I am not a writer so, I am writing my story the best I can.
I am writing this story in 3 parts. Part 1 is about my childhood, where this all stemmed from, Part 2 my abusive marriage to my now ex and finally Part 3 how I over came and living the life I was always meant to have and hopefully inspire other women that have been through it or are still going through it. My heart goes out to each and everyone of you!
When I decide to share my story on domestic abuse and what I went through, I did not realize how hard it would be to write my story. I started thinking about why? How did I allow or why did this happen to me? Where did this all stem from? I had thought that I had let go of the past and I had for the most part.
Then I began to think of my childhood, which caused me to loose sleep and become physically sick over the past month. The things that had happened in my childhood have shaped and molded me into the person that I am today. I was so full of shame, guilt, fear, and mistrust. As a young girl of only 4 years old, I was sexually abused repeatedly by the landlord. It seemed as if he knew when my mother would fall asleep during the day as she worked nights. He would come in through the back door, grab me by the arm and take me out back into a dumpy little trailer house. During the nights that my mother worked, my alcoholic father would bring friends from the bar home. Eventually he would pass out, and one of his friends would come into my room. It ended up that I was not able to even sleep at night, as I just waited for my father to come home with his friends, so I knew when I had to hide in the closet so I would not be found by this friend of my fathers. He would search the house looking for me, and become angry because he could not find me.
I was so full of fear as a child. This fear stuck with me throughout adulthood. In addition to this fear, I also always had a feeling of shame and guilt. Then I realized where these problems stemmed from; having been molested as a child. I no longer live with that shame and guilt, as I finally came to realize that I did not do anything wrong. However, I still struggle with trying to understand why my mother, after she found out that I was molested, why she said to me, “how could you do this to me.” I remember when I was 14 years old, having been brutally raped by a neighbor. When I finally got away, I ran home as fast as I could, so I could tell my mother. But what she told me when I was just 4 years old stuck with me, “how could you do this to me.” It made me stop dead in my tracks, and I never spoke of it.
My father was a very violent man towards me. I grew up being terrified of him. I never knew what would set him of. He took a lot his angry out on me, and he would always try to pick fights with me. Some of the fights he would pick with me where just really stupid. He would tell me that I was stupid. If I disagreed with him, he would beat me for smarting off to him. If I said nothing, he would beat me for not answering him.
The beatings were so horrible. He would beat me until I would start blacking out. When I would fall to the ground, he would then kick me over and over with his cowboy boots. After the beatings, he would often call my mother at work and lie about why he had beaten me. Then when my mother came home, she would tell me that I needed to learn to just keep my mouth shut. She did not protect me as she should have. Even when she was home, and my father was beating me, she just let it go.
My mother was not any better. When I was 19, I had asked my mother, why do you lie about me to dad, you know what he does to me. She said it was because I could handle it better then she could. But, the thing is he never abused her physically. By the time I was 14, the beatings had become a daily ritual. I could not focus on anything else anymore besides just getting that beating over with. Once he beat me he, would leave me alone the rest of the night. I was a good kid growing up. I always did as I was told and my parents never had to worry about me. I know now I was merely the scapegoat. Instead of dealing with their problems, their full attention was on me. My father even blamed me for his drinking.
By that time, I was becoming very angry with them both. I knew I would never be able to count on them to protect me. I had to rely on myself. At 14 I ran away, and for awhile I got to feel like a normal person. But then I got picked up by the police. I had to see a judge and he said I had to go back home. I just starting crying because I could not believe they would send me back home. However, I never talked about what was going on at home. I never told anybody what went on in my family. I was just to ashamed and embarrassed.
My parents, mother being the worse, constantly would tell lies about me to family as well as friends. There were so many lies, and then my father was always more than happy to share with me what everybody thought of me. Even after all of the things I was put through, my father would still come to me and confide in me as to what a rotten mother and wife my mother was. At the same time, my mother would do the same thing towards my father, saying what a rotten father and husband he was. I do have to say, that was the only time we ever agreed on anything.
I could never understand how one moment, I would be being beaten and lied about, and then the next, being confided in. I felt as if they where both trying to make me pick a side. My mother would tell me over and over again that my father did not care about me, while my father said the same thing about my mother. I heard these words for years. It is very hard to hear that your parents do not care about you. It is even harder to hear that over and over again. I ended up feeling as if I was nothing more than a punching bag for everything. The way in which I was treated made me feel as if I was no longer human.
They both continued to tell both family and friends what an awful daughter I was. Why? Because I would run away from home in order to get away from the beatings. Because I tried to protect myself from anymore beatings. Because I had a “big mouth,” as I dared to tell my father that I was not stupid, or that he was ruining the family by drinking so much or telling my mother to stop making up lies about me.
The abuse never stopped. Even on my birthday and Christmas, it continued. If my parents happened to get me anything after the age of 14, it would always be just something they could use to laugh at me and remind me that I did not deserve anything. That stuck with me. Up into adulthood, I believed those words; that I was not deserving. Thus, when something good did come into my life, I would sabotage it. I grew up with the understanding that I did not deserve to be happy because of the rotten things that I had done. Being happy was strange, and only made me feel uncomfortable.
We ended up moving from the town that I grew up as my parents thought that by removing me from my friends, our problems would be solved. For a short time I even believed that they just might be right. My parents thought that it would solve me being a rotten child, while I believed that it would solve them being rotten parents.
Shortly before me moved, my parents had me go ahead of them and stay with relatives. I loved being there with my uncle, aunt and cousins. For the first time, in a very long time, I felt safe. I learned a lot from my aunt when I was staying there. She was a great mother, and I knew she was the type of person that I wanted to be someday; kind and loving. By the time I actually began thinking I could become comfortable there, my mother called.
I had told mother several times that I did not want to come back, but finally, she quilted me into it. She told me that she needed me back as she needed help packing as well as someone to take care of my little sister and told me, you know how your father is. He was exactly the reason I did not want to come back. Without me there, my father began focusing all of his hatred and anger onto her, and she could not handle it. She needed me to come back so he would have someone else to focus on. When I finally arrived home, it was as if I had never left. The beatings and ridicule started right where they left off and my mother screaming and yelling at me because she could not handle the stress of moving and it was my fault we had to move. I hated my mother for quilting me back home, especially since she knew what that would mean for me.
We ended up moving to a little oil boom town, that was full of gossip and drunks. This is where one of my worst nightmares would begin. The drinking in my family intensified. My mother was drinking all of the time as were my two brothers. If my sister had not been six years old, she probably would have joined them as well. Yet, the only focus was on my drinking. The worst our family life would become, the more out of control everything was, the more focus that would be placed on me.
The beatings intensified, as did the lies my parents told about me. My father would even come down to where I worked as a cashier, and tell customers that I was waiting on, as well as people that I had known from school, out right lies about me and many of the lies came from my mother. It was very humiliating, but my dad seemed to take great pleasure by getting others to laugh at his daughter, and say nasty things about her. All the while, my father would just have a big old grin on his face. Some of his coworkers would even come in when I was working and say the worst things to me.
At the age of 16 I became pregnant. It took my mother 4 months to figure it out. My father would not know until I was 7 months pregnant, and that was only because my mother told him after he and told her that she needed to talk to me as I was becoming fat and would never come out of my room. The reason I always hid away in my room though was because I was able to lodge a piece of lumber between my door and dresser, so that my father could not harm my unborn son by kicking me in the stomach. Being pregnant was some what of a relief though, as no longer did I suffer from any beatings, and my parents avoided me.
I was 17 when my son was born. For a short time afterwards, my father continued to leave me alone. He actually was nice, and everything at home just seemed peaceful. But it was only the calm before the storm. One night he came home drunk, and I could see the rage in his eyes. I knew it was not going to be good and it was over a lie my mother told my Father.When he came in, I was sitting in the rocking chair, putting my son to sleep. I told him that I needed to put my son to bed, which was my way of saying, please do not beat me until my son is safe in his bed. While I was laying my son down, my father just stood in the doorway, waiting for me to come out. When I did, I just told him, let's get this over with.
Once I got to the door, he took my head and bashed it against the door, which knocked me out. When I came too, all I felt was the pain of him picking me off the floor by my hair. I desperately wanted to scream, but I did not want my son to wake up. When he noticed that I was nearly beginning to cry, he looked at me, and with a big grin on his face, asked, “are you going to cry you big baby.” Then he just walked away and went to the bathroom, which gave me enough time to run to the phone and call my mother at work. I told her that she needed to come home and I tried to explain really fast what had happened. What I needed was someone to protect me. Instead my mother famous words, asked why I was doing this to her. Hanging up, I knew I should have known better, because that is what she would tell me whenever I needed her.
Almost every time my father got drunk, he would pick a fight with mother and she would divert the attention and make up about anything to get him to stop taking it out on her and put the focus on me.
That night, something changed in me. There was this overflowing amount of hate and anger, as well as a numbness. I wanted so badly to just pickup my son and runaway, but I knew that if I did, my parents would come looking for me and the wrath of my father would be even worse then it already had been. Instead, I decided that I needed to kill him.
I was convinced that once he was dead, the rest of us could finally be a happy family. At first, I would think about how I could poison his food, as I was the one that usually had to make supper. But I could not figure out how to just poison him, without harming the rest of the family.
Then one night, after coming home from work, I saw my dad sitting in the living room by himself. He must have been sleeping, as he did not try to harm me. All of a sudden, a surge of rage rose up in me and I knew how I was going to kill him. I went into my parents room, into the closest, and grabbed the gun from the top shelf. Taking it out of the case, I checked the gun and discovered that there were no bullets. I searched through the closet, but I could not find a single bullet. It is a little hard to believe today, but I know that if I had found one, I would have killed my father that night.
The next day, I went to my brother and asked if he could buy me some bullets. He told me that there was no way that I was going to kill dad. That shocked me out of my rage. It made me think that if I did kill my father, I would not be able to see my son again.
By the time I was 18, I was a full fledged alcoholic. I knew my parents were telling everyone that I was into all sorts of drugs, but I was not. My choice of drug was pot. I really liked the way I felt when I drank and smoked pot. It gave me a sense of total freedom. It helped me forget all of the problems at home. I knew that was not an actual solution to my problems, but for a few hours, I was able to forget them.
When my son got a little older, my father started teaching him to call me names. I would beg my father to stop doing that. It just hurt so deeply. I did not know how much more I could actually take. There was no one that I could talk to; there was no safe place to go. I just did not know what to do. I had lost all hope. But it continued to get worse. My eldest brother started to become very angry as well, blaming me for all of the problems in the home. He took a hammer and hit me with it. I felt like I just lost it. I do not know why, but I went to my mother and told her what my brother had done. I told her first dad, and now my own brother. My mother just asked what did I do to piss him off. It was then that my mother said something that brought back a flood of repressed memories. She asked me if I thought I was the way I was because of what happened to me as a little girl.
All I could do was cry. My family could not handle any emotions, so my mother turned around and put her face back in to her book keeping work. All the way home I just cried. I was in such deep pain, and those memories just continued to keep flooding back. The landlord did not just molest me, he would torture me. After he was done molesting me, he would take me to his shop and stick tools into my private parts. He did this as a reminder not to tell anyone. I would just scream in pain and the pain would become so unbearable that I would pass out. When I woke up, he would not be there. Sometimes, he would even stick me in this dirt cellar, which was infested with mice. It felt as if he kept me in there for hours upon hours. It was truly terrifying. There would also be times he would hold a gun to my head, telling me that if I told anyone, he would kill me and my family; then he would stick the gun into my private areas.
After reliving these memories, that night I tried to end my life. It was too painful to be alive anymore. There was no way in which I was going to be able to handle my brother also being abusive to me. It was not the first time I tried to end my life. The first time I did was at four. I was only four years old the first time I tried to end my life. Having been molested during the day by the landlord, and then again at night by my father's friend, it was more than I could bear.
The manner in which I came up with the idea to end my life at four was from the soap operas that my mother would watch. I remember watching the lady going into her bedroom crying and saying that she could not take it anymore. She grabbed a bottle of pills and took them all. Later, the husband came into the room and found her dead. Later in the show, I remember seeing the father trying to comfort his child, telling the child that their mother was in heaven, and that she was happy now. That is what I wanted, to go to heaven and be happy. I had went into the medicine cabinet and grabbed the children's aspirin. Then I went into the hall closet and started eating them, telling God that I could not wait to go to heaven so that I could be happy. But that did not happen. Instead, I got really sick, and screamed out for my mother, who grabbed me as I proceeded to throw up.
I tried again to commit suicide at the age of 14. I bought two bottles of Tylenol, and began to swallow them. After consuming the first bottle, and half of the second one, I became very tired and went to lay down. I was totally at peace because I knew that I was going to heaven and was going to finally be happy. Instead, I woke up sick. The next couple of days I spent in the bathroom being sick.
That did not stop me though. I continued to learn more from TV shows and movies. It was a good thing that we did not have the internet back then, otherwise I might have succeeded. It was from a movie though that gave me the idea to slit my wrists. However, the movie portrayed slicing one's wrists in the wrong manner. I did bleed some, but that was it. It was just one more thing I could not do right, which made me all that much more angry at myself. I couldn't even look in the mirror at myself without disgust, it made me sick to even see myself.
Everything in my life was about to change though. My brother had began working where I was working as well. He would do the night shift, but one night, he came in drunk. It was a busy night, with a lot of customers, but he had noticed that I was wearing his shirt. This set him off, and he began beating me up, and trying to take the shirt off of me. He was pushing me into the store displays, and we had things flying everywhere. I tried desperately to get behind the counter, so I could push the alarm. Even with all of the people in the store though, not a single person would help me. When I finally did get behind the counter, my brother got me onto the ground, he tried to tear the shirt off of me, and continued to beat me. I was eventually able to push the alarm, but one of his friends noticed and quickly got my brother out of there.
Once the officers finally got there, I told him what happened and that I wanted to press charges. However, being a small town, the officer knew my family. He told me to just calm down and laughed. He told me that it was my brother, and that he just needed to sleep it off. After all, he probably would not even remember what he did in the morning. But what about me; I was not going to forget what happened.
After the police officer left, I called up to the house because I knew that is where my brother's friend took him. The line was busy though, as my brother had taken the phone off of the hook. So I chased everyone out of the store and locked it up. I had had it. Going to the house, I stormed in. Everyone was in bed, but I yelled at my mother, and told her that I locked up the store. I told both my father and mother what had happened. The only thing they cared about though was that I locked up the store. I did work for my mother.
They demanded that I get back down there and open the store up. But I refused, and it was my brother who was supposed to be working and I was tired of covering for him. He did this to me much to often when he knew that I would be working. They asked me where he was, and I told them that he was passed out in his bedroom. After telling my parents where my brother was, I threw the keys to the store on the table and left.
The next day when I came home, I knew that my dad was going to beat me for what I had done. Before the beating though, he called me a lot of dirty names. This time though, without thinking, I screamed, “fuck you” to my father. As soon as those words passed from my lips, I knew I had to run. As I was trying to get out the door, he yelled at me, saying, “I'm going to kill you.” I was terrified, as I had no doubt that he would have. However, I just could not get to the door fast enough. Instead, I turned around, and told my father, with great conviction, that if he laid a hand on me, I would call the cops and have him arrested. He just laughed, so I said it again. IF he laid a hand on me, I would have him arrested. I meant what I said, but more importantly, he knew that I meant it.
It felt amazing to stand up for myself like that. Then all of a sudden, something just clicked: I was 19, and no longer had to live at home. My parents could not do a thing to stop me from leaving. There was a problem though, as I knew they would ever allow me to take my son, and if I would try, they definitely would have fought it. I needed to get out of that house. After I was out, I knew I would figure out a plan to get my son back again.
Part 2 My abusive marriage to my now ex, coming soon...