e mail me at :hope2bsurvivor@yahoo.co.uk
This page is my experience of abuse. If you have suffered childhood abuse you may find some of the content hard to read. Only keep reading if you feel you can cope with it as I do not want to upset anybody with these words.
Out of all the pages I've included in this site, this is the hardest for me to write. It talks about my Father's treatment towards me when I was too young to judge whether it was right or wrong. Of course, I now know that it was wrong. I do not know when my Father started to abuse me, so I can only assume that it must have been when I was very young. I try to detach the memories from my mind, constantly pushing them away because I cannot bear to feel them. It is too distressing. In some ways I have deserted the child I was as I cannot tolerate the images of suffering that she has to endure day in and day out. In other ways that child is very much alive inside me and I'm trying to stop her crying, but because I can never forget, the tears keep on pouring from her eyes.
"In some ways, an abused child faces terror far worse than anything a soldier experiences on the field of battle. She lives in a world of continual and unpredictable danger and may, with good reason, fear for her life. Yet she has no gun to protect her, no squad to back her up, no training for her combat role. She is completely alone, completely powerless, completely at the mercy of her parent's will, she cannot fight back, cannot escape. She is trapped."
extract from 'A Bright Red Scream' by Marilee Strong
My Father physically and emotionally abused me. Still I feel uncomfortable writing those words. I am in no doubt that the abuse happened but it was only when I was sixteen that I realised what he did was abuse. Before then it was just normal, it was life, my life. Instead of being hugged I was hit, instead of being listened to I was ignored, instead of being encouraged I was made to feel worthless, instead of being shown love I was given fear and instead of being a happy child I was a sad child. That is just the way it was and I didn't really have any reason to fight against it as I believed it was how every child was treated. I even loved my Dad which with all the things he did astonishes me, but I can remember that feeling of pride that he was my Father. I suppose this was the result of mental abuse, years of manipulating a young mind into believing that what is being done is right and for your own good. My father was good and I was bad - that was my child perception of the constant cruelty and punishment, a child view that lived into adulthood causing years of guilt and shame.
Instead of 'abuse' the word I feel is more appropriate for the ways in which I was mistreated is 'cruelty'. Cold hearted cruelty - although I am not sure whether my Dad has a heart at all. The cruelty was constant but there are images that stand out more than others. These are the ones that revisit me again and again in flash backs that cause me to regress back into the body of a whimpering child. I hate them, I hate that the events in these flash backs actually happened, but however deep memories are buried, they always resurface sooner or later. And somehow they seem to gain strength until they become as clear as the animated screen of a horror movie.
My Father hit me often. Maybe I could accept this as discipline or a harsh punishment if I'd actually done anything wrong, but I never did anything wrong and certainly never anything as bad to warrant such force behind his rough hands. He would even hit me for accidentally falling over. The blows would knock me off my feet and more often than not I'd end up pinned against a wall, or in a corner or somersaulting through the air. Occasionally I would try to get away but I knew that it was easier to let my Father get on with it. And I shouldn't cry because that just made his face get redder and the veins in his head bulge with temper. I would be left a little sore but I did not cry, crying was for babies. I have since made up for these suppressed tears and still grieve for a stolen childhood.
The less obvious ways of causing me distress, without me realising it was actually intentional harm, are too many to list here. They include things like making me get into scolding hot baths and pouring hot water over me while I whinced. After we'd been to the beach he would rub the sand off me with such force that it scratched me. He forced me to eat food I did not like and served quantities that were far to large for me to manage. He tortured my beloved cats in front of me. I often wonder whether he ever thought that his actions were wrong or whether he was born with a twisted mind that enjoys watching others suffer. He used cruelty to control and make himself feel powerful. He certainly never cared about anyone but himself and had what I'd call an unhealthy obsession with horror films and murder novels. He was a loner and as his family we were his whole life - but not in a good way. Anyway, I do not like to psycho analyis my Father as his profile always seems to be too similar to criminals who commit horrific crimes against human kind.
For me the worst abuse was my Father purposely ignoring me. That made me feel more dirty and worthless than any other of his actions. That was the one that messed with my emotions more than any other - the one that hurt the most - the one that had the hardest punch. In fact he still is ignoring me although I choose to ignore him too, now. I have not seen him for six years and as far as he's concerned I do not exist. He still exists for me although I do not wish to contact him at the moment. By ignoring me he's reinforcing the fact that he does not care, but then maybe I've known that deep down all my life.
So where was my Mum when all this was happening. Well, she was never far away, maybe in the next room. She knew but chose to ignore it or deny it was happening. It does make me angry that she could have got me out sooner but she was under the same ritual of abuse, that injected such fear into her that staying was better than leaving. Why did she stay so long? Only she can answer that one.
"Her captors are her own parents, the people who are suppose to love and nuture her, teach her right from wrong, and protect her from harm."
extract from 'A Bright Red Scream' by Marilee Strong
Although I do not want to talk about my siblings here, I should say that they were also living in this abusive atmosphere. I was not the only one. Nobody, how ever well they think they know a family is truly aware of what goes on behind closed doors. On the outside we seemed to be a normal family with all the outings and holidays that go with family life. And my Father was liked and respected for being so dedicated to providing for his family. They did not know that he was actually keeping us extremely short of money - we lived like we were poor when we were actually quite well off. He had a way of charming everybody into believing that he was all good when what he really was, was all bad.
Every person who has been abused as a child has their own story to tell - some more horrific than others. They all deserve to be listened to. Something that is true for every abused child is that it was not their fault. I blamed myself for years and still sometimes I wander if I should have made more of an effort to get him to like me. In reality, I was not to blame for my Father's behaviour. The victim of abuse is silenced by threats, or fear, or just do not know that they do not deserve such treatment. Abused children are left damaged, some mend and some don't. Some say they could forgive and forget, some say they could never forgive or forget. I hate to think that children have to suffer because their parent or parents get some kind of thrill from seeing their children, usually their own flesh and blood quake in fear. Yet, I know and the whole world knows that it is happening in the same town they live in, or the same street or maybe even in the house next door. In a playground of children there will be some that go home every day to an abusive home. All these children will grow up with the memories and will be scarred in some way. They react in different ways to come to terms with the abuse - many abuse themselves in some way and some go on to abuse others. I do not understand why someone who was abused would go on to abuse others but there is no doubt that it happens.
"Most children who are abused, discover that a serious jolt to the body, like that produced by self injury, can make intolerable feelings go away temporarily"
-Herman (1992)
People find there own ways to survive abuse. Victim to survivor is a long treacherous journey and without support is practically impossible. I do not think that I will ever fully come to terms with it as I will never fully understand why my Father did the things he did. However,whatever the damage suffered in the past, life goes on, although some abuse victims choose not to continue living. Surviving abuse whether physical, sexual or emotional, is a battle that seems to be driven by a need not to let the abuser win. My Father had been hell bent on destroying me for sixteen years and I will not let the bastard win. I will not forget, I will not forgive and I will not stop being angry but I will survive - in fact scrub 'I will', I have survived.
"Most women have not even been able to touch this anger except to drive it inward like a rusted nail"
Alice Miller
Keep Hoping