Joey
Looking back on my first memories is kind of like watching a movie. I don’t remember what I felt, though I’m sure if I tried I could tell you. I remember what I saw. I remember what I heard. I remember the tantrums, the lies, the screaming and crying. I remember the bleeding and the healing and the bleeding all over again. I remember it all.
I can remember what the apartments we were frequently evicted from looked like. I remember the chips in the paint and the holes in the walls and the rust on the doorknobs. But my first real memory is from when I was two. My sister had just been born.
My father worked three jobs at one point, but I don’t know how many he had when this occurred. I just know that he worked and my mother didn’t; therefore, the money was his to spend as he wanted. He didn’t want to support us, he wanted to go out and party. He was 20, after all, my mother barely a year his junior.
He came home and demanded to know where his money was, and my mother claimed it was in the bank. He wasn’t satisfied with that. He didn’t believe her. He looked through the cabinets, wondering where she hid it.
He threw everything in it, getting more and more frustrated as he went through shelf after shelf to no avail. He broke glass bottles and poured the liquid out of prescriptions. He threw anything that wasn’t easily shattered, usually at my mother or me. He had all of our cabinets completely emptied before he realized she wasn’t lying, and he wasn’t happy with that, either. He got worse. He stepped over the shattered glass. He threw punches. At anything. Me, my mother, the walls. He threw the dog cage, and when I let the dog out, he threw it again, at me. He screamed and yelled and raged. I cried and cowered. He grabbed me. He wrapped one hand around my fragile wrists. I cried. I bruised.
This wasn’t a regular occurrence from then on. He didn’t throw punches as often, and he rarely threw anything else. But still, for years, I put up with it. I desperately wanted a relationship with my father. I believed it every time he said that he had changed. I believed he was a better man. I was mistaken.
I said I was done. I wasn’t.
I still remember him calling me a selfish piece of shit. I remember him calling me a whore, and a bitch, and saying that I would never succeed in anything. I remember him threatening to crash the car as I screamed at him from the passenger side. I remember him threatening to knock my teeth out. I remember feeling helpless as I stared out the car window. I remember it all.
Again, I said I was done. Again, I wasn’t.
I started cutting at eight. That’s right, eight. “Just one. I’m just trying it. I’m just curious,” I told myself.
I lied to myself.
It got worse and worse. It went from a few small scratches out of stress to no recognizable flesh from my wrists to my shoulders. Burns, bruises, cuts. Whatever was most convenient the next time I felt hurt. I bled. The wounds started to heal. I re-opened them, deeper, worse. You could see bones. You could see muscles. But you couldn’t see flesh anywhere on my arms or thighs. There were cuts on my hips, on my stomach. Anywhere people wouldn’t see. I had bruises on my face, on my arms and my legs. I would bang my head against a wall or hit myself. I would put matches out on my skin. I would carve the names he called me into my arms with a steak knife.
I was doing to myself what he threatened to do. What he occasionally did. I think it gave me control, at first. I wouldn’t let him hurt me physically. I would do it to myself. I would control what physical pain I felt. Then it became a comfort. If I felt alone, or hurt, or whatever else, I would self-injure. It was like a friend. It was a constant. It was the only thing that would always be there when I needed it.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I hated life. I hated myself and I hated everyone else. I wanted to die. I had a date set. I hate a note written. I had the method and the supplies ready.
He found out about my self-injury days before the date I had set. He shook his head. He told me again that I was selfish and that I would never succeed.
I said I was done.
This time, I meant it.
I was done with the pain, with the insults and the lies. The disappointment and his grabbing my wrists and rolling up my sleeves, telling me that it was for attention. Telling me that he’d do it to me.
I said I would succeed. I would prove him wrong. I would be as successful as I’d ever hope to be, and I would be happy, and my success would be the biggest “Fuck you” I could give him.
It’s been over a year now, and I’d be more than a liar to say I was healed, but I’m trying, and it’s slowly happening.
I don’t talk to him. I don’t want him to know anything about me. That I have a girlfriend, or that I may not be healed, but I’m happy. That I’m a good student, a good friend, a great girlfriend and an excellent songwriter. Or that I’m confident, and I know now that I’m not a whore, and that I am pretty.
Maybe I’ll always be afraid of people grabbing my arms. Maybe the look in my eyes will always change and I’ll always tear up as I pull them away.
And maybe I’ll always feel like I’m not as good as everyone else on the street I’m walking down.
And maybe I’ll always feel selfish. Maybe his words were that powerful.
I couldn’t tell you. I can’t see the future.
But I’ll always be a survivor.
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Joey writes at The Tired Anthem of a Loser and a Hypocrite.
Samantha
[Moderator's note: When 16-year-old Samantha first sent me her story several months ago, I didn't want to run it. I asked her instead to please seek professional help immediately. Unfortunately, because of the visibility of this site, I do on occasion receive desperate messages from people who are suffering in real time. I try to keep the resources page stocked but beyond that I feel helpless to do anything, because I am in no way a professional. I do the best I can to spread awareness on this site and provide a relatively safe forum for survivors, but I am not equipped to help victims in crisis.
Samantha wrote again recently to let me know she is in a much better place, the details of which appear in her own postscript. I decided to run her story so that she may gain the emotional support that is given so freely and well here, and because she is apparently now receiving professional help. She also feels very strongly about speaking out in the hopes of helping others like her.
If you are in an abusive relationship, please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233
If you have been sexually assaulted, please call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-4673
If you are feeling suicidal, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255
Additional links, both local and international, are listed on the VU resources page. If at any time you would like me to add links to that page, please email maggie [at] violenceunsilenced [dot] com. ]
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I know it’s only been a short time. But I want to get my story out there NOW. So people like me don’t have to think safety comes years from now, but it can happen today. At anytime, and anywhere.
My story.
It starts when I was ten. My mom left my dad for another man. At the time I guess she just wanted to feel alive again, and not stuck in the same relationship. This was because she was diagnosed with cancer. Later that year, we got a call from her boyfriend saying my mom had passed away. Thanks, mom.
My dad didn’t know how to raise me. I was an only child, his parenting sucked, and in the few years he tried to raise me, he failed. He started drinking when my mom was diagnosed and just never stopped after she left him. A few weeks after we got the news that she’d passed away, my dad started to beat me.
I remember hiding the bruises in 5th grade. Not playing on the playground because it hurt too much to move. Not being able to sit still or make eye contact with anyone anymore. At home I was always afraid. So I had to stay in my room and never do anything or otherwise I got punished. It was always because he was “making me a beautiful woman,” that’s what he said, anyway. I must be disciplined to become the perfect daughter.
I could never become that for him. I would try so hard, but I just was never good enough. As I grew older I saw that family is just a concept; it’s an ideal. He’s just a man. I have no doubt this isn’t how he wanted to turn out. No man grows up imagining he’ll be the type of guy who lives a life of anger, who hurts his own little girl. But this is where time and circumstance and bad choices and unconscious living has led him. He probably couldn’t even see it.
He would get so drunk that he would pass out some nights. When I was 11 turning 12 he got a group of friends and would just drink constantly at my house. I was at the age where my body matured and these other men saw this. They would sneak into my room when they thought I was asleep and just stand there. Like the little creeps they were. My dad passed out early one night because he had been drinking since he got up, and all my dad’s “friends” came up stairs. This time it was different, though. My dad was passed out, and there was no one there to stop them.
That night, March 13, 2004, I was raped by five men.
picked me up that night. I was put into a foster home that was even worse than my original home. Abby was her name, my new sister, the only sibling I would ever have. She and I were inseparable. Anywhere she went, I would go. You would never find us more than a few feet apart from each other. I was 12 at the time, and she would have been 15.
I wrote this almost four months ago, when I tried to end my life again. I saw no reason to live. But by the mercy of God, I found a way out. Life is better now. I still have my days of weakness, I still struggle with all my old beliefs, but I am learning to be a new me. I got the help I needed at a clinic for my drug addiction, I will be 3 months clean on June 5. I left the foster home I was in. I’m seeing a therapist with my new family. I never found Abby though, but I will continue to search for her.
This is a story of growing success, and I AM A SURVIVOR.
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Judy Ann Katherine
I liked Tim* the first time I met him, at the tender age of 15, though we wouldn’t start dating for another six years. We spent endless nights talking, going for walks, biking, going to the beach and sharing our dreams. We had the same goals, and Tim loved me for who I was. We married at the age of 26. We had our first child, the first grandchild on his side of the family, and she was well loved. I had no clue what was going to happen next.
Tim is a realtor/investor and, as the saying goes, behind every successful man is a woman. Tim had a 4-year college degree. I had work experience. I worked my way up the corporate ladder until I was my own boss and people worked for me. I helped Tim get started. I did his resume, got him his first interview, and supported his goals. He worked endless hours. He loved our daughter and me.
Problems started within the first year of our marriage. His large family showed controlling, dysfunctional tendencies in just about every aspect of our lives. The abuse started with phone calls. I was raised in a tight-knit family and we laughed a lot. Never did we meddle in each other’s personal lives. Never did I expect this. I received too many calls to count from his mother, father, sisters, aunt, and grandma. They made demands on how I should raise my child. I was chased by his youngest sister, who said she wanted to beat me up. His oldest sister attempted to tackle me while I carried my baby. I flipped her into a snow bank. I visited his mother with our child and I showed respect. She hid my keys and said you are not taking this baby anywhere. She grabbed her out of my hands! His father called me a bitch. I was 26-years-old, but not naive by any means. I knew this was the beginning of something terrible. I was right.
My husband never cleaved to me. His mother, aunt, and grandma gave him guilt trips. Tim did not know how to handle this, so I thought. In reality, he put his biological family first. I was his arm candy and lived in his shadow.
The violence started. I got thrown on the basement floor during a talk, not argument, and did not see it coming. To this day my left ear is hard to hear out of. My left eye had a shiner from the fall. I would wave at someone and he would hit me in the ribs. He grabbed my head as I drove down the street, our daughter in her car seat screaming, “Please daddy stop!” Prayer and good counsel gave me the ability to divorce when I got strong. Until I did get strong, though, the abuse got worse.
He almost ran our daughter over with his car and did not care to stop. I was granted many orders of protection. He was not to go to the girls’ schools (we had two daughters by this time) and I was in counseling, suffering from Bulimia and Anorexia. Throwing up made me feel like I was getting relief. I did not see an 88-pound woman in the mirror. I went to the hospital and was told I had a week to live. I decided to ask one of my brothers and my dad to help me get help. My self-esteem was gone and I wanted ME back. I went to a hospital as an outpatient and attended classes where I helped others. Soon I was on the road to recovery, but not fast enough.
He went to our pastor and told him I was cheating, that I was hitting him, and over spending. I left church, left friends, and started making a plan. My friend in Florida called every night to pray with me. In prayer I found peace. My daughters are very resilient. There was one person in his family that admitted the truth and that was his grandfather, who to this day carries the incredible burden of not confronting his family. Once he cried out to me, tears rolling down his face, “Why would my grandson do this when he was blessed with such a beautiful family?”
I got diagnosed with a muscular disorder. I am allergic to many medications but, finally, the doctor found one that helped me sleep. That’s when the worst nightmare began. My husband raped me under the medication. I asked him to stop. This went on many, many times, and when I would wake up I felt violated. I confronted my husband and asked him, “If someone was doing this to one of your sisters, what would you do?” He replied, “Kill them!” I kept a journal and the police gave me a phone to carry that dispatched me to a station no matter where I was. My husband made fun of it and would say, “Is that your bat phone?” He laughed and laughed. I wrote and wrote in my journal.
I was stuck because my mom was disabled, I was not working and I needed a plan. Even though I had an order of protection, he went to our daughter’s school and took her. I think he started to get scared, so he went for the ones I loved the most… our kids. He started mentally abusing them. My eldest became suicidal. My youngest got really sad. She couldn’t explain herself, and for the next four years she stuffed her feelings. It was a struggle. I did not give up. He was rich in money but I was the richest woman alive because I had my precious children. Once my youngest started opening up her healing began and to this day she hurts but does not rebel. She puts her energy to good use. I got fortunate, my girls are beautiful inside. They were not destroyed because getting help before a divorce really made a difference. I was able to help them after I helped myself.
Tim was arrested many times. He almost lost his realtor’s license. I found out the police held him weekends at a time. Court was not going to be easy. I knew no one he knew everyone.
Tim was found guilty of rape—nine counts—and they were going to sentence him. Like a fool, I dropped the charges because I was thinking of my children having a father in jail. That was the worst mistake of my life. For the next seven years, he put our children and me through hell. I finally walked out.
I headed straight to a motel where I lived with my girls and their dog for about three months. We lived in a car part of the summer and it was a hot summer. We ate a cheeseburger a day, the good ol’ dollar menu at McDonald’s.
Although, I am remarried I have had to call the police numerous times. The police say some men never stop. I believe in my case this may be. My youngest hates to go with him and this is not because I brainwashed her and told her that her father is bad. He continued his ways and the youngest sees what the eldest once endured.
Why did I take him all the way to criminal court and drop charges? I want to live, laugh, and love. One thing he did not destroy was my ability to move forward, to love another man, and this still angers him. He once told me, “No one stands up to me!” I don’t hate him, I feel sorry for him because I have seen sadness in his eyes for he realizes what he lost. Seeing his kids grow up. He had the option to watch his eldest be top drummer and his youngest sing, dance and be a child. Something my eldest had taken from her due to his selfishness.
We both are remarried now. My children to this day ask me why I am nice to him. I don’t go for any of the bullshit and I do not say it is because he is the father of you both. I tell them this is who I am. Eventually, they got old enough to see his anger in full rage. He never changed but I did. I am a survivor.
My girls are happy, resilient, kind, and cautious. I never felt sorry for myself, I kept moving along, and I knew God had a plan for my children and me. Christianity is a way you chose to live your life. It is by God’s rule not my own. Surely if it were by my rules he would not be living. In saying that, it is God’s job to judge and my job to do what is right. We all have to answer to him someday. 1 John 5:4 says, “Victory against the world is by Faith alone.” Without my faith, I would not be alive today.
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Judy Ann Katherine does not have a blog. She has changed names to protect her family.
Casey (Moosh in Indy)
I stared at the words in the chat window for a good five minutes before I could even let my fingers touch the keyboard in response.
Denial has been an excellent friend of mine.
When I actually look back on my past and acknowledge what I let happen to me my stomach churns. I was a smart girl, no way could I have been dumb enough to let men use me.
But just like a horrible movie preview, the memories come back. One or two at first, then more, until I am overwhelmed with the weight of how many there have been.
For some reason when I allow myself to remember, they are always named Chris. I don’t remember where I met the first Chris. But I do remember he had a blacklight in his room above a woolen wall hanging. I don’t remember what the image on the wall hanging was, but I do remember how itchy it felt when he had me shoved up against it. I remember that his hands smelled of cigarettes and sex as he held them over my mouth so I couldn’t scream.
I could tell you a half dozen more tales of slaps, thrusts, chokeholds, blood and a broken heart.
Of a little girl who thought she was in control of her body when the truth was she had lost all control.
A little girl who loved ballet and horses, but found herself pinned under sweaty bodies all in an effort to find some sort of validation, to gain some sense of control.
I can still feel the strong smack across my face, so strong that I blacked out. I woke up at a neighbors house, arm dislocated from being thrown down a flight of stairs.
All because I refused to put my mouth where another Chris wanted it.
Things like this change who a girl is. They forever alter the woman she becomes.
I may never know much the forceful hands I allowed on me in my past have molded my present.
But I know that when I hear stories of other girls who are made into women far before they are ready my heart recoils and I am reminded of that young girl, curled in the corner crying, covered in the scent of betrayal and innocence lost.
It’s a scent and a pain and a numbness I wish I never knew.
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Casey writes at Moosh In Indy.
