past – so therefore I have no right to complain. It’s being lied to repeatedly. It’s little pieces of myself falling away, every time I give in, stop talking to a certain friend because they’re a “bad influence” or make him uncomfortable. It’s being afraid to try a new recipe, because he might not like it, and break a plate or spend 20 minutes instructing me on how I “should have” done it.
It’s the pitying looks in the eyes of close friends, who have been around long enough to see. I brush it off, explaining that we have a much more “traditional” marriage than most, and that I’m just submissive by nature. But I’m not. Not even close. I’m mouthy, bitchy, outspoken, and my feelings run deep. Except… with him. With him, that’s gone. That me no longer exists. I’m quiet, soft-spoken, timid, ashamed, guilty, and terrified of what will come next. I don’t think it will turn physical – it’s been this way since the beginning. But how long before the last part of me dies inside? How long before the damage that’s done is irreversible?
How can I start healing from an assault that happened so long ago, when my daily life reinforces all of those sick and twisted thoughts? Thoughts that I got what I deserved, that it was somehow my fault, that it really wasn’t that bad, that… How can I believe that about being raped as a child, when I allow myself to live in a marriage that reminds me daily that I’m not worthy of being loved, respected, treasured?
And yet… I still don’t have the strength to walk away. Because it gets better – I get up the courage to say something, or we talk, or something just gives, and for a little while, he IS that man that I fell in love with. And I allow myself to get my hopes up again, believing that he’s seen what he was doing, and will change. He’ll do something sweet, something I didn’t expect, or make a nice comment.
That’s when I tell that voice inside me, “See, you’re overreacting, AGAIN. He loves you. Why can’t you just accept him for who he is, learn to live with the infrequent affection/attention/praise that he’s capable of giving you? Why do you expect him to be someone he’s not?”
But better never lasts. It always goes back to neglect, belittling, demeaning, condescending, heartbreaking. And I argue with myself that I’ve put too much into this marriage to just walk away NOW. And then I see that my children are miserable, because as much as I might try, I can’t hide this from them. Is my son going to grow up to treat his wife this way? Or will he marry a woman that treats him like that?
I sit and wonder which is reality, am I overreacting when it’s not “good”, or am I making excuses for the bad times when I get a glimpse of what could be?
How do you make a decision like this when you’re at war with yourself, unsure of which side to trust? Not trusting yourself to make the decision to stay, nor to leave? After believing his words for so long, how do I convince myself that they’re not true?
Postscript:
When I sent this story to Maggie months ago, I panicked – I couldn’t imagine it being published, and asked her to please post it anonymously. And I’ve hidden it away in a folder, not looking at it again until today. But today is different. Today? I’m no longer hiding. I can tell you who I am, and where I write.
Because that scar tissue became thicker and thicker, and something inside me broke. I made my decision to leave, and I became totally incapable of backing down. It was survival to me – there was no other option. And somehow, through little clues that I left, a flinch when his tone changed, a comment I had made, the look on my face – my husband began doing his own soul searching. And somehow, while looking for divorce support, he came across a page with a checklist to determine if you’re in an emotionally abusive relationship. He read the checklist, and recognized himself.
He couldn’t believe it, so he spent the night researching emotional abuse. He realized who he’s been over the years, what he’s done. And he wants to get help.
Right now, that doesn’t change my plans – but it gives me hope for the future. I know most abusers never admit or recognize what they’ve done… and for being so brutally honest, so willing to try, I thank him. Now, so much more clearly, I can see the pieces of the man that I fell in love with so many years ago. He’s still in there. I can finally say, with meaning, that I am no longer a victim. Instead, I’m a survivor.
And, hopefully, he will one day be able to say that he is no longer the man that he has been for the past 16 years. He wrote about his realization, his discovery of what he’s been doing, at his blog. I’m so very tempted to go back and edit this story – adding things, changing things, that I made sure to disguise or leave out because this was being posted anonymously. But I won’t do that. This was the story I wrote from the depths of my pain, the details are unimportant.
The fact that I don’t have to hide behind anonymous is the gift he’s given me today.
Elise
Editor’s note: If you or anyone you know is feeling suicidal, please call 1-800-784-2833 immediately. The National Suicide Hotline number is free and staffed 24-hours a day.
I can’t understand why I walked with this shadow over me. This panic and crazy feeling of being really up one minute but then broken the next.
My mother and brothers never talked about what happened when I was seven. To this day, my brother Ethan won’t look me in the eye. He was the one who had me in our mom’s room.
There I was naked and he’s behind me ready to… go inside me. If it hadn’t been for my other brother James and my mom coming home from the store and pulling that curtain aside I probably would have lost my virginity to my own brother.
James grabbed Ethan and pushed him up against the wall and said, look! Look..that’s your sister. Your sister! Mom wrapped a blanket around me and took me out of her room she told me that nothing happenend and everything was okay.
Time passed and for ten years no one talked about it. Ethan wouldnt talk to me. We all lived under the same roof and if I entered the living room he’d go upstairs.
The day came when I was 17 and the boys were arguing and James was losing the argument so he proudly says, At least I didn’t have sex with my sister. I stood by the sink and felt tiny like I’m nothing. Just a piece of ass that anyone including my hero of a brother can talk about. From that moment I knew I could never trust or love him the way brothers and sisters are supposed to. I have two brothers who are nothing to me and it hurts to know we will never be close.
More. I met the man who raped me at my job. We were friends for a year, then he wanted to begin dating. I fell in love with him and one day he got really drunk and raped me while I was trying to get him into his room to sleep. I’m ashamed to say that I tried to forgive him even though he cheated on me and told me that I have to put this in a place where I can deal with it. (One minute he’s my rapist, the next minute he’s analyzing me.)
I’m in the process of finding a psychologist to help me with my flashbacks, my anger, nightmares, nervousness, and apprehensive, hostile, untrustworthy behavior. I used to not be like this. There was a time I laughed and enjoyed art and music, which I used to sing. I loved books. I don’t know how to get back to that–back to myself. I let shame, guilt, rage and anger at god, my family, and a man who could look at me after being raped and say, you need to put this in a place where you can deal with this. I’m not dealing very well. I’m messing up at my job. I hardly talk with anyone in my family anymore, I just keep to myself and wonder why god didn’t want me when I tried to take my life with some sleeping pills. So that’s my mindset and where I’m at now. I guess I can’t go any lower.
I’ve been to therapy, group, and I still have flashbacks, nightmares, and recently I’ve been having hallucinations at work.
I am 35 years old. I’m scared, alone, and I want to die.
***
Editor’s note: If you or anyone you know is feeling suicidal, please call 1-800-784-2833 immediately. The National Suicide Hotline number is free and staffed 24-hours a day.
Wednesday Q&A: How Can I Honor DV Awareness Month?
QUESTION
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. What can I do? What actions make the biggest impact? The stories shared here at Violence Unsilenced make me want to do more, and turn anger (and empathy and inspiration) into action.
ANSWER
Yes! In communities across the country, October is a time of purple ribbons, speak-outs, peace vigils and more. (Similarly, April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, another important opportunity for community awareness-raising.)
The best activities are those that inspire real discussion, that empower others to move from bystander to ally (or from ignorance to informed), and that help people challenge the stereotypes and assumptions that allow domestic violence to thrive.
Here are a few suggestions to get you started:
- Ask your local DV agency if they’re planning a calendar of events. Share the calendar with your friends and neighbors (and, if you have time, volunteer to help).
- Create an event or campaign of your own. Write a letter to the editor highlighting common warning signs, ask bars and restaurants to post fliers about local services in their restrooms, or host a speak-out at a community center where survivors and their loved ones can share their stories in a safe and affirming environment. As a helpful resource, the Domestic Violence Awareness Project offers programming ideas, a national DVAM calendar of events, downloadable materials and more.
- Talk about the issue with people you care about. For example, if you have tweens or teens in your life, talk openly with them about the importance of healthy relationships and what they can do if they witness behaviors that make them feel uncomfortable.
- Think critically about the messages portrayed in media, marketing and entertainment — and speak out if something isn’t right.
- Involve your workplace — organize a brown bag discussion with a representative from your local shelter, distribute information about local resources, or ask HR if they have a protocol for how to help victims. Domestic violence represents a huge cost and concern to businesses, and companies can do so much to protect employees and promote safety. Groups like the Family Violence Prevention Fund and the Safe at Work Coalition help companies create safe environments and raise awareness about the problem.
- Involve your house of worship. Ask if you can write an essay for the weekly bulletin dispelling common myths and highlighting how communities can help, or arrange a collection to benefit your local domestic violence shelter.
- Consider making a personal donation — no matter how large or small — to your local domestic violence organization. In today’s economic climate, more and more DV agencies face a rising need for services just as government and private funding sources are shrinking. They need your support now more than ever.
October is a helpful time to make sure these issues rise to the forefront of our communities’ attention. But the truth is, we need to do this work year-round, to make a difference and end this epidemic.
Please exercise the same safe, supportive, non-judgmental restraint in the comment section of the Q&A as you do for survivors, as many of them are reading.
Our volunteer expert, Carrie K., is a trained advocate who has worked with survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault, as well as their families and friends. Her background includes hotline advocacy, community education, and awareness and prevention programming around issues of domestic violence and sexual assault. Most recently, she has worked for a domestic violence intervention and prevention program in Wisconsin. She blogs at rageisgood.blogspot.com
If you have something you have always wanted to know about domestic violence and/or sexual assault, please email your question to carrie [at] violenceunsilenced [dot] com .
Heather
I never look forward to Father’s Day.
It really sucks because my husband is a kick-ass father.
He deserves this day, but instead he gets to deal with a depressed wife.
This day should focus on him, but without fail it always focuses back on me. For this is the day that my stepbrother decided to show me what all the ‘big girls were doing.’
Each year my mother would insist that we go to my biological father’s house for Father’s Day. I would beg to stay home, to be with MY dad. But she insisted we go and so we would. We would drive down the two hours to my stepmother’s family reunion. The adults would always be up in the house and the kids swam in the pond, rode 4-wheelers or just played in the woods.
He was thirteen, I was six. He was never very nice to me. I so wanted to be liked, I wanted to be able to hang out with my ‘older brothers.’
He said if I could be a big girl I would be able to go in his room and listen to his radio. Did I know what big girls did?
He took me into the woods and made me lay on the ground. He took off his pants & all I remember is the suffocating feeling as he shoved himself down my throat. I tried to scream, to shove him off of me, but I couldn’t. He touched me in places that made me hurt. And when he was all done he told me what a bad girl I was. How much trouble I would be in if my ‘father’ found out what I had done to him. He told me I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, because if I did there was a place where they sent the bad girls to and I didn’t want to go there. I just wanted to go home.
Every other weekend for nearly four years this would go on. I would beg my mother to let me stay home. She had no clue why and I was afraid to tell her.
Afraid of her sending me away to where the bad girls went.
If he couldn’t get me alone during the day, he would come into the bedroom where I slept at night. I thought if I just pretended that I was sleeping that he would go away. But he was never discouraged–my ’sleeping’ only encouraged him more. I remember hiding panties that had blood stains on them for fear I would just get trouble like my brother did when he wet himself at my stepmother’s house. I didn’t want them to pin my panties to the front of my clothes and make me walk around like that all day.
One summer day when he had me pinned behind the garage getting ready to “take my bad to a new place,” as he said, his mother came around the corner. I remember the screaming. She kept telling him he was just like his father. She made him go to his room. I was told to go in the bathroom. She made me take a shower. The water was scalding, I remember crying because my shoulders felt like they were on fire.
Once my father got home work he spanked my stepbrother. He got grounded, and they took away his new boombox. My stepmother asked me why did I let him do this. She insisted that maybe I liked it. She tossed around words that included “like her mother.”
My father, the police officer, asked that I keep it a secret.
He said if I told my mother that we would never be able to see my grandmother again.
That bad would happen. ”You don’t want bad things to happen, do you Heather?”
So I never told. When I dated in high school I could hardly hold a guy’s hand without wigging totally out. I wore black, clothes that were many sizes too big for me, and I became a flower on the wall. I wished I could be outgoing, to put myself out there, but I knew I couldn’t. Then I met Jeremy.
He knew that something was wrong as it neared another Father’s Day when I was freaking the fuck out. I laid it all out there for him, thinking he would run screaming for the hills. He didn’t. He told me that he wanted to kill my stepbrother. I told him that it didn’t matter, I am sure it was something I did. All of these years I have blamed myself. He told me that it wasn’t me, it was that sick monster that did this.
Ten years ago when my stepbrother got hit by a car and I got the email from my biological father, I smiled. If ever I thought there was a God, it was then. He was getting his, and I was thankful. But every day I see my girls and see how others look at them, wondering what they are thinking about my girls–what sick, twisted thoughts are going through their brains. I am very involved in their lives, not because I have time, or even because I want to. Simply because I have no choice. If I am there, than nothing can happen to them.
I know that it isn’t true, but it helps to keep my mind at ease.
***
Heather blogs at Domestic Extraordinaire.
