I too am sadly normal.
I was abused by my father from
the age of 13 to the age of 17. The abuse briefly stopped because I finally told
my mother what was going on behind closed doors. As he moved out (for the first
time) he walked past my bedroom door, stopped and said, “Thanks a lot.” Now *this
too* was my fault.
All my relationships have been
abusive in one way or another. I’ve married two alcoholics and I married one man
who was mentally abusive; this man took pleasure in hearing stories of my abuse.
He even wanted to counsel me on his own.
My final abusive (non-married)
relationship lasted about six months before I recognized the pattern and
behavior that was typical in all my other relationships. I ended it before it
could get any worse for me or my children.
I was single for 5 years; a
very long time for me since I just didn’t think I could live without someone in
my life. But I was determined to get better before trying to get involved with
anyone again. And the next (if there was to be one) relationship would be a *healthy*
one or there wouldn’t be one. Oddly enough, my being single only helped me feel
comfortable at being single. It did not prepare me for healthy communication
while in a healthy relationship.
After five years, and almost
at the age of 50, I accepted into my life a man who is kind, gentle, patient and
very intelligent. He recognizes my defense methods sometimes before I do. This
wonderful man has had the patience to stick it out with me while we work
together on changing my ways. I am learning that I can let myself trust him as
he proves to me that he means what he says. He is (repeatedly) working very hard
at proving to me that I can trust him in every aspect of our relationship. Any
time I feel like I’m being verbally or mentally attacked, we discuss the meaning
behind what he is saying or how I am feeling. Any time I fall back to my defunct
coping habits, he stops me and together we discuss how I could better manage.
I feel that I am truly loved
by this man. I feel that this has been the best relationship I have ever had in
my life. It is so good that I want to work to get better; I want to find myself;
I want to work to believe that I matter, that I am special, that I am lovable; I
want to live instead of surviving or continuing to perpetuate being the victim.
I don’t want to be “sadly
normal” anymore.
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ST002
Last March, my mother died at the
age of 79. In a way, I think that released me for the inevitable confrontation
with my father. Had I confronted while my mother was living, it might well
have killed her. Of course she was aware of it, but throughout her life, even
when the evidence became inescapable, she preferred to bury her head in the
sand, and to blame the victim (me). There had even been a sham of an
investigation, I was to later learn. But over the past twenty years,
especially these past few years, Mom had not been a well woman.
Two months after Mom died, my
father remarried. By all reports, his new wife is an absolute darling, for
real. She thinks my father shits ice cream. Far be it from me to dissuade her.
She, too, is an innocent.
Then last October, 7 months after
my mother's passing, I got the shocking news that my youngest brother, Josh,
had also died. He was 44, the youngest of 8 siblings, and he literally drank
himself to death. Unlike my mother, he hadn't yet lived a full life. An
alcoholic, he'd pretty much exhausted the patience of all but a few people. He
still communicated regularly with 2 brothers and a more-or-less foster
brother, Jerry, Josh's life-long best friend. After Josh died, it was
Jerry who arranged for Josh's memorial service. Jerry got the hall, made
catering arrangements, and put the announcement in the paper. My father said
he couldn't understand why everyone was making such a big fuss about the whole
thing. Josh drank himself to death. It was his own fault. He suffered the
consequences of his own irresponsibility. Josh was an embarrassment, case
closed, turn the page, close the book..
I finally called Dad, and I calmly
asked for an admission and an apology. "For what?" he asked. "For the things
you did to us when we were little girls," I answered. "My Gaawd!" he
replied, and he handed the phone over to his new wife, who was understandingly
perplexed. He intuitively knew I wouldn't drag her into it. He was right.
Years of manipulation hadn't failed him. When she came on the line, I
blubbered something about missing my mother, and I quickly extricated myself
from the conversation. She's an innocent. And these days, Dad himself is
finally too infirm to victimize any other little ones. I haven't spoken to my
father since.
What Dad didn't know was that
after Josh's death, Jerry, Josh's best friend, turned to me for comfort and
conversation. We burned up those phone lines, sometimes for hours at a time,
both of us remembering Josh and missing him. Nobody else wanted to talk about
Josh anymore, but we both still needed to. Most folks thought Dad targeted
only females, but we knew he didn't discriminate. Jerry remembered Josh's
tearful childhood confidences, and seeing first-hand how on all those early
mornings, while my mother was off taking college courses, my father was waking
Josh up and making him come to bed with him. Josh had been a bright, clever,
amazingly resilient little boy. Before he reached his teens, he turned to
alcohol and drugs for comfort.
Jerry had had a troubled childhood
of his own, which explains why he lived with my family most of his life (an
improvement?!). After his own father had died of alcoholism, he moved
in with us. He and Josh became inseparable. Years later, while Josh was in
jail, it was Jerry who bought Josh's son Christmas presents and signed them,
"Love, Dad." Jerry was like that. It took Jerry another 5 months, but last
month, he finally caught up with Josh and drank himself to death, too. When I
tearfully remember Jerry and Josh, I realize that sometimes when the hole
in your soul is that big, it takes a lot of drugs and alcohol to fill it.
I detest those who cast judgment on others for using alcohol or drugs. All too
often, they fail to consider the back story. Ours is a nation that throws
drugs at a multitude of problems, but when it comes to recreational drugs and
alcohol, we should "Just say no." How quaint! What about those of us for whom
the word "no" has never been an acceptable part of our vocabulary?
I prayed yesterday. I prayed long
and hard. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. You see, I have a
problem with authority figures, particularly when I perceive them as being
males. But in praying, I asked God why He didn't protect me. Why hadn't He
protected all those many others who were also sexually (and otherwise) abused?
Surely He had the ability, if He chose to. Was it my grandfather's, or my
father's, or Adam's original sin? Come to think of it, why hadn't He protected
Jesus? Jesus had never sinned, and crucifixion was such a barbaric
way for such a perfect, loving being to die. Was there no other way? Did it
really need to come to all that?
Then it came to me, an age-old
story with a whole new twist: Jesus needed only to ask and God would've
delivered Him from that cross. It was Christ's choice to give Himself up
for us. God surely loved Jesus in a grander way than mere human minds can
begin to comprehend. So imagine how much He loves us, despite our scars and
our wounded spirits, our frailties and our many shortcomings. God hadn't
brought sin into this world, but in His infinite wisdom, he made for us in
Jesus a sure way out. Somehow, I never envisioned the "For God so loved the
world" scripture in this particular light, but it's been a tremendous comfort
to me. Maybe in time I can climb onto His lap and find in Him the Father I
wish I'd had - a perfect Father whose love is pure and benevolent, and who
would never betray us. Maybe one day we all can.
Best regards to all,
Christine