Survivors Journey Part 12 – Living in the shadow of rape

Thirty one years ago at the age of 13, I was raped.

Twenty years ago at the age of 24, I was raped again.

Two different assailants; the same crime. Rape.

There are no synonyms for the word rape. It stands alone in its meaning. Four little letters that put together describe an act so defiling to its victims, you’re left with no means to truly convey how it makes you feel. Unless you’ve survived it, you’ll never understand it.

My first assailant, Bruce, was a 20 year old pedophile disguised as a youth group counselor at the Episcopal Church I attended. He was someone I trusted; someone my parents trusted; a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Desperate for male approval, I flocked to him like a moth to a campfire. I have no doubt he could spot my vulnerability a mile away, and he wasted no time setting his sights on me.

As an adult, I now recognize Bruce’s grooming process of me and everyone in my life. He swooped in and made friends with all the critical players; my parents, me, church leaders, you name it. He gained everyone’s trust and presented himself as an upstanding guy. Bruce immediately paid attention to me when I began attending the new church. Since he had no family that attended there, he would usually sit with the youth group during Sunday service, hang out with us after mass, attend all the youth activities, and even gave me a ride to church now and then. He was a leader in the church; therefore he was safe….right? Wrong.

On August 1, 1978 my mother was out of town tending to her ailing father and my brother was visiting our grandmother in California. My step-father, Bob, received a business call requiring him to go to Louisiana for the night. I assured him I would be fine for one evening, after all I was going to be 14 in two days. Later in the evening after Bob left, fear began to take hold so I called Bruce to talk. It was nice to have someone to visit with that I trusted. After explaining my circumstance, Bruce offered to make the 45 minute trek across town and keep me company for a while. An invitation I accepted. Once there, we watched TV and talked. His presence quickly disarmed my fears of being home alone. Later that evening the phone rang, and I knew it was Bob calling to check on me. I dashed upstairs and plopped down on my brother’s bed to take his call. As soon as I hung up the phone, Bruce entered the room. He walked slowly over toward the bed and without uttering a word began undressing me from the waist down. Unbuttoning my pants, his eyes were fixed on his prey as his six foot frame towered over me. Frozen with fear and confusion, I laid there as he continued his advance. I didn’t know what to do. Within minutes, he was naked and on top of me, still never saying a word. I remember the physical pain I experienced, but I trusted him. I must have thought he really loved me; after all, he had just had sex with me, right? Isn’t that what people who love each other do? I was too young and naïve to understand he was a predator. When he got up to leave, he had stolen what was left of my innocence and further diminished my perception of what it meant to be worthy.

Over the next two weeks, Bruce began to ignore me at church, quit returning my calls, and focused his attentions on another young girl who recently joined the youth group. Broken-hearted, rejected, and confused, I confided in LouAnn, the youth group leader, what had happened. She was quick to call me a liar and accused me of inviting his advances and exclaimed, “Bruce would never do anything like that.” According to her it was my fault – I was the bad seed. I will never forget the look of disgust in her eyes aimed my direction. It felt like I was being raped all over again. Though I knew I hadn’t lied, I eventually believed what she said. It must have been my fault. I stuffed the emotions, shouldered the blame, and pretended like it never happened. I never said another word about it. Not even to my own mother.

Bruce was never questioned, accused, or prosecuted for what he did to me. I now know that he victimized several other girls but was not caught until 10 years after he raped me. I want to tell those girls how sorry I am for what they had to go through, and that I understand how they feel. I want them to know that I did tell someone I thought I could trust, but she didn’t believe me. I wish I had told my mother, or someone else, anyone else that would have listened. Instead, I rolled over and took what I didn’t have coming. In all honesty, I hold LouAnn just as responsible for the rape and/or molestation of the other girls’ as I do Bruce. So much innocence lost all because she didn’t believe me. She didn’t take time to listen or ask questions…no, she just told a <then>13 year old girl that she was to blame for a 20 year old man having sex with her. I don’t know if Bruce ever went to prison or not. At this point, I don’t care. There will come a day when he has to answer for his actions, if he hasn’t done so already.

My second assailant, Don, was a man I had met at a local night club. After an evening of dancing and drinking, we left in my car and headed for a party being held at a friend’s house. We stayed just long enough for me to make an appearance before he drove me home. Given the hour and quantity of alcohol consumed, I told him he could sleep on the couch and I’d take him home in the morning. Once I got him settled in the living room with sheets and a pillow, I went into my room, closed the door, and began to dress for bed. Unannounced and uninvited, Don entered my room. Grabbing my shoulders, he pushed me down on the bed, pulled back my robe and proceeded to rape me. As with Bruce, I was frozen by the fear and merely laid there as he thrust his drunken manhood in and out of me. The only sound I heard was, “No, no, no…,” a fear-filled whisper that repeatedly squeaked through my lips. I was afraid to fight…afraid he would hurt me more than he already was. Unable to ejaculate, he eventually rolled off of me and begrudgingly pulled up his pants. I got up and quickly pulled on a sweat suit, grabbed my keys and purse, and told him I would take him home immediately. His demeanor quickly turned to anger and frustration. Crossing the threshold in front of me he said, “So you’ll fuck me but you won’t sleep with me, huh?” I immediately slammed the front door and locked it. He began pounding on the door with his fists; his rage-filled screams riddled with name calling and threats. Fearing what further assault he was capable of, I ran to the phone and called for help. “911, what’s your emergency?” “Hello 911? I’ve just been raped…”

Help was on the way.

The authorities located Don just blocks away walking toward his home and arrested him. I was taken to the County Hospital where I was subjected to a medical rape test and offered emotional support from a local rape crisis representative. Don never denied to the authorities that he had been with me, but his claims were that the sex was consensual; the rape kit test results would prove otherwise. After the grand jury indicted him, a trial date was set.

Three months before my trial was set to begin, Don was on trial for molesting the 12-year old daughter of a former girlfriend. Don and his attorney opted to have a trial by judge rather than trial by jury. Unfortunately, the mother of this young girl did not believe her daughter when she first accused Don of molesting her. At the time of their trial, the mother’s testimony was considered “wishy-washy”and inevitably forced the judge to find Don innocent due to lack of evidence. I believe in my heart that the judge knew he was guilty, but the burden of proof was unsuccessfully achieved by the prosecutors, and Don walked away a free man.

As the rape trial date approached, Don and his attorney again opted for trial by judge as they previously had in the molestation case. As luck would have it, they drew the same judge who had governed the previous trial. Other than the rape kit test results, the only evidence was his word against mine and a few so-called character witnesses offered up by the defense. The trial was difficult for me. To sit in a courtroom full of bystanders and share how you were intimately violated was almost inconceivable. After my testimony concluded, I exited the courtroom and was approached by a woman who told me how proud she was of me for having the courage to come forward. Though I thanked her for the kind words, I couldn’t help but feel anything less than courageous. Rather, I felt like I had been raped all over again after the defense attorney got through cross-examining me.

I am forever convinced that the judge subconsciously visualized the sweet face of that 12-year old girl Don allegedly molested as he listened to the evidence presented during the rape trial. Upon conclusion, the judge handed down a guilty verdict and administered the maximum sentence of 20 years to be served in a maximum security prison. Nearly 19 years after the onset of his incarceration, Don still resides in the same prison and continues to serve out his time. In 2012, he will be released back into society as a free man. That is, if he doesn’t get paroled in the coming months.

As for me, I realize that by holding on to my fear I have allowed Don to continue to victimize me for the past 20 years. Though he is in prison, I fear him and what he is capable of when he gets out. Will he come after me seeking retaliation? Will he emerge worse off than when he went in? Does he intend to look for me? Is he still in denial that he raped me? Will he try to hurt my family? The questions are endless. I’ve often thought that it would be better to take my own life than to be hunted down by him upon his release only to be raped and possibly tortured all over again. Fear rules my every thought when it comes to his inevitable release…and I’m just now beginning to understand the depth of pain I have never permitted myself to feel and the emotions associated from such an intimate violation.

Over the past two weeks, I have been revisiting the rape traumas. I never understood I was swimming in a sea of denial regarding the lasting effects Bruce, LouAnn, and Don have had on my life. I am now faced with the daunting task of working through the insecurity and identifying a way to be freed (once and for all) from the all-consuming fear. My therapist and I have stepped up our time together as I continue to work toward dealing with the all the “stuffed” stuff. With her help, a steadfast willingness on my part to do the work, and by the Grace of God, I will continue to claw and scratch my way toward emotional health and security. You see, I am a survivor…and this is part of my journey.

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 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