Krista
i used to tell my mom i never wanted to get married and i never wanted to have kids. i just wasn’t sure i could trust anyone enough.
“but whoever you marry will know about your past and would never do anything like that.”
“did you think you would marry someone who would abuse you and molest your daughter?”
she is silent, sad.
my mom was the victim. i was the casualty.
if i write just the facts, leave out the metaphors, stay away from poetry, my childhood reads mysteriously like an afterschool special. it’s so cliché it’s practically a mantra.
we used to watch those movies in school where they showcase poorly acted melodramas and teach you to TELL SOMEONE SEEK HELP CALL AN AUTHORITY. i sat red with shame in the dark, watching my life played out before me with bad lighting and a small budget.
“it’s our little secret”
“if you tell anyone, you will be sorry”
“your mother would never believe you anyway”
it’s actually true. people really do say shit like this. only it’s during a heavily curtained afternoon while ashtrays overflow and humidity clings between the touches, smearing fingerprints and searing scars.
i knew it was wrong when i was seven and he first crossed the line, his fingers splayed mid-air. in my mind, when i replay the afternoon, my lavender eyelet bedspread takes notes, pictures, does the talking for me to my mom later that evening. i cry out loud and scream and rage and stop him. i prevent the years of inappropriate sexual conduct to follow. i do not sit there, silent as stone, and float away from my body, hovering near the window and averting my eyes to the skyline when i just can’t take it any longer. i call his bluff. i do not learn to disassociate and i prevent the line of bad decisions laid out before me on the well-worn, over-crowded path.
i do not lose my virginity at 15 while passed out after drinking half a bottle of tequila.
i scream rape.
i do not swallow an entire bottle of pills and wake up in an emergency room.
i talk about my pain to people who can actually help.
i do not let loose on a string of intoxicated one-night stands that lasts years and years.
i demand respect from (and for) myself.
i do not let my step-father back into my life over and over because i am afraid of him.
i kick him in the heart (i believe it is located in his groin) and keep walking.
i do not hold my mom accountable for something she didn’t even know was happening.
i do hold her accountable for tolerating the rest of it (his drug abuse, his violent physical attacks, his verbal attacks on me, on her, on everyone around him.)
and i forgive her.
and then i forgive myself.
i wake up almost thirty years later and smile at the love i’ve won like the lottery, swollen with the knowledge of my worth.
and i work like a motherfucking giant to protect my daughter, to teach her how much she is worth, to provide an environment where the only secrets kept are santa claus and the easter bunny.
she will know my scars. i have incurred them so that she doesn’t have to.
my mom will fight every day to let go of the guilt, the shame. and when she cries and apologizes, i will continue to smile and hold her tight and tell her i love her.
and i look her straight in the eye and remind her:
we aren’t those women anymore. we are these women.
i like these women.
***
Krista blogs at my life as i see it.
34 Responses to “Krista”
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tears now, for those women then and all they have come through.
beautifully written – you have great strength!
I wish I had words. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for overcoming.
That was amazing.
Oh, I love this; this is so beautiful.
Damn. As I was reading the lavender bedspread instant replay I found myself hoping it was true, all the while holding the sickened knowledge that if it had been true, you probably would not be here.
I never considered the effect that those badly acted, under-budgeted educational films would have one someone for whom they came too late. How horrifying to have the “wrongness” of it reinforced for you by a cast of nameless, moronic faces on 16mm. It’s a marvel that you didn’t puke your guts up at every screening.
It’s a marvel (as it always is) that you lived through it and came out the other side triumphant. No matter how many times I hear this story, I’m always astonished at the buoyancy of human spirit I read in it. The denouement and the details may differ, but everything up to that point is tragically formulaic. And I have to wonder, how many times the same story has to be written before we figure it out. Before we figure out how to stop it before the exposition is over.
And it’s people just like you who will get us there. People who have lived out the formula drama and know that it doesn’t have to be that way. People who will openly, candidly and with unflinching courage take up the subject with their sons and daughters before they fall into the same trap. People who will believe, and who will make sure their children understand that they will believe — and act.
And along the way, you will teach other parents who haven’t had to face the nightmare that this is the way to keep your children safe. to tell them — and make them understand — that the abusers are wrong. That the claim that “no one will believe you” is false. You’re raising a daughter who knows she can turn to you, and that’s the best possible protection she can have.
Good for you. And good for her too. And thank you, because the lesson you’ve imparted here today is good for all mothers and all daughters, all fathers and sons. I’m only sorry you had to go through so very much to bring it here.
Krista, this was well-written and powerful. What a sad, horrible thing you lived through. I am so sorry for your pain, both then and now.
It is the stories of those who have grown strong in the aftermath, who have grown into people who have the will to say “never again” for themselves and their children, that inspire me the most. Thank you for sharing.
Krista, I too believe it up to all of us who have lived through and survived this experience and those who know of others who have done the same to join together in spirit, voice and action to stop the circle of abuse and violence against ourselves and others. The silence is screaming out to all of us to be heard and to bring light to the darkness. Sites like this will help us take the first step and then the next and so on and soon all who have suffered will join together to STOP THE VIOLENCE in one way some way all ways. Love and HUGZ, take care and be safe.
Darlene
Thank you for sharing your words. Build your future on your strength and love for the woman you’ve become.
I expected nothing less from you dear friend. Your words weaved in such a way you take my breath away. I’m not crying. I’ve gotten to know the beautiful spirit of the woman who wrote these words.
I’m saddened for the little girl, the one who watched that film, the one who discovered monsters in human guise. I’m fiercely proud of who she became despite.
Our daughters are the products of our beautiful hearts. I remember knowing without anyone telling me, I was going to have a girl. A month before she was born, I cried and demanded how was I supposed to bring another girl – woman into the world. I was so afraid what I experienced would be her life. She was due to be born a year after I had been raped.
I was simply told, I could and would bring a daughter into the world, who better than someone who recognized the monsters for what they were to raise her. On the off chance I couldn’t protect my daughter enough, I would have the strength to show her how to survive, how to overcome.
I lived by those words, just as you will with your daughter dear friend.
What I never got a chance to tell that person….Is we protect our children at all cost. Because…we know the price is way too high otherwise. Love Ya! Indigo
I’m so honored to know you. You are so, so strong.
It’s amazing you can write so beautifully about such an ugly time of your life. It’s beyond amazing that you came through it, and all that came after, to be the woman you are today.
For what it’s worth, I like her too.
Your writing is aching and beautiful. And I can tell your life is beautiful now. Thank you so very much fro sharing your story.
so do i
I am so proud of you, holding you in my heart brave girl.
Good for you.
your fierceness and strength shines through here. take care of yourself and that daughter of yours. beautifully written, and you are brave for sharing your story.
From a fellow survivor, your writing is incredible. Thank you for sharing what was kept silent all those years ago.
This line:
“swollen with the knowledge of my worth”
struck my core and resonated deeply. I’m still working on that particular part. Hope you have succeeded my friend.
Bless you for recognizing the dysfunction and breaking free. Congratulations! It’s fabulous that you can identify with and love the woman you are today. Bravo to you and your mom. Thank you for sharing this.
What a fanstastic way to tell it. Thank you so much for sharing.
Thank you for sharing your story, so glad you are staying strong even through all you endured, for your daughter, for your mother and most importantly for yourself!
thank you so much to everyone for your kind comments, for taking the time to read and absorb and witness.
i wrote this in order to feel a bit better about standing up and speaking out loud about my truth but i was not prepared for the way in which these comments, your comments, affected me.
i hold each of them like treasures in my palms and revisit them almost daily.
and i thank you.
good work!
Thank you for sharing your story with us. You beautiful spirit shines through your words. We are blessed by your light. Your courage is amazing!
I like these women too. Your heart is large.
What an beautiful way to tell such a horrible story. I’m so happy that you’re able to be such an amazing mom to your daughter, and such an amazing daughter to your own mother.
[...] Thursday’s entry was written by Krista. Today’s entry is written by Krista’s mom. [...]
You strong, brave woman. Thank you for sharing your story here.
Thank you for sharing this. And for being so strong for your daughter and your mom
Thank you for sharing your story, Krista. I admire–and am inspired by–your courage.
Thank you for having the courage to survive and to share your story.
I like these women, too. You have great strength.
Thank you for sharing your story. You wrote it so beautifully and powerfully, painful as it was.
You are amazing. I wish I had been more like you & handled things with the strength and courage that you did.
You’re an inspiration. Thank you for writing.
Krista,
I believe that your real power lies in your ability to forgive. I keep thinking it, let me please say that I am very, very proud to know you. Thank you for your honesty in this place. For your courage and your grace.