Don't dismiss what we tell you, preferring to believe what is easier to believe--what is not so ugly to accept. Please decide it is not okay, not our fault, not something we have caused to happen. It is in them--in each abuser--the ability to abuse and to cross such lines, believing they are justified in their actions.
Almost a year and three entries later, I have clearly neglected the important task of telling my story, although my story is not about me. It is about the sad truth that there are so many like me, and that we seem to remain hidden. We are hidden in plain sight.
We’re your neighbors and your friends. We’re your family. And we’re too ashamed for you to know how we live. Until we can’t take it. Then we tell you. And so often, you don’t believe us. And sometimes that’s the worst pain of all.
I remember the first time the police came to my home. It was late and he was drunk. These visits would take place too many times in the years to come, although mostly when Rick was sober. I didn’t know. Maybe I should have.
A man had touched me inappropriately in a bar. VERY inappropriately. I handled it. Rick was not beside me when it happened. He learned what had happened but never said a word to the man, which I believe he regretted. I believe he felt like less of a man that I had handled it and he didn’t. I was glad he didn’t--he was drunk and it would have been ugly had he tried. Rick’s friend was there and ensured we quickly left the building. It was over and I wanted to go home.
But the anger got inside him, and that anger grew. On the way home his anger escalated into rage, he screamed and he called me the ugliest things. He demanded I take him back to the bar and he threatened me if I didn’t. Of course, I would not.
Almost home, he demanded I take him to get some food--Taco Bell-- his favorite late night meal. Perhaps, I thought, it might calm him down if I took him. And this had become my objective--to remain patient in the face of his rage, and to find a way to calm him down. Food in hand, we headed home. I noticed he had removed his seatbelt and insisted he fasten it once again, but he refused and his anger flared upon my insistence. In defiance and retaliation, he lowered his window and tossed the entire bag of food out the window, which contained a burrito supreme with my name written all over it, which I also happened to be craving by this point. Now I was unhappy too. My patience was slowly diminishing.
I will admit, I reacted, after everything that had already happened, after twenty extra minutes of driving to reach his food of choice, late at night, with the man I loved raging in the seat beside me, screaming names and accusations and obscenities of the ugliest kind. Without saying a word, I stopped the car and hit reverse. I pulled over and got out to retrieve the bag of food from the place it had landed. I unwrapped and opened-up a large burrito, exposing it’s filling and tossing it directly onto his lap, face down to maximize the mess.
He was apparently too shocked and too drunk to process what I had just done quickly enough to react. I was sober so my reaction was expeditious, and I am no fool, so I quickly removed the mess from his lap and tossed it far out of reach--I was in no mood to become a matching set. I drove home and did not say a word. I was done talking. He was not.
He demanded I take him back to buy more food, but I kept to my direction. Finally we arrived home, at which time he disappeared upstairs and I was grateful not to hear and see his anger--it was trying. Then I heard the start of a car and watched from my front window as he drove away. Fear ran through me, soon turning to anger that he would, once again, choose to drive in such a state.
I could not bring myself to leave until I was certain he returned home safely. Thirty minutes later and round-two of Taco Bell in hand, he returned and sat down at the kitchen table to devour his meal. I quietly slipped out the front door with the suitcase I had packed while he was gone, no particular destination in mind. I am certain he must have heard me pull away but I did not look back. Just minutes of driving and I was pierced with the thought--my grandmother’s china. My grandmother’s china. I did a u-turn and headed home. A feeling of relief came over me when I entered the house to see my precious heirlooms still intact, perfectly placed, looking far too lovely for such a night.
Loud noise came down the stairs. Then so did he, with a look on his face that told me something. I ran up to find the room that contained my grandparents furniture completely destroyed. My first thought was confusion as to how he accomplished such destruction in such a short time. The two antique sleigh beds that my sister and I had slept in as little girls--that had been oiled and cared-for and kept beautiful for more years than I had been living, were in pieces.
Deep marks covered white walls in places where fine wood had been slammed up against them before being turned upside-down. The content of my dresser drawers were dumped and thrown around the room. The drawers were tossed across the room, landing in random places. The hand-carved backing of my great-grandmother’s chest of drawers was ripped from its body. Every item from every surface was thrown around my room, smashed and tossed and broken, even those items carefully placed on the beautiful dressing table my grandmother used when she was a little girl, which had been left to me, and which I adored. It too no longer stood, but instead lay on the floor in pieces.
Every drawer emptied and tossed onto the pile of clothing and wood and mess. The rounded mirror, which moments before had been affixed, had been ripped away and rested somewhere in the rubble. Pieces of ceramic flower pots lay on the floor, smashed, after the contents of soil and plants had been intentionally dumped and spread across my clothing that had been emptied from my dresser and pulled from my closet. He destroyed the one place in the house that was allowed to be mine. He had destroyed every bit of it. He had done so because I had left him.
I saw what he did and I screamed in anger. Over and over I screamed. It was loud inside my head and I remember my whole body shaking it hurt so much to see what was left of my family‘s memories, and to know the man I loved so deeply had done this to me. It had all been so precious. In this moment I hated and feared him in a way that was overwhelming. He was someone else. I ran down the steps, toward the front door but I was not fast enough. He caught me. I would not be leaving.
I remember being dragged into the kitchen while I screamed and tried to get loose. I remember struggling and flailing and moving my body in every way possible, trying to get free from his grip, but he was strong. I remember being held down. I remember my wrists being pinned with his hands. I remember my body being pinned down by the weight of his body pressed against mine. I remember his face in my face. I remember the smell of liquor so strong I was breathing it in. I remember crying and screaming and begging him to let me go. I remember his rage and his screams.
I remember lying on the kitchen floor and sobbing when he let me go. And I remember the sense of helplessness that seemed to be everywhere. It was inside me. It filled the room and became the air. It traveled through the streets outside my home like oozing tar, thick, suffocating and inescapable.
I went to the phone and called the police as I sobbed hysterically. One officer came to our home. By the time he arrived, I was terrified he would take Rick to jail. I was terrified and angry with myself for calling because I loved this man more than I had ever loved anyone. What had I done? It was a mistake that would ruin the life I believed he and I were supposed to have together, with children and family and all I had envisioned for the rest of my life.
I was at a crossroads, unexpectedly and unprepared to make that kind of choice in a split second--the kind of choice that would change my life forever and destroy everything I thought my future would be. I told the officer it had all been a misunderstanding--that I had been upset about my furniture but he never touched me. We talked and Rick calmly confirmed my story. The officer left.
I used to wonder why women didn’t tell. And for the first time, I understood. It was not a lesson I expected to learn, nor was it one I wanted.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
It's my birthday
It's been awhile, which I regret. Today is my birthday so it seems this day should be marked with an act of some importance. This is important. But sadly the significance of this day does not appear to offer me any inspiration to share in any particular direction. Perhaps this is the most telling thing of all and I can learn from it. Sort of feels like I'm just wandering.
I've been told that when blocked I should simply start writing. A grocery list. Arbitrary thoughts--anything that begins the process of moving my fingers furiously across my keyboard and opens the gates to inner-thoughts. Now THAT is a dangerous undertaking.
Okay. I'll start with how I'm feeling. Not good. Hate to say it--and even moreso I hate to feel it. But not good. And I hate the reason for feeling so very not good even more than I hate the feeling itself, as it appears to be a case of self-pity, which does not sit well with me. At all! No one ever got anywhere by feeling sorry for oneself. I just can't help it today. I miss my family.
Here I am on my birthday, no family to spend the day with or sit and sip coffee or share a meal. I am alone here. Just like Thanksgiving day with no family, no turkey dinner and no children under my roof to hear and watch and love--they were with their father this holiday. My family, all elsewhere. I pretended it was an ordinary day. Just like I did last year on Christmas day--just like I do each and every year--alternating Thanksgiving and Christmas as my children's father has his turn and I pretend it is not a special day, and I pretend that I am not alone, without my children and without my family on these day when we most want to be with the ones we most love. But I am NOT quite good enough at pretending. It seeps in and leaves me where I am today.
I am sad because I miss my family, and I am slammed in the face every single solitary day by the fact that my children and I can never live near our family again--court order says "mother will have custody of the children if and only if she resides in Virginia Beach. If mother chooses not to live in Virginia Beach, father will have custody of the children." So there you have it. Abuser gets to call the shots. My goodness he deserves it--to call the shots that is. Why not, he has worked so hard! He worked so hard to destroy his wife, and continues to do so every chance he gets...he worked so hard to take everything he could and leave her broken...he worked so hard to hurt his children over and over and over again. Forty-four court hearings so far, just in Virginia Beach. Then there's Chesapeake, Norfolk, blah blah blah, protective ordering hearing after protective order hearing, blah blah blah, domestic assault hearing after domestic assault hearing, blah blah blah, and another and another and another.
Court says they cannot simply assume that 'just because' he abuses his wife he will abuse his children too. And, as a matter of fact, court also says hospital records of my injuries aren't admissable anyway--why, of course they're just hearsay (guess I could have slammed myself around on purpose because I'm so vindictive and my goal in life is to ruin his). Court says they have no witnesses--only ones there were my young children. Yes, abusers can be smart like that--then tend NOT to abuse their family members in the presence of witnesses. Go figure.
The state says that just because five-year-old child tells mommy what daddy has been doing when daddy gets angry, and just because deep bruises wrap around his entire waist in the shape of daddy's hand print--because daddy grabs and squeezes when he gets angry--AND just because social workers document the deep bruising, duly noting they are formed in the shape of a large hand print, this does not mean that daddy did it because doctors and nurses and social workers didn't see it happen. And neither did mommy. REALLY?? Now that's a surprise. And what can they do when five-year-old child fails to meet the states criteria by actually ADMITTING to the stranger what daddy does when he's angry and that these strange bruises were given to him by daddy--you know, when the five-year-old child shuts-down completely after being held captive in the emergency room for three hours and failing to cooperate, as expected, by telling a complete stranger everything he was able to share with his mommy. Naturally, of course, state policy requires that said social worker MUST conclude the investigation to be unfounded because the child would not willingly admit to what happened.
I'm sorry, did you NOT see the bruising? Did you NOT see the way the five-year-old little boy shut down when stranger began asking about what daddy does when daddy get's angry? Did it really go unnoticed that, while being questioned about what daddy does when daddy gets angry, child COMPLETELY covered three full-size sheets of paper writing the words NO NO NO NO STOP STOP STOP STOP in small letters, writing without pause, except the few times when he stopped long enough to throw himself onto the floor and cry and beg said social worker to please let him go home. Exactly what good are they then? And I do mean that.
What good are these people except to THEN give daddy a hand-up in court when he sadly tells the judge how horrible it was for him to be kept from his children for a week or two until said social worker had time to schedule a visit to daddy's home to ask him, in person, if he abuses his child? Daddy said no. Well, okay then. He must not have done it. Plus, daddy lives in a big, beautiful home. He must be a good father. He is educated and successful. Proof of outstanding parenting skills. He manages to control his temper in the presence of witnesses, he must not have a temper at all, of course, because things just don't happen behind closed doors in this world--how silly to even suggest.
Poor daddy had to go through that horrible experience. Vindictive mommy is "bent on revenge" the judge is told, and is "emotionally unstable" (synonym for victim of domestic violence--because you know, she tends to scream and tremble and beg during the acts of abuse). She just keeps dragging poor daddy back to court for assault charge after assault charge after protective order after protective order. Poor daddy. Mommy "just can't let go of the past and move on"--she just won't do what is best for their children by stopping all of this "vindictive nonsense." And look judge, the investigation confirmed the abuse allegations were unfounded, which means mommy is lying and being vindictive and CLEARLY not acting in the best interests of the children.
I almost lost custody of my children for taking my five-year-old son to the emergency room to confirm there was no internal bleeding or damage to his organs after he told me what his daddy did and I discovered the bruising. I am not exaggerating when I tell you how close I came to losing custody of my children in court over this because abuse allegations that cannot be "confirmed" are presumed to be therefore, apparently not true, which also means the accuser has made false allegations and mother's who do such things must have "alterior motives" like revenge and gaining an advantage in custody disputes. And therefore mothers who do this are harming their children and should not have custody.
I will also take to my grave the other things my children have told me about things their father has done. Even my family does not know, nor will they ever. I have learned, on no uncertain terms, that if I pursue this through the court and social services that I will, in all probability, lose custody to their father completely.
I came close to losing custody to him, yet again, when I begged the court to only allow supervised visitation with their father--apparently I was trying to interfere with the protected relationship between my children and their father, which apparently represents to the court my unwillingness to do what is in the "best interests" of my children. Bad mommy. Any more bad behavior like that and I will lose them for good. The court has denied my right to protect my children, by way of court order. I violate that court order, I lose my kids to our abuser. THIS is our family legal system.
So, YES, I am feeling a bit sorry for myself today. I feel sorry for my children each and every day. I still somehow manage to set that aside and live. To pack their lunches each day, take them to school, pick them up and enjoy their stories as we drive home and talk about what I will make us for dinner. Playtime. Homework time. Reading time. Peppered with scheduled activities like dance, gymnastics, soccer and tennis. Bath-time and bedtime. Story time and lullaby time. Prayer time. Hugs and kisses and tucking-in time. The best of the best. My entire life is lived through the care and the joy and the protection of my children. My entire life.
Forgive me for feeling lonely or wanting different, or more--perhaps I am just greedy. But I do want more than this. I want to live without the fear that at any moment I will be summoned back into court and face losing my children to this man because he simply likes to torment me this way. I want to live without the fear that on any given day another notice from the court will appear in my mailbox. I often go a full week without retrieving my mail from the box because I simply cannot bring myself to do so. And without exception, every trip I make to that ordinary box to pick up flyers and junk and perform this simple task of retrieving my mail is ALWAYS accompanied by extreme hesitation, nausea, light-headedness and fear of the unknown. So if I don't receive something you've sent me in a timely manner, don't assume it's been lost. I honestly cannot bring myself to go through this more than once or twice a week. I simply cannot. And so I choose not to.
I cannot sleep in my bed at night without locking my bedroom door--sometimes baracading it too. Most nights, I cannot sleep in my bed at all. I sleep on my sofa because I will be better able to hear someone entering my apartment. I sleep with my cell phone in my hand or resting on my chest so I may call 911 in a hurry. I can only drift off to sleep with the tv on because the conversation distracts me from what will otherwise be in my head and prevent me from any sleep at all.
I have taught myself to cope and to survive by doing these things that give me a sense that I have some ability, ANY ability to protect myself, when in all reality I know, deep down inside, that I do not. He can hurt me if he chooses. He can hurt me when he chooses. He can, and I know that he can because he has done so many times before. He can overpower me any time he chooses. He simply can. He always has. My life and my ability to live it is completely dependent upon whether this man chooses to let me live my life or not. He will come after me again. He will come after my children again. He will punish me again and again. He will keep tormenting me and taking pleasure in watching my pain. I know this. What I do NOT know is when. Or how, exactly--and THESE are the thoughts that keep me from sleep at night and require the background noise of someone elses life and someone elses conversation to distract me from imagining what is going be next, and when.
And so I live in fear, each and every day, wondering when the next shoe will drop, when the next motion will be filed, the next threat will be made, the next assault will take place, and each and every day I choose to place the lives of my children before my own by remaining in Virginia Beach with my abuser, away from my family, completely on my own, because I will have custody of my children "if and only if" I choose to do so. He has me. He knows it.
I've been told that when blocked I should simply start writing. A grocery list. Arbitrary thoughts--anything that begins the process of moving my fingers furiously across my keyboard and opens the gates to inner-thoughts. Now THAT is a dangerous undertaking.
Okay. I'll start with how I'm feeling. Not good. Hate to say it--and even moreso I hate to feel it. But not good. And I hate the reason for feeling so very not good even more than I hate the feeling itself, as it appears to be a case of self-pity, which does not sit well with me. At all! No one ever got anywhere by feeling sorry for oneself. I just can't help it today. I miss my family.
Here I am on my birthday, no family to spend the day with or sit and sip coffee or share a meal. I am alone here. Just like Thanksgiving day with no family, no turkey dinner and no children under my roof to hear and watch and love--they were with their father this holiday. My family, all elsewhere. I pretended it was an ordinary day. Just like I did last year on Christmas day--just like I do each and every year--alternating Thanksgiving and Christmas as my children's father has his turn and I pretend it is not a special day, and I pretend that I am not alone, without my children and without my family on these day when we most want to be with the ones we most love. But I am NOT quite good enough at pretending. It seeps in and leaves me where I am today.
I am sad because I miss my family, and I am slammed in the face every single solitary day by the fact that my children and I can never live near our family again--court order says "mother will have custody of the children if and only if she resides in Virginia Beach. If mother chooses not to live in Virginia Beach, father will have custody of the children." So there you have it. Abuser gets to call the shots. My goodness he deserves it--to call the shots that is. Why not, he has worked so hard! He worked so hard to destroy his wife, and continues to do so every chance he gets...he worked so hard to take everything he could and leave her broken...he worked so hard to hurt his children over and over and over again. Forty-four court hearings so far, just in Virginia Beach. Then there's Chesapeake, Norfolk, blah blah blah, protective ordering hearing after protective order hearing, blah blah blah, domestic assault hearing after domestic assault hearing, blah blah blah, and another and another and another.
Court says they cannot simply assume that 'just because' he abuses his wife he will abuse his children too. And, as a matter of fact, court also says hospital records of my injuries aren't admissable anyway--why, of course they're just hearsay (guess I could have slammed myself around on purpose because I'm so vindictive and my goal in life is to ruin his). Court says they have no witnesses--only ones there were my young children. Yes, abusers can be smart like that--then tend NOT to abuse their family members in the presence of witnesses. Go figure.
The state says that just because five-year-old child tells mommy what daddy has been doing when daddy gets angry, and just because deep bruises wrap around his entire waist in the shape of daddy's hand print--because daddy grabs and squeezes when he gets angry--AND just because social workers document the deep bruising, duly noting they are formed in the shape of a large hand print, this does not mean that daddy did it because doctors and nurses and social workers didn't see it happen. And neither did mommy. REALLY?? Now that's a surprise. And what can they do when five-year-old child fails to meet the states criteria by actually ADMITTING to the stranger what daddy does when he's angry and that these strange bruises were given to him by daddy--you know, when the five-year-old child shuts-down completely after being held captive in the emergency room for three hours and failing to cooperate, as expected, by telling a complete stranger everything he was able to share with his mommy. Naturally, of course, state policy requires that said social worker MUST conclude the investigation to be unfounded because the child would not willingly admit to what happened.
I'm sorry, did you NOT see the bruising? Did you NOT see the way the five-year-old little boy shut down when stranger began asking about what daddy does when daddy get's angry? Did it really go unnoticed that, while being questioned about what daddy does when daddy gets angry, child COMPLETELY covered three full-size sheets of paper writing the words NO NO NO NO STOP STOP STOP STOP in small letters, writing without pause, except the few times when he stopped long enough to throw himself onto the floor and cry and beg said social worker to please let him go home. Exactly what good are they then? And I do mean that.
What good are these people except to THEN give daddy a hand-up in court when he sadly tells the judge how horrible it was for him to be kept from his children for a week or two until said social worker had time to schedule a visit to daddy's home to ask him, in person, if he abuses his child? Daddy said no. Well, okay then. He must not have done it. Plus, daddy lives in a big, beautiful home. He must be a good father. He is educated and successful. Proof of outstanding parenting skills. He manages to control his temper in the presence of witnesses, he must not have a temper at all, of course, because things just don't happen behind closed doors in this world--how silly to even suggest.
Poor daddy had to go through that horrible experience. Vindictive mommy is "bent on revenge" the judge is told, and is "emotionally unstable" (synonym for victim of domestic violence--because you know, she tends to scream and tremble and beg during the acts of abuse). She just keeps dragging poor daddy back to court for assault charge after assault charge after protective order after protective order. Poor daddy. Mommy "just can't let go of the past and move on"--she just won't do what is best for their children by stopping all of this "vindictive nonsense." And look judge, the investigation confirmed the abuse allegations were unfounded, which means mommy is lying and being vindictive and CLEARLY not acting in the best interests of the children.
I almost lost custody of my children for taking my five-year-old son to the emergency room to confirm there was no internal bleeding or damage to his organs after he told me what his daddy did and I discovered the bruising. I am not exaggerating when I tell you how close I came to losing custody of my children in court over this because abuse allegations that cannot be "confirmed" are presumed to be therefore, apparently not true, which also means the accuser has made false allegations and mother's who do such things must have "alterior motives" like revenge and gaining an advantage in custody disputes. And therefore mothers who do this are harming their children and should not have custody.
I will also take to my grave the other things my children have told me about things their father has done. Even my family does not know, nor will they ever. I have learned, on no uncertain terms, that if I pursue this through the court and social services that I will, in all probability, lose custody to their father completely.
I came close to losing custody to him, yet again, when I begged the court to only allow supervised visitation with their father--apparently I was trying to interfere with the protected relationship between my children and their father, which apparently represents to the court my unwillingness to do what is in the "best interests" of my children. Bad mommy. Any more bad behavior like that and I will lose them for good. The court has denied my right to protect my children, by way of court order. I violate that court order, I lose my kids to our abuser. THIS is our family legal system.
So, YES, I am feeling a bit sorry for myself today. I feel sorry for my children each and every day. I still somehow manage to set that aside and live. To pack their lunches each day, take them to school, pick them up and enjoy their stories as we drive home and talk about what I will make us for dinner. Playtime. Homework time. Reading time. Peppered with scheduled activities like dance, gymnastics, soccer and tennis. Bath-time and bedtime. Story time and lullaby time. Prayer time. Hugs and kisses and tucking-in time. The best of the best. My entire life is lived through the care and the joy and the protection of my children. My entire life.
Forgive me for feeling lonely or wanting different, or more--perhaps I am just greedy. But I do want more than this. I want to live without the fear that at any moment I will be summoned back into court and face losing my children to this man because he simply likes to torment me this way. I want to live without the fear that on any given day another notice from the court will appear in my mailbox. I often go a full week without retrieving my mail from the box because I simply cannot bring myself to do so. And without exception, every trip I make to that ordinary box to pick up flyers and junk and perform this simple task of retrieving my mail is ALWAYS accompanied by extreme hesitation, nausea, light-headedness and fear of the unknown. So if I don't receive something you've sent me in a timely manner, don't assume it's been lost. I honestly cannot bring myself to go through this more than once or twice a week. I simply cannot. And so I choose not to.
I cannot sleep in my bed at night without locking my bedroom door--sometimes baracading it too. Most nights, I cannot sleep in my bed at all. I sleep on my sofa because I will be better able to hear someone entering my apartment. I sleep with my cell phone in my hand or resting on my chest so I may call 911 in a hurry. I can only drift off to sleep with the tv on because the conversation distracts me from what will otherwise be in my head and prevent me from any sleep at all.
I have taught myself to cope and to survive by doing these things that give me a sense that I have some ability, ANY ability to protect myself, when in all reality I know, deep down inside, that I do not. He can hurt me if he chooses. He can hurt me when he chooses. He can, and I know that he can because he has done so many times before. He can overpower me any time he chooses. He simply can. He always has. My life and my ability to live it is completely dependent upon whether this man chooses to let me live my life or not. He will come after me again. He will come after my children again. He will punish me again and again. He will keep tormenting me and taking pleasure in watching my pain. I know this. What I do NOT know is when. Or how, exactly--and THESE are the thoughts that keep me from sleep at night and require the background noise of someone elses life and someone elses conversation to distract me from imagining what is going be next, and when.
And so I live in fear, each and every day, wondering when the next shoe will drop, when the next motion will be filed, the next threat will be made, the next assault will take place, and each and every day I choose to place the lives of my children before my own by remaining in Virginia Beach with my abuser, away from my family, completely on my own, because I will have custody of my children "if and only if" I choose to do so. He has me. He knows it.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
I told you I would jump around as I share my story. So here we are in the present and I am sitting with the most recent event, one in which my children were hurt—one in which my daughter was deeply hurt. My little lady Grace just turned five. I call her that because she is one—a little lady. And she is most certainly a Grace.
She’s sweet and strong and vulnerable and she hides her feelings well. As her mother I can easily recognize her fake giggle and forced smile when she knows people expect her to feel happy. She wants to please them.
Her older brother is perpetually impressive and I sense she feels a need to keep-up as best she can. She’s perceptive this way—figuring out what people want and finding a way to give it to them. And at her own expense but this does not seem to factor for her. She hides this well too, from most. But I am her mother. For me it’s like seeing the light of day.
When people see her they assume she must be fine, the theory being, if there was something wrong with a young child then the signs would be evident, as children that young simply do not hide their feelings. First I will say that my daughter is well—but not without damage. The wellness of my children is relative to things they have endured.
Second, while I do not disagree with this generalization about wellness, or lack thereof, being evident in a child’s behavior, the problem occurs when strangers and acquaintances assume that signs of a problem would be evident to them. Such an arrogant assumption—by anti-experts who pretend to be wise and all-knowing—have hurt my children and I am still not okay with this. The domino effect of their actions continue to hurt my children today.
Here is the disconnect between assumption and reality, which, for lack of pride they may have seen. Without knowing the true nature and behavior of a particular child—the way a mother knows her child—the way close family knows a child—then one will have no frame-of-reference by which to accurately measure this child’s behavior, and consequently no frame-of-reference from which to accurately measure this child’s state of wellness. Practically a formula it’s so simple.
What I mean is this…while certain observable behaviors may be within a normal developmental range for a child of a certain age, this does not mean these behaviors are normal for one particular child. I am not a doctor, but I do know this—regardless of developmental standards, which quite frankly have a very broad range, a true indicator that a problem exists is the onset of a new problematic behavior, particularly when it coincides with negatives events in a child’s life.
I know my daughter in a way that others do not.
I will repeat this thought process later, as it applies to my story—to a particular event in my story. A very big, very important event. One that changed our lives and our futures forever. One that is dictating our present. It was the beginning of the domino effect. Oh, but for that very first one…
It is the present and soccer season has begun. I will take you there momentarily, but first you must know that my ex is profoundly controlling and deceptive. You must truly understand his willingness to hurt our children in his schemes to punish and hurt me.
His arsenal is largely comprised of tactics framed to punish and control. Each time I fail to do what he wants I should expect a punishment of some kind. This is to teach me a lesson—there are consequences. And these consequences are inevitably far worse than any negative consequence or inconvenience or struggle I may have endured had I simply given-in to his demand in the first place. He plans it this way and never fails in his consistency of punishment, just as a parent must be consistent in the discipline of a young child—consistency of consequence inspires obedience. I’ll talk in more detail about this aspect of the abuse later. But for now I will share one example, so you may see the truth and the degree to which he will go to control.
When my son was three-years-old, his father disassembled the straps on the back of his car seat, where I could not see them. In the front, he had tucked the ends into the open slats above his shoulders, but left them fastened to nothing. They were attached to absolutely nothing in the back where all the straps of the five-point-harness work together to ensure a child’s safety. It looked safe, though. A trick.
I am anal about car seats. Always have been. To this day, I do the two-finger test each and every time I fasten my child into the seat, no matter where we are going or how short a trip. So on this day, February 17, 2007, as I tucked my two fingers between his shoulders and the straps, the straps were still loose. So I did what you do when this happens—I tightened the shoulder straps by pulling the single strap that rests on the bottom of the seat. Still not tight enough. I pulled it further. Still not tight. And so assuming I must need to pull the two shoulder straps out, away from the seat, far enough to take up the slack (parents will know what I mean) and then pull, again, on the bottom strap to finally tighten them to a safe position—at this time as I pulled, the two straps above my sons shoulders just slid out of the slats—they were fastened to nothing.
This was my punishment. He knew I had somewhere important to be early that morning. He knew I would be rushing with my two young children in-tow. He knew I had never assembled one of these things before, but had only watched it being done, once. He knew I would be emotional and distraught at discovering what he had done. He knew I would consequently be kept from being where I needed to be early that morning for lack of time and lack of experience putting this thing back together, the challenge of such a task being exacerbated by the rush of adrenaline and racing heart, overwhelming anger and confused thinking. He knew.
I believe he knew I would discover this, my car seat diligence a constant annoyance to him—always performing this test, going behind him to check even after he had fastened one of our children in a seat, as his standards were never equal to mine.
So this was my punishment. But what if? What if I had not done this test on this day and never discovered that my little boy had nothing holding him in his seat? What if there was an accident?
This man risked the life of our little boy to punish me and teach me to be obedient—to assert control. Do you understand what I am saying? He will cross lines. He will hurt our children. He has and he does and he will. Period.
But for now I am living with the most recent incident and the painful image of my little girl. My God, she is so innocent. The sound and sight of her will not leave me, ever.
Dean’s soccer practice Tuesday night. The standing plan is for my ex to pick-up both kids from school on practice nights. This was Dean’s practice night, so Grace would watch with her father. He wanted me to meet him after the game so he didn’t have to be inconvenienced and drive them back home, but I did not agree to this. He got angry. He decided he would pick-up our son, but not our daughter.
He actually passes our daughter’s school to get to our son’s school—they are literally less than two-minutes apart. My son’s school is attached to his father’s community. We are talking about ease and convenience in ridiculous proportions, relative to the drive for me—more than an hour for one round-trip, which I make twice per day since my children live with me. You get the picture. But he was angry and said he was not getting our daughter. This meant that for failing to agree to meet him part way, I would then be forced to drive all the way to get her, or she would simply be left. My consequence.
I told him I had a commitment, which I had made, in advance, given our standing arrangement that he would get them both on such days. He insisted he would not have time to enter our daughter’s school and retrieve her. Practice started at 5:30 in the field on the grounds of my son’s school. I called, emailed and sent text messages that I would be held-up and still needed him to get her. I suggested he get our son in gear and on the field, then retrieve our daughter a stone’s throw away. I kept leaving messages, asking him to answer or please return my calls to discuss and resolve this issue. He didn’t.
He left our daughter at school. Again, his excuse being, there was no time to retrieve her. She waited for him to come and get her, just two minutes away, but he never did.
Soccer practice was cancelled due to rain that afternoon, so they never even went. But in spite of my calls and emails pleading with him to retrieve our daughter, as she was expecting, as I needed him to, he still left her there.
He got our son though. He picked him up from school, took him home, cooked dinner and ate with him, then settled in for a game of Stratego. Grace was left waiting. He didn’t answer my calls to him, but instead ignored them. I know this man is capable of such an act of neglect, so I called the school to see if she was still there. She was. I raced to get her and made it by 5:58pm—they close at 6:00pm and everyone was gone but the two teachers who waited with my daughter in the school’s office.
She asked why daddy didn’t come to get her. We drove by the empty soccer field, no one there due to the rain. I pulled into his community to retrieve my son and take him home, assuming my ex would be spitefully pleased that I had saved him any part of the trip he did not want to make. My son was there, of course, having finished dinner with his dad and now playing a game.
But my punishment extended beyond the unnecessary round-trip of more than an hour, and beyond the pain of knowing he left our daughter—it even extended beyond the punishment of seeing how hurt she was that he never came to retrieve her. There would be more.
When I arrived at his home and rang his bell, I saw my son through the glass as he rushed toward the door calling out to Mommy and to his little sister. His father pushed him aside and looked out through the window. He would not open the door but spoke to me through the glass and simply said, “Get out of here, Christine. You’re not getting Dean.”
Thinking it was over because he had gotten what he wanted, I was a bit shell-shocked by this new development, I will admit. Our daughter, just five and seeing her father and brother through the glass began calling to them excitedly. I repeated why I was there. He screamed at me to get out of here. My daughter, now hanging on the doorknob asking for daddy to let her in, began getting upset by the locked door. She began crying and calling to her father, “Daddy why won’t you let me in your home. Daddy, please let me in. Why doesn’t Daddy love me. Daddy doesn’t want me in his home.” I could see him grab my son by the arm and take him away as Dean called to me and to his sister.
I rang the bell and knocked and pleaded with him to either let Dean come out or let Grace come in—she had begun crying for her brother. He disconnected the doorbell and disappeared, while my daughter sobbed on the ground outside his door, repeatedly asking why daddy wouldn’t let her in his home and crying that she wanted her brother.
He would not return to the door. I got my daughter into her seat. The only thing she wanted at this point was her brother and I knew she could not have handled leaving without him after all this—her pain would have only gotten worse. I had to choose between the potential harm of exposing my children to another police intervention, or the emotional impact on my daughter if we left without my son. I know my daughter and I saw her pain as she pleaded for me not to leave without her brother—I could feel the pain coming from her. Mother’s know what I mean by this.
I called the police and they came. A few minutes later my son emerged from the house and we left. All this because I would not agree to meet him after practice to shorten his drive. My punishment. In reality, though, it was my children’s burden to carry.
Domestic violence is about control. Physical violence is only one tactic used to assert control. But it’s all painful.
She’s sweet and strong and vulnerable and she hides her feelings well. As her mother I can easily recognize her fake giggle and forced smile when she knows people expect her to feel happy. She wants to please them.
Her older brother is perpetually impressive and I sense she feels a need to keep-up as best she can. She’s perceptive this way—figuring out what people want and finding a way to give it to them. And at her own expense but this does not seem to factor for her. She hides this well too, from most. But I am her mother. For me it’s like seeing the light of day.
When people see her they assume she must be fine, the theory being, if there was something wrong with a young child then the signs would be evident, as children that young simply do not hide their feelings. First I will say that my daughter is well—but not without damage. The wellness of my children is relative to things they have endured.
Second, while I do not disagree with this generalization about wellness, or lack thereof, being evident in a child’s behavior, the problem occurs when strangers and acquaintances assume that signs of a problem would be evident to them. Such an arrogant assumption—by anti-experts who pretend to be wise and all-knowing—have hurt my children and I am still not okay with this. The domino effect of their actions continue to hurt my children today.
Here is the disconnect between assumption and reality, which, for lack of pride they may have seen. Without knowing the true nature and behavior of a particular child—the way a mother knows her child—the way close family knows a child—then one will have no frame-of-reference by which to accurately measure this child’s behavior, and consequently no frame-of-reference from which to accurately measure this child’s state of wellness. Practically a formula it’s so simple.
What I mean is this…while certain observable behaviors may be within a normal developmental range for a child of a certain age, this does not mean these behaviors are normal for one particular child. I am not a doctor, but I do know this—regardless of developmental standards, which quite frankly have a very broad range, a true indicator that a problem exists is the onset of a new problematic behavior, particularly when it coincides with negatives events in a child’s life.
I know my daughter in a way that others do not.
I will repeat this thought process later, as it applies to my story—to a particular event in my story. A very big, very important event. One that changed our lives and our futures forever. One that is dictating our present. It was the beginning of the domino effect. Oh, but for that very first one…
It is the present and soccer season has begun. I will take you there momentarily, but first you must know that my ex is profoundly controlling and deceptive. You must truly understand his willingness to hurt our children in his schemes to punish and hurt me.
His arsenal is largely comprised of tactics framed to punish and control. Each time I fail to do what he wants I should expect a punishment of some kind. This is to teach me a lesson—there are consequences. And these consequences are inevitably far worse than any negative consequence or inconvenience or struggle I may have endured had I simply given-in to his demand in the first place. He plans it this way and never fails in his consistency of punishment, just as a parent must be consistent in the discipline of a young child—consistency of consequence inspires obedience. I’ll talk in more detail about this aspect of the abuse later. But for now I will share one example, so you may see the truth and the degree to which he will go to control.
When my son was three-years-old, his father disassembled the straps on the back of his car seat, where I could not see them. In the front, he had tucked the ends into the open slats above his shoulders, but left them fastened to nothing. They were attached to absolutely nothing in the back where all the straps of the five-point-harness work together to ensure a child’s safety. It looked safe, though. A trick.
I am anal about car seats. Always have been. To this day, I do the two-finger test each and every time I fasten my child into the seat, no matter where we are going or how short a trip. So on this day, February 17, 2007, as I tucked my two fingers between his shoulders and the straps, the straps were still loose. So I did what you do when this happens—I tightened the shoulder straps by pulling the single strap that rests on the bottom of the seat. Still not tight enough. I pulled it further. Still not tight. And so assuming I must need to pull the two shoulder straps out, away from the seat, far enough to take up the slack (parents will know what I mean) and then pull, again, on the bottom strap to finally tighten them to a safe position—at this time as I pulled, the two straps above my sons shoulders just slid out of the slats—they were fastened to nothing.
This was my punishment. He knew I had somewhere important to be early that morning. He knew I would be rushing with my two young children in-tow. He knew I had never assembled one of these things before, but had only watched it being done, once. He knew I would be emotional and distraught at discovering what he had done. He knew I would consequently be kept from being where I needed to be early that morning for lack of time and lack of experience putting this thing back together, the challenge of such a task being exacerbated by the rush of adrenaline and racing heart, overwhelming anger and confused thinking. He knew.
I believe he knew I would discover this, my car seat diligence a constant annoyance to him—always performing this test, going behind him to check even after he had fastened one of our children in a seat, as his standards were never equal to mine.
So this was my punishment. But what if? What if I had not done this test on this day and never discovered that my little boy had nothing holding him in his seat? What if there was an accident?
This man risked the life of our little boy to punish me and teach me to be obedient—to assert control. Do you understand what I am saying? He will cross lines. He will hurt our children. He has and he does and he will. Period.
But for now I am living with the most recent incident and the painful image of my little girl. My God, she is so innocent. The sound and sight of her will not leave me, ever.
Dean’s soccer practice Tuesday night. The standing plan is for my ex to pick-up both kids from school on practice nights. This was Dean’s practice night, so Grace would watch with her father. He wanted me to meet him after the game so he didn’t have to be inconvenienced and drive them back home, but I did not agree to this. He got angry. He decided he would pick-up our son, but not our daughter.
He actually passes our daughter’s school to get to our son’s school—they are literally less than two-minutes apart. My son’s school is attached to his father’s community. We are talking about ease and convenience in ridiculous proportions, relative to the drive for me—more than an hour for one round-trip, which I make twice per day since my children live with me. You get the picture. But he was angry and said he was not getting our daughter. This meant that for failing to agree to meet him part way, I would then be forced to drive all the way to get her, or she would simply be left. My consequence.
I told him I had a commitment, which I had made, in advance, given our standing arrangement that he would get them both on such days. He insisted he would not have time to enter our daughter’s school and retrieve her. Practice started at 5:30 in the field on the grounds of my son’s school. I called, emailed and sent text messages that I would be held-up and still needed him to get her. I suggested he get our son in gear and on the field, then retrieve our daughter a stone’s throw away. I kept leaving messages, asking him to answer or please return my calls to discuss and resolve this issue. He didn’t.
He left our daughter at school. Again, his excuse being, there was no time to retrieve her. She waited for him to come and get her, just two minutes away, but he never did.
Soccer practice was cancelled due to rain that afternoon, so they never even went. But in spite of my calls and emails pleading with him to retrieve our daughter, as she was expecting, as I needed him to, he still left her there.
He got our son though. He picked him up from school, took him home, cooked dinner and ate with him, then settled in for a game of Stratego. Grace was left waiting. He didn’t answer my calls to him, but instead ignored them. I know this man is capable of such an act of neglect, so I called the school to see if she was still there. She was. I raced to get her and made it by 5:58pm—they close at 6:00pm and everyone was gone but the two teachers who waited with my daughter in the school’s office.
She asked why daddy didn’t come to get her. We drove by the empty soccer field, no one there due to the rain. I pulled into his community to retrieve my son and take him home, assuming my ex would be spitefully pleased that I had saved him any part of the trip he did not want to make. My son was there, of course, having finished dinner with his dad and now playing a game.
But my punishment extended beyond the unnecessary round-trip of more than an hour, and beyond the pain of knowing he left our daughter—it even extended beyond the punishment of seeing how hurt she was that he never came to retrieve her. There would be more.
When I arrived at his home and rang his bell, I saw my son through the glass as he rushed toward the door calling out to Mommy and to his little sister. His father pushed him aside and looked out through the window. He would not open the door but spoke to me through the glass and simply said, “Get out of here, Christine. You’re not getting Dean.”
Thinking it was over because he had gotten what he wanted, I was a bit shell-shocked by this new development, I will admit. Our daughter, just five and seeing her father and brother through the glass began calling to them excitedly. I repeated why I was there. He screamed at me to get out of here. My daughter, now hanging on the doorknob asking for daddy to let her in, began getting upset by the locked door. She began crying and calling to her father, “Daddy why won’t you let me in your home. Daddy, please let me in. Why doesn’t Daddy love me. Daddy doesn’t want me in his home.” I could see him grab my son by the arm and take him away as Dean called to me and to his sister.
I rang the bell and knocked and pleaded with him to either let Dean come out or let Grace come in—she had begun crying for her brother. He disconnected the doorbell and disappeared, while my daughter sobbed on the ground outside his door, repeatedly asking why daddy wouldn’t let her in his home and crying that she wanted her brother.
He would not return to the door. I got my daughter into her seat. The only thing she wanted at this point was her brother and I knew she could not have handled leaving without him after all this—her pain would have only gotten worse. I had to choose between the potential harm of exposing my children to another police intervention, or the emotional impact on my daughter if we left without my son. I know my daughter and I saw her pain as she pleaded for me not to leave without her brother—I could feel the pain coming from her. Mother’s know what I mean by this.
I called the police and they came. A few minutes later my son emerged from the house and we left. All this because I would not agree to meet him after practice to shorten his drive. My punishment. In reality, though, it was my children’s burden to carry.
Domestic violence is about control. Physical violence is only one tactic used to assert control. But it’s all painful.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Beginning my blog, somewhere in the middle
I've been meaning to do this for some time now--four years, to be exact. In truth, my choice to start now, after so much has already happened, enables me to procrastinate my current legal project without so much guilt--after all, I'm being productive. And what I have to say must be said.
The real question is this--where do I begin? The beginning of our relationship? The beginning of the abuse? The beginning of the divorce? The beginning of the true nightmare, which, as you may not expect, came AFTER all of the above?
I will jump around a bit, as is the nature of my ADD and the rhythm my life has taken through this process.
And while you may detect humor in my voice, I promise what has taken place in my life and the lives of my two young and beautiful children will inspire no laughter. It is tragic. What has taken place in our lives involves a man I once loved who became my abuser. And two innocent children who watched.
My story began like a fairytale reads--a remarkable man chose me to be his wife. Our babies were born healthy and entirely perfect. My husband adored me. I felt cherished. I kept wondering what I must have done in my life to deserve such blessings. I decided I could live without knowing the what or when or why I was so blessed. I was certain of only one thing--this was God's plan for me.
While I remain certain of this single fact, that the life I was living was part of the Lord's plan --what I did not yet know is this--that His plan was not about rewarding my choices, but about growth that would come from tragedy and survival.
I am grateful I did not know what was to come. I fear I would not have survived the knowledge of this.
The abuse came on gradually. In such small pieces--sporadic and minor offenses in contrast to so much that was wonderful and everything I had hoped for. The white noise of a dripping faucet, unheard, until it becomes Niagara. Kind of like that.
I've come a long way since the center of my pain--when I lived in his house, under his roof, under his control. Entirely helpless and at the mercy of evil. I started to keep a journal during this time, and on occasion I revisit my entries when I need to be reminded how far I've come and how much my pain has diminished. It doesn't always feel that way of course. We live in the present state of our emotions. To compare and contrast is not a natural process when it comes to our pain, or so it seems to me. To see it in relative terms takes effort. And so I revisit, compare and contrast, and remind myself how far I've come and how much my pain has diminished.
My first entry was written, as follows:
Entry Saturday, April 29, 2006 I am a Volcano.
Peace is a luxury like caviar and imported linens spun with gold, something my empty pockets cannot afford. And so I go hungry and cold.
I am a Volcano.
If I could bleed out the hate it would be a relief to me. If its exit from my body were visible you would see thick red fluid rushing from every orifice like rapids on an angry river. You would see its turmoil and living energy.
My body is about to explode. The hate and anger are so enormous they are bigger than my body and it feels like there’s a giant beast inside my much smaller body and I’m forced to contain it against this powerful struggle. I feel helpless. I feel cornered. I can do nothing but rage against this giant foreign body inside mine, demanding freedom, and I’m not sure how much longer I can survive before it rips my flesh to shreds in its violent escape.
My screams are so loud that I can’t hear the world around me. Does it exist? I am acutely aware that nothing outside my body exists—all the energy in the universe has been concentrated inside me to build this volcano of hate. I have sucked-in all the ugliness around me, as one inhales before blowing out a hundred birthday candles with one breath. I have the power to exhale a kind of violence that could destroy a generation.
GOD HELP ME I don’t know where to put it. I have to get it out. I hate him I hate him I hate him.
He is an evil man dressed in gentleman’s clothing. The fabric seemed soft to me once. Gentile. Neatly tailored with purpose and compassion. I felt warm beside its fine threads. I felt special to be its chosen companion. He is a liar who wears a smile and gentle touch on the days it suits him to choose that attire—when he has something to gain.
The hate is for my husband. Husband is a word that once meant protector, lover, partner, supporter, friend, champion. Today it means enemy, nemesis, destroyer.
I hate this man with the kind of passion I felt when I loved him, one of intensity and consummation. If I could only dim the lights enough to find peace.
(end of entry)
-------------
In spite of my anger toward him, in this moment, today, and in spite of the pain I contain right now, clearly my pain has diminished. My healing has been profound--I can be certain of that. But I do remember this day and this pain, and I know this memory will always be a part of me. And if I let it, the same pain comes back, just as I felt it that day, just as if I'm living that moment all over again. I'm careful to keep it high on a shelf where it cannot be easily reached.
I wonder what memories my children have and the pain that accompanies those snap-shots they may always carry. They seem well--they are well. They are remarkable. They have become survivors much sooner than anyone should have to survive. And they have no idea that this is not everyone's reality. When they are old enough to know this I hope they find strength in knowing they survived, rather than anger toward those who hurt them so deeply, only surmounting their tragedy. But for now, they are left to believe that life is supposed to hurt this much--it is all they have known. I'm not sure which is the greater tragedy.
That is all for now.
Christine
The real question is this--where do I begin? The beginning of our relationship? The beginning of the abuse? The beginning of the divorce? The beginning of the true nightmare, which, as you may not expect, came AFTER all of the above?
I will jump around a bit, as is the nature of my ADD and the rhythm my life has taken through this process.
And while you may detect humor in my voice, I promise what has taken place in my life and the lives of my two young and beautiful children will inspire no laughter. It is tragic. What has taken place in our lives involves a man I once loved who became my abuser. And two innocent children who watched.
My story began like a fairytale reads--a remarkable man chose me to be his wife. Our babies were born healthy and entirely perfect. My husband adored me. I felt cherished. I kept wondering what I must have done in my life to deserve such blessings. I decided I could live without knowing the what or when or why I was so blessed. I was certain of only one thing--this was God's plan for me.
While I remain certain of this single fact, that the life I was living was part of the Lord's plan --what I did not yet know is this--that His plan was not about rewarding my choices, but about growth that would come from tragedy and survival.
I am grateful I did not know what was to come. I fear I would not have survived the knowledge of this.
The abuse came on gradually. In such small pieces--sporadic and minor offenses in contrast to so much that was wonderful and everything I had hoped for. The white noise of a dripping faucet, unheard, until it becomes Niagara. Kind of like that.
I've come a long way since the center of my pain--when I lived in his house, under his roof, under his control. Entirely helpless and at the mercy of evil. I started to keep a journal during this time, and on occasion I revisit my entries when I need to be reminded how far I've come and how much my pain has diminished. It doesn't always feel that way of course. We live in the present state of our emotions. To compare and contrast is not a natural process when it comes to our pain, or so it seems to me. To see it in relative terms takes effort. And so I revisit, compare and contrast, and remind myself how far I've come and how much my pain has diminished.
My first entry was written, as follows:
Entry Saturday, April 29, 2006 I am a Volcano.
Peace is a luxury like caviar and imported linens spun with gold, something my empty pockets cannot afford. And so I go hungry and cold.
I am a Volcano.
If I could bleed out the hate it would be a relief to me. If its exit from my body were visible you would see thick red fluid rushing from every orifice like rapids on an angry river. You would see its turmoil and living energy.
My body is about to explode. The hate and anger are so enormous they are bigger than my body and it feels like there’s a giant beast inside my much smaller body and I’m forced to contain it against this powerful struggle. I feel helpless. I feel cornered. I can do nothing but rage against this giant foreign body inside mine, demanding freedom, and I’m not sure how much longer I can survive before it rips my flesh to shreds in its violent escape.
My screams are so loud that I can’t hear the world around me. Does it exist? I am acutely aware that nothing outside my body exists—all the energy in the universe has been concentrated inside me to build this volcano of hate. I have sucked-in all the ugliness around me, as one inhales before blowing out a hundred birthday candles with one breath. I have the power to exhale a kind of violence that could destroy a generation.
GOD HELP ME I don’t know where to put it. I have to get it out. I hate him I hate him I hate him.
He is an evil man dressed in gentleman’s clothing. The fabric seemed soft to me once. Gentile. Neatly tailored with purpose and compassion. I felt warm beside its fine threads. I felt special to be its chosen companion. He is a liar who wears a smile and gentle touch on the days it suits him to choose that attire—when he has something to gain.
The hate is for my husband. Husband is a word that once meant protector, lover, partner, supporter, friend, champion. Today it means enemy, nemesis, destroyer.
I hate this man with the kind of passion I felt when I loved him, one of intensity and consummation. If I could only dim the lights enough to find peace.
(end of entry)
-------------
In spite of my anger toward him, in this moment, today, and in spite of the pain I contain right now, clearly my pain has diminished. My healing has been profound--I can be certain of that. But I do remember this day and this pain, and I know this memory will always be a part of me. And if I let it, the same pain comes back, just as I felt it that day, just as if I'm living that moment all over again. I'm careful to keep it high on a shelf where it cannot be easily reached.
I wonder what memories my children have and the pain that accompanies those snap-shots they may always carry. They seem well--they are well. They are remarkable. They have become survivors much sooner than anyone should have to survive. And they have no idea that this is not everyone's reality. When they are old enough to know this I hope they find strength in knowing they survived, rather than anger toward those who hurt them so deeply, only surmounting their tragedy. But for now, they are left to believe that life is supposed to hurt this much--it is all they have known. I'm not sure which is the greater tragedy.
That is all for now.
Christine
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