Survivors Journey Part 9 – Fence Posts

My husband and I knew it was time to replace our builder-grade, ash wood fence. Over the past 10 years, the original wooden posts had been invaded by carpenter ants, deteriorating it at ground level, and severely compromising its structural integrity. I knew it was only a matter of time before it would come crashing down.  It was better to replace it on our schedule rather than when we were forced to. We opted for an 8’ board on board, cedar picket fence that would be secured by galvanized steel posts; a strong, beautiful fence that would last for years to come. Our first step was to take down the old, rotten one. With sledge hammer in hand, a team of testosterone driven teenagers began smashing down the old fence in preparation for the new one. As each panel was hauled off, my field of view became clearer, broader, and more spacious. I delighted in its removal, as it had become quite an eyesore.

With all the panels down, what remained were 32 rotted, wooden posts secured by 50 pounds of concrete buried at the base of each and every one. It would have been easy to take a skill-saw and shave them level to the ground, but just because you can’t see the posts anymore doesn’t mean their foundation is not firmly intact. No, we had to dig them out….one by one. We had to get the root; otherwise the steel posts would be unstable at best, and the new fence would be no better than the one we would replace. Oh, it would have looked pretty for a while, but rest assured it too would be anything but secure. If you’re going to go through the effort and expense of building a new fence, you obviously want your efforts to result in a quality product, right? Of course! I knew my journey was intended to be no different.

Looking at all the rotted, wooden posts and dreading the work that was before us, I paused for a moment to reflect on my survivor’s journey thus far. In the past several months I’ve revisited many painful times in my life. Throughout the process, I have allowed myself to finally feel the emotions surrounding those events that I had been denying for so long. It’s been emotionally, physically, and intellectually exhausting. Thinking about the fence, I wanted to ensure there was no stone left unturned or concrete that remained embedded in the soil from my journey to date. You can’t build a strong fence without first removing the old one…all of it. What purpose would the journey serve if I merely sawed off my fence posts at the surface but left their undesirable, deceitful foundation behind? No, I had to make sure the concrete roots were disposed of. In doing so, I could pour truth into the core of my being where lies had previously reined. It is there that the truth seed will flourish, and the real healing finally begins.

Deep inside me there are deposits (aka “lies”) that have prevented me from truly blossoming. Subconscious messages from abusive relationships have weighted me down, always impeding my ability to believe in myself. Every time I look into the mirror, I see what is wrong rather than what is right. It was time to shatter the concrete blocks below the surface and replace them with new, healthy, strong, concreted truths of who I am. I want to be FREE from the lies. To successfully accomplish that, I must demolish the old, concrete roots once and for all. I must leave no stone unturned.

One of the most difficult lies for me to overcome has been a negative body image. I’m sure most of you can relate to this in one way or another. The “puke” comment from Mark has been a HUGE concrete block for me that was buried deep in my soul. When discussing this with my therapist, she advised me to take part in an exercise with my husband that would begin to replace the “puke” mentality I had carried with one that was filled with “love, acceptance, and healthy vulnerability.” This exercise would require me to completely surrender to my husband in a way that I had never done before. My first reaction to her was, “ewww.” My second reaction was, “EWWW!” It took me nearly three months before I finally shared her advice with Clayton. I just couldn’t imagine voluntarily placing myself in such a vulnerable position. But as you will witness in my next Survivors Journey entry, her exercise would inevitably deposit unimaginable, indescribable, blocks of concrete truth like nothing before. This encounter would serve as the first galvanized steel fence post in my journey toward rebuilding a life based on truth, not lies.

Where in your life have you merely sawed off the old, rotten fence post but left a concrete lie behind?

Survivors Journey Part 8 – Why did you molest me?

I don’t want to write today. Admitting that tells me I need to. I woke up angry this morning following my counseling appointment yesterday where we began talking about being molested. I don’t want to go there, I just don’t, but I know I have to; otherwise forward motion ceases and the revolving door recommences. Revolving doors merely take you right back to your place of origin unless you consciously decided to step out on the other side. I’m tired of going in circles. They give me a headache.

Fearing I will hurt my mother (as I know she reads my posts) and being looked down upon by others’ is what keeps me from wanting to talk about being molested. But how people respond to my journey is not on me. I must trust in God to deliver what you need to reap from my reluctant vulnerability. He continues to reassure me I am adequately prepared to heal from the pain and devastation of being molested. I must not allow fear to override journeys’ forward motion.

Regardless of this knowledge, I am bombarded with an overwhelming sense of shame mixed with a super-sized portion of anger. When I think about being molested, it makes me sick to my stomach. I was about eight years old when the first encounter occurred, and it was my brother at the helm of the offence. He invited me into his bedroom one summer afternoon and told me to sit on the side of his bed. He proceeded to take down his pants, exposing his genitals, and reaching down with his left hand he began stroking his penis. He giggled with excitement as the erection commenced. I knew what I was witnessing was not appropriate, but I must admit there was a level of amazement as I had never seen male genitals before. How was this physical feat possible? I loved and trusted my older brother and in no way wanted to garner his disapproval by rejecting him, so I sat there and watched until he was through, praying my mother would not catch us. From that moment on, our physical boundaries would  forever be skewed. It was three years before the next encounter would take place.

January 1978, my father left and my mother began to emotionally fall apart. It was a horrible time in my life – so confused and lonely. I was 11 ½, my brother was 13 ½. Not long after Dad’s departure, he began entering my room at night after Mom had gone to bed. At first he talked about playing games, make believe of sorts, or play acting as different characters together. His role would always be one of the dominant character, i.e. football player and the cheerleader or playing house. It seemed so strange at first and was quite uncomfortable, but this was my brother and I trusted him. Growing up, we had always been very close. Throughout my life, he protected me, garnered healthy, brotherly affection on me, and I looked up to him. I had no fear of him whatsoever. Even in the mix of all that was going on I didn’t fear him; rather I was confused but still trusting with love.

It wasn’t long before he began to manipulate our nighttime scripts. I was instructed to lie down on the bed as he assumed a position on top of me. He began dry humping and touching me. His body seemed to weigh 1000 pounds, taking with it the air I needed to survive. I felt so dirty, trapped, and alone. Why are you doing this to me? Why am I not fighting back? Can’t you see this is wrong? I don’t want to be here. Please go away, and just leave me alone… But this was my brother, and I loved him.

 

Days would pass before I was notified of his next impending visit. He would start the day by “asking me” if I would like to “play” that night. He had worded his intentions in such a way that he could deliver these messages to me in front of our mother. I know now he had no shame or remorse for what he was doing, and I was too afraid to say no. As the weeks grew into months, I tried to make excuses in an attempt to deter his desires, but my defenses began to run dry.  I was littered with messages of “You’re Not Worthy” from my father, so the last thing I wanted was to experience my brother’s rejection. I just wanted to be loved and cherished. As disgusting and dirty as I felt on the inside, I didn’t’ know what else to do but succumb to his twisted desires as the shame and guilt began to take hold. I was so vulnerable, and it was in that vulnerability that I was victimized. I had lost my voice.

By August, my parents’ divorce had been finalized, and we relocated to a new city. Thankfully, my brother’s visits had decreased following our move. Shortly after my 12^th birthday, my menstrual cycle began and with it a renewed sense of power and control filtered in. Armed with a large, bristle hairbrush, I barged into my brother’s room waving the weapon in my right hand and said, “I’m a woman now and you can’t touch me anymore. Do you understand?” He laid there in his bed, staring blankly at me. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!?” I shouted. He sheepishly agreed with a slight nod immediately before I exited the room. I had found my voice and had taken back my control. As I closed his door, I was immediately washed with overwhelming relief knowing I would not have to endure what had become his disgusting hands on me ever again. Though I rose up with hair brush in hand and drew a definitive line in the sand, the damage had been done.  As with my previous pattern of behavior, I quickly stuffed the emotions and filed the past nine months into the “You’re Not Worthy” memory folder. I then began to carry the full weight of responsibility for what happened believing it must have been my fault. Rather than directing the anger at him for his betrayal and preying on my vulnerability, I directed it toward myself for not fighting back. I was 12 years old. What did I know about dealing with trauma other than to deny it? I was merely trying to survive.

About four years ago, I felt an overwhelming need to be honest with my brother and address the hurt and anger I experienced at his hand. Thirty years had passed since the onset of his abuse, and it was time to confront my abuser as an adult. Early one morning, I drummed up enough courage to call his house and share with him my feelings as well as my reasons for not desiring any level of relationship with him. His immediate response to me was, “Jesus Christ, Michelle… that was 30 years ago! I haven’t thought about that in 30 years. Are you kidding me? That was a horrible time for all of us.” He continued to deflect any level of accountability and made me feel as if I was making a mountain out of a molehill. I guess that’s what abusers do. He was quick to ricochet personal responsibility and minimize his impact insinuating the passage of time should have been sufficient to heal the wounds. He was wrong.

The following day, I received a call from him at which time stated he never meant to hurt me and he was very confused during that time in his life. He referred to me as his “little sister,” claimed to love me, and would never intentionally hurt me. While it felt somewhat satisfying to finally hear his apologetic words, the truth is I don’t believe them. I believe he reached out in an effort to make peace with the hope that in doing so he may supersede any possible fallout within the family. Like I said, it’s just my opinion…

Here’s my truth:

I was his little sister. I trusted him and he violated that trust in the worst way.

He preyed on my vulnerability and has done so with no authentic level of personal accountability to this day.

He initiated and pursued every act of molestation, not me.

I was his victim. He knows it. I know it. God knows it.

I am not to blame for his actions in any way.

I denounce any level of shame, guilt, or responsibility for his manipulation of me. He knew better, yet he still continued to advance.

I am choosing to step out on the other side of molestations’ revolving door by allowing myself to feel and process the pain. When I am done, I will then be able to safely file this chapter of life in a healthy place of my brain that brings true closure to the once open wound. I choose to resume journeys forward motion. It is in my healing wake that my brother resides, and I’m not looking back.

Is there are area of your life where you need to take your power back?

 

Survivors Journey Part 7 – Swimming in a sea of self-destruction

Listen up ladies! When you don’t receive the essential, emotional securities you need as a child (especially from your father,) odds are astoundingly high that you will enter into unhealthy relationships in a subconscious attempt to satisfy your psyche deficiencies. Your boundaries are skewed as the innate desire to acquire a sense of self-worth overrides your intellectual and/or moral compass. These relationships or encounters may satisfy an immediate need; however you will undoubtedly find yourself worse off in their aftermath as you resume your life as an emotional leech. Read that again – multiple times if you need to, until the truth penetrates your core. It’s important and warrants self-reflection no matter how much it hurts.

If you have been following my journey, you may recall that I did not reap a sense of self-worth or importance from my father. I never felt delighted in, nor was I made to feel like “Daddy’s Little Girl.” Given these facts, it is easy to understand why I was so fiercely swept up into the fairy-tale romance with my first husband, Mark. He romanced me. He delighted in me. He made me feel important. He painted the picture of a fairy-tale life together, and then he destroyed me with his verbal assaults and emotional abuse. Following my escape, I could not have been further down the “you suck” pole then I was, and I unknowingly set out on a life path to thwart the ever-present evil that lurked. You see, I had to combat that emotional beast, and I did so in ways that would merely leave me ravenous for more.

My 20’s were riddled reckless abandonment, and with them carried loneliness like nothing I ever knew. While my professional life soared, my emotional health continued to spiral out of control. If and when I did meet a sincere guy, I was certain to sabotage that relationship. After all, I wasn’t worthy, right? How could I ever enter into an authentic relationship with anyone when I had no authentic relationship with myself? The answer is you can’t. It is impossible. You cannot give of your true self to anyone unless you first identify who that person is.

Coors Light, social drug use, and honky-tonks became my best friend. Engulfed in an intoxicated state of alcohol or cocaine, I found the courage to make myself available to men. It was there I temporarily nourished the emotional leech by voluntarily subjecting myself to one night stands and/or unhealthy, short-term relationships. These relationships never originated with any level of authenticity, so the “fix” was ultimately provisional. When any amount of discontent entered into a romance, I was quick to take flight and resume my relentless pursuit to identify a sense of self-worth. It was a vicious and self-destructive cycle. All it took was a great fitting pair of starched Wrangler jeans, a button-down, long sleeve, tailored shirt, a pair of dusty cowboy boots, and a Stetson hat for me to identify my next target. Being from Texas, the picken’s were anything but slim as the Lone Star State is undoubtedly a “Cowboy Buffet.”

I developed control issues and took great pride in an “I don’t NEED you, I WANT you” mentality. I was quick to let others know they would not control me. I deprived myself of food for days on end to ensure my new-found figure would be maintained. I was brash, arrogant, overindulgent, and challenged any level of authority that came my way. I made sure the wrapper looked like that of a woman who was successful. I drove a Cadillac, flaunted wads of borrowed money, lived in an upscale section of town, and made sure my physical appearance was never less than perfect. I resisted developing relationships with other woman as they may see right through me and possibly challenge my behavior or look down on me. What relationships I did have (outside of intimacy) were with my professional subordinates as they cowered to my authoritative position. I was viewed by others as secure, confident, and really having it together. Since my life was based on lies and deception, I viewed myself as a chameleon and could easily adapt to any social environment – an actress of sorts. My time was primarily spent feverishly pursuing my career or feeding the leech. Yes, I was in control, or so it seemed. I was a lost soul who desperately wanted to be loved. Tell me I’m good enough. Tell me I’m worthy. Delight in me. Please, won’t you just love me? The problem was I didn’t love myself.

Who was I? At the core of my being, what made me tick? What were my motives for doing what I did? Was my life based on “intentionality,” or could it be that I was seemingly unfulfilled and continually “in search of?” These were questions I was not able to answer but more importantly did not want to ask. Understand there is great danger in asking those questions of yourself as you may find an inordinate amount of despair when the truth of who you are is revealed. If you’re honest with yourself and discover you are living a life that is repetitively “in search of,” I would caution you to put the brakes on and take a look within. Chances are you’ll find there is crucial work that needs to be done. I did. That’s why I’m here, and if you’ve been faithfully following my journey that may be why you’re here too. The good news is we are in it together. You are not alone.

So who am I? At the core of my being, what makes me tick? What are my motives for doing what I do? Is my life based on “intentionality” or “in search of?” First and foremost I am a child of God who recognizes He has a purpose for my life; a purpose which I am willing to step outside of my comfort zone in order for Him to work in and through me. I am a fearless warrior in pursuit of transformation so I can be used in the manner in which He intends me to be. I walk in faith knowing that I have been called to share my life experiences with the hope of reaching out to others who are in need of hearing the message. I am a woman who no longer seeks external validation through self-destructive behaviors. I am a loving wife, mother and daughter who is blessed beyond measure to be cherished as I am. I can be over analytical at times, but that comes from being married to an engineer! I am a perfectionist when it comes to certain aspects of my life, yet not others. I am riddled with displaced fear and insecurity but take great pride in the strides I am making to overcome these lies. I am worthy. I am important. I am beautiful. I am opening myself up to vulnerability so that I can not only receive true love but also give it. I am in search of intentionality; in that I find inner peace. While it is true that I fell victim to  a life of self-destructive behaviors in the aftermath of an abusive marriage and absentee father, I am intentionally choosing to step away from the lies that were told and to finally deposit the truth. I am a survivor, and I am on a journey toward recovery.

I’m glad you’re here with me. I know I’m not alone.

Survivors Journey Part 6 – “Any man that saw you nude would turn around and puke.”

It was September, 1987. My <then> husband sat across the room from me, void of any emotion, and said, “Any man that saw you nude would turn around and puke.” Surely I had not heard him correctly, but his words were undeniably, crystal clear. Swimming in a sea of disbelief, I found myself speechless as our 10 month old son slept peacefully in his room down the hall. How do you respond to that level of psychological demolition? The truth is I didn’t. As always, I merely swallowed my emotions and internalized the pain. But deep inside of me there was a storm brewing, an impending uprising, and it would not be long before an escape plan was devised and put into action.

I was 18 years old when I met Mark. He was 31. That, in and of itself, should tell you something, but Mark was my knight in shining armor. He was educated, successful, handsome, attentive, and he made me feel desired and worthy – all the emotions I never received from my father. During our brief courtship, Mark garnered limitless affection on me. Every weekend we would go dancing at the local honky-tonk, have dinner out with friends, go sailing or water skiing, and inevitably conclude nearly every evening with a passionate, physical encounter. Yes, he was my dream come true, and I was immediately swept up in the fairy tale. Abusers tend to move fast in their relationships; otherwise they run the risk of exposing their true self.

After dating for four months, Mark learned he was being transferred to Oklahoma City and invited me to move with him. I eagerly accepted and delighted in his promise of a beautiful home and a wonderful life together. What girl wouldn’t jump at the opportunity? As my 19^th birthday approached, we planned an evening with friends in celebration of my special day. Dinner and dancing would be the agenda, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the fairy-tale night that would unfold. Abusers have a tendency to romance your socks off and treat you like a princess. They usually fill a void in your heart that often times is left from issues you had with your father or mother, i.e. abandonment, acceptance, worthiness, etc.

Upon our friends’ arrival and to my surprise, we were whisked away in a jet black limousine stocked full of bubbly champagne. Following a fun-filled dinner at the Magic Time Machine in Addison, Texas, Mark instructed the driver to take us to Reunion Tower, an opulent, ball shaped tower that over-looks the Dallas skyline. It was there amid the beautiful, crystal clear night that Mark dropped to one knee, cracked open a tiny, black velvet box and asked me to marry him. My fairy-tale romance was more than I ever imagined it would be. This was the man of my dreams! It was only a matter of time before his mask came crashing down, and his true self would inevitably be revealed.

Our move to the Oklahoma City area came one month later. He (not us) purchased our dream home, new furniture, state-of-the-art electronics for the living room, and a pool table for the game room. Once the dollhouse was appropriately decorated, we were adequately prepared to begin playing house. Within two months of living there, I was diagnosed with a large ovarian cyst that would require surgical removal. Recovery was difficult, but the surgery was a success following the removal of my left ovary, fallopian tube, and appendix. Up to that point in my life, I had been on birth control pills, but Mark insisted I not resume my preventative medication following the surgery. He claimed that birth control pills were directly related to the death of his mother, and he couldn’t bear the thought of possibly traipsing through another trauma of that magnitude with me. I obliged. Abusers control their victims and place blame on others’ for their feelings.

It wasn’t long until the vast difference in our ages began to appear as tension grew between us. By March of the following year we were separated, and I had moved back home to Dallas. My residence there would be short-lived as we soon discovered I was pregnant. Mark asked me to come home, claiming he loved me and wanted both of us. Once again, I optimistically obliged. Two weeks after my return, Mark asked me to consider having an abortion. I refused. After all, I still believed in the prospect of my fairy-tale. Abusers often times attempts to manipulate their victims into returning home.

We were married by the end of April and assumed our new roles as husband, wife, and expecting parents. It wouldn’t be long before my dreams were shattered as the first verbal blow was flung over the fence. Four months pregnant, an argument erupted between us amid what seemed to be his daily intoxicated state of mind. “I would have never married you if you hadn’t gotten pregnant,” were the words that flowed in my direction. I stood there feeling like a worthless incubator. The fairy-tale was officially over. Abusers will assault their victims through the use of degrading and hurtful verbal attacks and diminish their worthiness.

Throughout the pregnancy, I continued to stuff my emotions in the form of food and gained 70+ lbs. I felt like a whale. Since I was no longer working, Mark decidedly allocated $300 a month for me to purchase all the household groceries and supplies. The money was given to me in the form of a check which I was to deposit into my checking account. In addition, he gave me a Phillips 66 gasoline credit card as well as a Sears credit card. I was to utilize these resources when gas or clothing items were necessary, purchases I now realize were easily tracked. Outside of that, I had no access to funds garnered from his salary. It was a tight budget, but one that I made do with. After our son arrived, I was met with a temporary reprieve of presumed happiness. Once again, this would be short-lived. Mark continued to work Monday through Friday as I stumbled around his house in my role as wife and mother. As often as possible, I would make the four hour trek to Dallas to see my Mom. It seemed to be the only place I received acceptance and love. Abusers isolate and control their victims by coveting any/all finances.

As the months passed, tensions continued to grow. Neither one of us were happy. Given my lack of social and relationship skills, there is no doubt in my mind that I had a contributing role in the demise of our relationship. But somewhere in the happily-ever-after story, Hollywood forgot to mention dirty diapers, housekeeping, paying bills, budgeting, control issues, verbal abuse, isolation, and conflict. The only witness I ever had in regard to conflict was demonstrated through my father’s departure. When the going gets tough, the weak flee.  I wasn’t about to flee….not yet anyway.

Mark’s drinking continued to escalate, and his after work happy hours at the topless club became more frequent. Having never experienced alcoholism first-hand, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. Out marital intimacy took on the form of a Saturday morning quickie that merely fulfilled his immediate, physical needs. There was no intimacy per se’ as I merely assumed the role of a weekly, sperm receptacle. Eliminating the possibility of history repeating itself, Mark made it known that birth control pills were now an acceptable and expected medication following the birth of our son. Funny how quickly he was able to process the trauma of his mother’s death. Abusers tend to have issues with drugs and/or alcohol. Abusers also tend to demonstrate rigid sex roles in their relationships.

By the time our son was nine months old, the emotional living conditions were devoid of nearly all laughter and happiness. We merely existed. Mark continued to drink, I continued to eat. Food, television, trips to Dallas, and combing the Sears’ isles became my mainstay. I had no real friends, nor any social stimulation to speak of unless it was arranged by Mark. Abusers socially isolate their victims.

Shortly after my 21^st birthday, I ventured out alone one evening for a night out on the town. I don’t know for certain, but I must have lied about where I was going as Mark would surely have disapproved. It was there that I met a man named Marty. We spent the evening drinking, dancing, and laughing, and for the first time in nearly two years I felt desired. While that evening ended in a wholesome goodbye, I soon found myself overwhelmed with the desire to return to the happy place. On my third visit Marty was there, but this time we would depart one another’s company having exchanged phone numbers. Two weeks later I agreed to join him for dinner at his place where a one-time intimate encounter would occur. Arriving home that evening, I was thrust into a world of guilt and shame, fearing Mark would see right through my deception. I just knew he would be able to smell the intimate offence as it seeped from every orifice of my body. As fate would have it, that evening would be the one time in recent history that Mark wanted to have sex. An invitation I politely declined with some form of fictitious excuse. Abusers are jealous and can use sex as a weapon or a means of control.

Following my next trip to Dallas, I shared with Mark that I had returned to our old stomping grounds for a little dancing and fun while I was away. This news was not received with any level of excitement on his part. It wasn’t long after that when the verbal abuse reached its pinnacle. Having stopped off for happy hour (more like happy three hours), Mark arrived home and plopped down on the couch. I was not pleased with his post-work whereabouts and offered no excuses for my discontent. It was at that moment his inner truth was revealed. “Any man that saw you nude would turn around and puke.” I knew I had to flee, and the plans for my escape immediately began to mentally take shape. Abusers emotionally beat down their victims by telling them they are anything short of worthy, valued, or important.

Phone calls were made the following morning to my family in Dallas and arrangements were made for my brother and a friend to drive up later that week. I didn’t dare put anything in writing in fear of Mark discovering it, so I began to a make mental list of all the items I would want to take. On Friday morning as Mark’s bumper drove safely out of site, the truck and trailer pulled around the corner and operation escape commenced. Within two hours, we had loaded up all of my personal belongings, my son’s enormous stock of baby supplies, and any wedding gifts that were given to us from my side of the family. With my infant son nestled safely on my hip, I placed the letter I had written to Mark on the wet bar, loaded a last few items into my car, and set my eyes on Dallas with child in tow. The primary emotion that victims have of their abuser is fear, not love. Victims tend to flee when the abuser is not present; otherwise they risk not successfully escaping.

While I may have been free from his physical control, there is no doubt that the emotional devastation left an enormous hole in the very fiber of my being. My self-confidence was destroyed, self-worth was non-existent, and I found myself paralyzed by the fear of single motherhood. With no job, money, or formal education, I sought a welcome refuge in my mother’s home. Around 8:00 pm that evening, no doubt following another after work happy hour(s), Mark called and apologetically pleaded with me to come home. “I love you. I love our son. I want our family. I’ll do whatever I need to do.” Nestled in the safety of my family, I refused to return. I had finally done it. I had left. I was free. And I was not about to yield to his manipulation once again by succumbing to the unrealistic dreams of fairy-tale endings. No, this time I found the courage to stand my ground. Abusers make promises and tell you what they think you want to hear to regain control of you.

What I’ve learned in therapy is that abusers (in whatever form they take shape) have very specific behavioral tendencies, even from the onset of their first encounter with you. As outlined by www.newhopeforwomen.org the following are attributes of abusers. Those highlighted in bold are specific to my abuse based on present-day recollection.

• Jealousy (insecurity)
• Controlling behavior
• Quick involvement
• Unrealistic expectations
• Isolation – especially of their victim
• Blames others for their problems
• Blames others for their feelings
• Hypersensitivity
• Cruelty to animals or children
• “Playful” use of force in sex
• Verbal abuse
• Rigid sex roles
• Dual personality “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”
• Past battering
• Threats of violence
• Breaking or striking objects
• Any force during an argument
• Drug and/or alcohol abuse

I was lucky. I got out the first time. I find it very disturbing that average victim flees their abuser seven times before they finally break free. While I may have been lucky to get out when I did, the fact remains that I have never completely processed through the emotions I stuffed throughout my fairy-tale ordeal. I still stand in their wake. Yesterday, my therapist and I began to unlock the emotions associated with that time in my life. For the first time in 23 years, I am certain that healing is on the horizon.

When next we meet, I’ll share with you the emotional devastation that has plagued me for years following the “puke” slap; how I reacted (not responded) to that seed and the journey I am on to finally put an end the verbal abuse fallout. Just because you physically remove yourself from a toxic environment doesn’t mean the trauma is past. In fact, that is when devastation’s true impact really begins to take hold. You may be free physically, but you have to work hard to break free emotionally.

You ARE worthy.

You ARE important.

You are NOT alone.

If you know or suspect that you or someone you  know is in an abusive relationship, married or otherwise, please seek help. There are abundant resources available to you no matter where you live. It is there you can find the peace, serenity, and self-confidence you have lost over time. It is the first step you must take in YOUR Survivors Journey.

Depending on the level of abuse, please be aware that visiting internet sites from your home computer can be traced. You are encouraged to use a computer that your abuser does not have access to. Local libraries and some schools are a good alternative. If you dial a hotline from your home phone, please be sure to clear the number from your redial function. Any/all cell phone calls are detailed in their monthly bill. Be certain you do not utilize any device your abuser has access to when planning and immediately after your escape or when seeking help.

24/7 – National Domestic Violence Hotline – 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

Signs that you may be in an emotionally abusive relationship

Profile of a Batterer