Ending the Silence

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The abuse was never our fault! We never asked for it, wanted it, or needed it. It was done to us!

If you have visited this site before then you know that its appearance has changed yet again. I love to hear what you about the changes to the site, if you like them, or prefer the older look, and if you are new, well then you have little to compair this new look with, but in neither case, I hope you enjoy the site and thank you for stopping bye.

Been battered and bruised,
Been lost in the darkness,
Drowning in the sea of sorrow,
But here I am still standing,
Still seeking and striving
To stand tall.

Click on any of the areas listed below to visit those pages. Thank you.

Welcome to my section displaying some of the material I have written, some of it may be nothing more then simple ramblings and thoughts I have had or have, so please read with care....

If you have any comments on any of the material posted here or anywhere on the site, please feel free to post on the message board or send me an email.

Shattered Glass

Many times I feel very much alone as if I am the only one who feels so frightened and confused, that there is something wrong with me!

Pitfalls of Life

Strings of family

Remembering..rage against mother

The Child Within

"please-aholic" how does one stop?

A spark of anger.. I MATTER

Memories...........

Rambling about parenthood

Are our kids safe?

Excerise: I don't remember

IS Happiness A conscience Choice?
What does happiness mean to you?

Is happiness truly a state of mind?

Evolution of Childhood

“I committed no crime”

What kind of mother am I?

Salem Hysteria of 1692

“A shattered glass, shards littering the floor, reflecting images of the past and present, pieces of a soul, wounded, separated, and
festering. A collector of shards, I am, gathering the pieces, building a puzzle, forever fitting the shards in place- one piece at a time, never surrounding to the fear and pain each piece brings to the forefront, facing them all, rebuilding the picture with strength
and courage.” I feel as if my childhood caused
my soul to become shattered, and yet I was not shattered at all. For the courage to live lurked inside me, and assisted me when I faltered. I learned how to cope, how to be, when I didn’t even know who me was, and yet, now I undertake the hardest journey of all. The journey to find me, to find who and what I am. I know I hold the answers inside of me, with effort and time I’ll hold them in my palm of my hand,
but till then I keep on diving in..............................I’m rebuilding the glass, picking up the shattered shards, placing them back piece by piece like building a giant jig-saw-puzzle... 
 
Much of what once haunted me no longer does, for much of what I allowed to disturbed me, I have conqueored, becoming more of who I want to be, but there still exist things that do haunt me and at times I still feel the waves of darkness washing over me and sometimes I still feel as if I am trapped on the outside, watching life spin around me, but not truly apart of it all. In the end, I feel that the hardest thing to do in life is living in it, to be apart of the life that exist around us and not to withdraw from it, running from it, and trying to hide. I feel that when things become difficult for me that is something I must struggle against doing for my instincts commonly tell me to run, to hide, to pretend that nothing is wrong just as my family, my mother had always done in my childhood, instead of facing it with courage.

This morning trying to capture some rest, I find myself, every time I close my eyes, remembering the day my mother screamed at me, accusing me of being a whore, hubsand stealer, a liar, wanting to be the center of attention... I can still hear her hateful words, and yet, right now i wish I could travel back in time, and stand before her and scream "What about me? Why can't you be here for me? Why did you take his side? I'm not a whore! I don't want this attention! I didn't ask for this!" Because that day, I had just stood there, accepted her hateful words, agreed with her, and tried to comfort her, telling her i do what I could to make sure they didn't send him to jail. When all the while, I wanted him to go jail! To pay for what he had done, but he hadn't, because I had folded, and took care of her, letting her needs above mine!!!! I still remeber the hate in her eyes, as she attacked me, and even pushed me down the basement stairs. How I stayed silent, telling no one, accepting the blame, accepting her pain as if it was mine, when all the time I wanted her to be ther for me!!!!! I wanted her to think of me!!!!!!! I'll never understand her choise.....but right now, I hate her, remebering all the hateful things she did to me? How she made me feel like a slave.. I never asked to be, but I was, and feel as if she couldn't love, then why didn't let my grandma keep me? My grandma had custody of me for the first three years of my life till my mother got married to him... how much happier I would of been if I had stayed with my grandma!!!!!!!

Working through mother blame

"Regardless of how indequate a mother may have been, no behavoir on her part is licensce for any man to sexually abuse a child. Some survivors perpetuate this blame of mothers, remaining far angrier at their mothers then at their abusers"

Anyways as I read the above statements and the rest that followed all I wanted to do was scream. To shout out loud! Yet, my rage at mother could it truly be misplaced? Am I wrong?

Yet, isn't it okay to be anger at the fact that she didn't protect me, and even when I did speak she screamed I was lieing, a whore, wanting to steal her husband. She rejected me time after time, how many times must I live with her belittling before I give up?

My mother sent me a letter, of cousre I  read it with tears falling down my cheek, for once again she stated how I ruin her life, how I influenced all the choses she has made, and that I should stop being a selfish bitch and get over it, forgot all that has been, since nothing can be changed and that she wont always be around
for me blame for my problems. Yet, am I blaming her? Am I blaming her for my pain and for her hubsand did to me? What about what she did to me, made me feel?

As survivors, we may have a difficult time with the concept of a child within or an inner child even though it is an essential part of healing to be able to forgive the child. Often times, the child is hated, blamed or ignored completely. Many survivors, myself include may hate the child for having been small, defenseless, vulnerable and for needing affection and in a sense allowing themselves to be abused. However, the truth is that child did what the child had to do in order to survive.

One must come to terms with the child inside, to accept her, to tell her that she is loved, cared about, and she is understood, that she did what she had to do, and none of the abuse was her fault. Essentially, by telling the inner child, one is tell themselves and forgiving themselves for the wrongs done to them when they were so small. Still, coming to terms with this child is difficult, since one's survival depended upon covering up one's vulnerability. It may be threatening just to admit that you were once a child for it means that you must face the fact that you did not have the power to protect oneself. It means remembering your shame, vulnerability and pain as well as admitting that the abuse happened.

When you refuse to have the inner child in your life, you have lost something important. You have lost the sense of wonder, trust, softness and fun in your life for if you hate the inner child then essentially you hate a part of yourself. By taking care of the inner child, one can begin to take care of oneself.

For myself, I denied for a long time that an inner child existed, and yet I know now that she does. She is the little one inside of me that longs to play, to be free, and to enjoy life. She is the one that enjoys playing along side my kids, of discovering new delights, and finding the wonder and joy in life. She is the one who doesn't want to be responsible, but to enjoy and feel pleasure, to embrace the fun and delight in life. She is also the one that I had to face, to say that I am sorry too for all that had happened, to tell her that she is safe, that it is okay to come out and have fun, to be able to laugh and to join my kids in playing games. She is the one that comes out when I play video games with my kids or when I decide to do so on my own, to run around the park playing tag or other games. Until I had embraced her, I had never allowed myself to play, to have fun, it was as if I believed that I was not allowed to have fun or be silly or a little crazy, but had to be serious and aloof all the time.

You can tell your "Inner Child" that it is OK to:
* Have the freedom to make choices for itself.
* Be ``selfish'' and do the things you want to do.
* Take the time to do the things you want to do.
* Associate only with the people you want to associate with.
* Accept some people and to reject others.
* Give and accept love from others.
* Allow someone else to care for you.
* Enjoy the fruits of your labor with no guilt feelings.
* Take time to ``play'' and have ``fun'' each day.
* Not to be so ``serious,'' intense, and inflexible about life.
* Set limits on how you are going to relate to others.
* Not always ``serve'' others.
* Accept others ``serving'' you.
* Be in charge of your life and not let others dictate to you.
* Be honest with others about your thoughts and feelings.
* Take risks and to suffer the positive or negative consequences of such risks.
* Make mistakes, laugh at them, and carry on.
* Let your imagination and creativity be set free and to soar with the eagles.
* Cry, hurt, and to be in pain as long as you share your feelings; do not repress or suppress them.
* Be angry, to express your anger, and to bring your anger to some resolution.
* Make decisions for yourself.
* Be a problem solver and come up with solutions with which everyone may not agree.
* Feel happiness, joy, excitement, pleasure, and excitement about living.
* Feel down, blue, sad, anxious, upset, and worried, as long as you share your feelings.
* Love and be loved by someone whom you cherish.
* Be your "Inner Child'' and to let it grow up, accept love, share feelings, and enjoy pleasure and play.

The "Inner Child" is the: 
* Little child you were who desired to be nurtured, cared for, and loved. This child still resides within you as an adult.
* Free spirit, pixie, and elf you have tamed and controlled, yet who resides within you.
* Emotional and sensitive you whom you have channeled, controlled, and silenced and who is still living within you.
* Creative, imaginative, and artistic you who has been molded, structured, and organized; who still resides in you and is needing to be set free.
* Hurt, pained, neglected, frustrated, abused, and ignored you whom you have masked, hidden from view, and denied the existence of. This child is always just below the surface, causing you to be anxious, worried, and fearful of mistreatment.
* Fun loving, happy, frivolous, joyful, humorous you when you were young and unsophisticated; that person you have replaced with a sophisticated, mature, serious, task oriented demeanor.
* Childhood you have lost or forgotten; yet it still resides in you, dwelling in your subconscious.
* Person who knows how to have fun and play for play's sake; who can help you prevent burnout and manage the stress in your life.
* Person you could be as an adult if you lightened up, let go of your seriousness, overcame your fears, and accepted flexibility and change in your life.
* Person within you who needs healing, support, and reinforcement

The "Inner Child":
* Resides in every adult person.
* Lives in every adult because it is captured in the brain's memory bank.
* Exists in the memory or subconscious because each one of us has poignant memories of our past that shape our present motivation and future drive.
* Exists because when we adopted specific behavior characteristics and behavior scripts to cope in our dysfunctional environment we masked, covered up, or forgot the "real'' inner child we had been.
* Comes back to many of us in our dreams or daydreams. We can clearly picture what the little child looks like and how the child is feeling and acting.
* Is the person we controlled, repressed, and hid in order to survive in the world of stress. Since it was repressed we held onto it in our subconscious.
* Is the link we have to our spiritual being because it is in the spirit realm rather than in the realm of conscious behavior.
* Is a component of our current value and belief system; however, we are unaware of its influence on our decisions.
* Exists because when we were overcome by guilt as children, we climbed inside of ourselves to avoid the feelings of not being ``good enough.''
* Exists because when we were little our family rules required that we present an image of a happy, healthy family, even if we weren't. So we repressed our little child to appear more responsible, serious, and achievement oriented.

From growing up in a dysfunctional family, emotional maturity was stunted. This failure to mature left the "Inner Child" unfinished because we:
* Grew up too fast.
* Became small adults; little ``moms'' and ``dads.''
* Were either over responsible or overachievers.
* Were emotionally vulnerable.
* Were not given a chance to grow and mature in a normal sequence of events.
* Put on a public ``mask'' or image to stifle our child-like needs.
* Repressed joy, vision, and feelings.
* Still have a ``inner child'' waiting to grow up and take its proper place.
The "Inner Child" comes into being by:
* A denial of true feelings.
* A denial of the person we are.
* Trying hard to live up to others' expectations.
* Holding back our child-like responses, while we provide adult like responses to stress. 
* The fear of being ``found out'' about how we really feel.
* Insecurity in the midst of chaos, confusion, or the vacuum of repressed feelings.
*  A sense of obligation to always ``look good'' and ``be good.''
* Inexperience at being loved for ``who you are'' rather than for ``what you do.''
* Not being given the role model of how to ``enjoy'' life and to have ``fun.''
* Always having to be ``serious'' about life.
* A lack of encouragement to broaden our scope of vision about the ``potentials'' in life.
* The stress of staying vigilantly in the ``here and now'' so that we stay in control and the ``walls didn't come tumbling down'' around us.
* Never being given or taking the freedom to ``play'' and act ``childish.''
* Not being given role models of how to take pleasure out of the ``little'' things in life.
* A compulsive drive to fulfill our ``role'' in our family.
* Not recognizing that we can make ``choices'' in our lives to make it what we want it to be.
* Continuing even now to follow our ``compulsive'' role(s) rather than choosing to change and be free from the restraints this compulsion creates for us.
* Silencing our "inner child'' and guarding ourselves, retreating behind ``masked'' barriers.
* Feeling that it is not safe to grow up, to accept love, or to share feelings.
* Learning to spend some time each day in pleasure and play.

"It is never to late to have a happy childhood".

When the "Inner Child" climbed inside you it probably was hoping to hear:
* I love you, I care about you, and I accept you just the way you are.
* I am so proud of you and all that you are.
* I am so happy you are my child.
* You are so beautiful and attractive.
* You are so bright and talented.
* You are so artistic and creative.
* You are such a good worker.
* I am sorry I hurt you.
* I am sorry I neglected you.
* I am sorry I forgot you.
* I am sorry I ignored you.
* I am sorry I took you for granted.
* I am sorry I made you grow up so fast.
* I am sorry I had to rely on you so much.
* You can trust me to take care of you.
* You can trust me to be there for you.
* You can trust me to protect you from any hurt or pain.
* I will get help for myself and for the family.
* We will work at getting healthy together.
* We will have healthy fun and play together.
When as adults we choose to suppress the memory, needs, and desires of the "Inner Child" we run the risk of:
* Never learning how to feel normally.
* Never learning how to play and have fun.
* Never learning how to relax and manage stress.
* Never learning how to appreciate life. We would rather work at living.
* Taking ourselves too seriously.
* Feeling guilty over not being ``good enough,'' driving ourselves to work harder to be ``good enough.''
* Becoming workaholics.
* Not enjoying our family life with our children.
* Being suspicious of people who enjoy life, have fun, and know how to play.
* Social isolation, afraid to get involved with other people for fear we will be found out to be inadequate, not normal, or a misfit.

Source for below is:
http://homepages.which.net/~michael.millett/index-page5.html

Examples of some of the parts of the Child you might find inside are:
The Abandoned Child
This child part that has been left in some way through divorce or adoption or  just left because the parents were kept busy working. This part is always fearful that it will be abandoned again and again. This part of the self is starving for extra attention and reassurance that it is safe and wanted. This self is very lonely. 
The Neglected Child
The child self that was always left alone without much nurturing and love.  It doesn’t believe it is lovable or worthwhile. It finds it difficult to express and  doesn’t know how to love. It is depressed and wants to hide and cry. 
The Playful Child
That self that is naturally playful, creative, spontaneous and fun, the loving child. This part longs to play. Many of us have forgotten how to do this and be free without guilt or anxiety because as adults we must be doing something that is `worthwhile`. 
The Spoiled Child
That part of us who wants what it wants and it wants it now, and if it doesn’t get what it wants, it throws a temper tantrum. 
The Fearful Child
This part has been overly criticised when young. Now it is anxious and in panic much of the time. It needs lots of encouragement and positive affirmations. 
The Disconnected Child
This Inner Child part which never learns to be close to anyone. It is isolated and dissociated. Intimacy feels alien and scary. Trust is a basic issue.
The Discounted Child
This is a part of the self that was ignored and treated as though it did not exist. It feels invisible. It doesn’t believe in itself and needs lots of love to assist and support it.

Currently, I am reading a book called "Help Yourself" by Dave Pelzer and this section truly hit home for me, ringing a cord within myself, and leaving me to wonder if not others feel and have done the same thing. How does one truly firgure out how to stop being a "please-aholic" and truly start taking care of themselves? Granted a certain amount is healthy to have, but how does one establish the boundaries between healthy amount of pleasing others to an unhealthy amount?

I grew up in a negative envirnoment, a envirnoment consisting of emotional, and sexual abuse. An envirnoment that belittled me, striped away my sense of self, in all essence an envirnoment that was not healthy for a child to grow up in. I do not lay blame on my envirnoment for it, for I break free of it for the most part, overcoming my beginnings and basically developing who I am on my own. Yet, this statement truly hit home, "may find themselves overcompensating by trying to obtain other people's approval" simply put a "please-aholic" is someone who has the overpowering need to please others to point which ones own needs are forgotten, overlooked, passed over for the sake of others. The desire or need leads to one
becoming a doormat, to be walked all over, and thus in the end one still does not receive what one desires.

For me, it is a struggle I have. The struggle to want to be liked, approved of, exspecially by my mother, the one person who probably can never give me what I so depserately need and want. Thus, without thinking out it, I let her wrap me up into things that if I thought about it, truly did, without just reacting the answer would be different.

Thus really hit home, even though I know this, how do I go about changing it? A question I am asking myself, in an essence asking myself how can I begin taking care of me? I know my desire to have my mother's love, approval, to have her like me, to care about me, and yet, I know it is not there. I know that in the end I must be able to "have the will to simple be yourself", to have the desire to be me. I know that by doing what I have done, I have allowed her to continue to abuse me, to belittle me, to stripe me of my self worth, of continuing to being my crutch, and yet I still don't know how to change a bad habit that is best to be broken?

It is a change I am trying to do, knowing it is best for me to break free, to be able to truly discover who I am....

No longer is my mother a factor in my life, and yet the desire to please others still plagues me, haunts me and at times drives me to do things I wouldn't otherwise do, or not do things for the same reasons. This is still area which bothers me greatly, it is as if I can not clearly see the distinction between making myself happy and pleasing others.

Today, a woman, a stranger approached me, and said. “Your boys are so well behaved, and well mannered.” I nodded my head, grabbing hold of each boy’s hands and walked away. Granted, in all regards I should have taken this as a compliment since my boys had behave themselves, meaning that I am a good parent, and yet for me the words stung. Reminding me of the countless times strangers had made the same comment about me when I was a child. It started me to thinking what makes a good parent. For outwardly, I too was a well-behaved and well-mannered child, silent and speaking only when spoken too, yet I was also an abused child, emotional and sexually.

How many of us wish there had been commandments, rules, or guidelines on raising children? How many wonder ifs we are not passing on our own wounds onto our children? I have, and have made a conscious effort to not do the same as my parents did onto me, and yet is everything they had done wrong? I don’t know. Children require discipline, but with love and respect. What truly makes me a different parent then my own, discounting the abuse inflicted? How do I know that I am not causing them any fundamental damage upon them? Do any of us?

There is a difference between myself and my parents, for me I try to raise my kids in a stable, loving, and respectful home, knowing that it is their role as children to stress the limits, and to be corrected in the same loving way. I have outlets for my stress, my anger, and issues that do not deal with my children. Maybe it is these outlets, and my own knowledge of abuse that keeps my children happy, stable, and safe. I know that I do make mistakes, that I am not a prefect parent, and I admit to those mistakes, telling my children that I messed up and that I’m sorry.

I guess that simple statement, “Your boys are so well behaved and well mannered” triggered something inside of me. How I just wanted to at that moment to scream and shout, you don’t know anything, but instead I quietly walked away, knowing it was an issue inside of me, and not with her or my children. I don’t know if I make any sense, or am I just rambling on, saying very little, but this has made me reflect backwards just the same.

I must acknowledge many things are different between the home I lived in, and the home I provide for my three children. The first is that either my husband or I drink, we do not abuse aholol as my stepfather had all through my childhood years, and shortly my mother did as well. Over all I am not emotional unstable as mother, for my mother was depressed, feeling worthless, powerless, and held no real self-esteem. Even though I have my days, my bad moments, I find an outlet for them, allowing them to freedom, without allowing my children to become the ones I confide in as mother had.

The wind howls. The snow falls, covering the land, dazzling all with its whiteness, and I sit huddled in my blankets, wrapping them tight about me. Anxiously I stare into the shadows. Anxiously waiting for the dawn to approach, for the day to begin even before the night has set, I find myself viewing images I wish would just be silent.

How the images rush before me like a movie I can halt, slowly I take a deep breathe, knowing it is long in the past, no longer can they touch me, I am safe, cuddled here in my blanket, yet my body aches, and mind is totally disgusted with myself. I have come so far, how can they still haunt me now? A shiver runs up mu spain, and wonder if not someone walked over my grave, yet I know it is but my own fear, knowing the moment will pass and vanish. Yet, I still remember........

Tonight, every is beginning broadcasted to having a horrorible wind storm, and thus, I know it is this that has triggered the memory of a bad winter storm so long ago... A storm where in the darkness as the power went out, and me and my siblings had be trapped alone in the house with my stepfather. How he had locked my siblings in another room, trapping me with him, as again and again he hurt me.

I know it is only a memory, and yet the fear, pain, I still fear...Shivering just the same, wishing I was not alone, and yet I am here alone, but still I have power, and know this will pass..I can survive........

I like to bring to the forefront of everyone’s attention the
possible dangers of modern technology on our the children. The down side of the technology that has assisted many of us in our lives, and brings a vast amount of information to our fingertips, but it also carries its
dangers. The risk is the risk of exposing our children to pedophiles. They exist in all social and economic levels. I have gathered information on them, including the risk, habits, organizations, safety tips, and the newest development of handling those convicted of molesting and endangering our children.

The Risk 
In today’s society the risk to our children from pedophiles has grown. Pedophiles have more access to children then ever before. “Modern technology in the form of the Internet has made interaction between pedophiles easier then in the past.” The bottom line is that the computer
has become the greatest single advancement in the history of pedophiles. Even though the Internet is an available tool for many of us, we all need to be aware of the down side of modern technology. Currently, the
offender can easily organize his material, join communities with others who share his views, and search for potential victims. “The Seattle Times reported that by 1998, over 1500 suspected pedophiles in 32 states have
been identified through various chat rooms on numerous different service providers.” To date the number has probably increased, and no one truly knows the exact number of pedophiles in America, yet many never fulfill
their fantasies, or attract attention from law enforcement agents. Still, that could be from their lack of opportunity, or the failure of cases beginning reported in either regard I am appalled by the danger.

Definition 
The American Psychological Association defines pedophiles as “recurrent, intense, sexual urges and sexual arousing fantasies and sexual activity with pre-pubescent child.” Pedophilia is classified as a psychological disorder. They prefer children under the age of 12, and are very determined to gain access to children, including seeking positions dealing with young children such as coaches, girl or boy scouts leaders, etc. as well as marrying single mothers. This determination of the pedophile is their trademark. Professionals in this field say there is a difference between pedophiles and child molesters, but in my honest opinion both can do incredible harm to our children. The main difference I could see is that pedophiles seduce the child, wanting the child to be agreeing to the behavior, and is a sexual desire for them. Whereas, child molester can molest children for numerous reasons outside of sex, and most of time the molester is abusing a child due to the lack of self-esteem, the need
for power, for control, or as a replacement for their partner. In the long run the affects to the child are the same, and can damage every element of the child’s life.

There are different types of pedophilia. The most common type and the one that comes readily to mind for many are the immature model. These are the ones that can not maintain healthy relationships with others and are the loner deviants in society. Another type is the collected. This types collections pornography, slides, commercial photos, souvenirs, toys, and any other material that reflects his fantasies with child. Again the collector falls into three main categories, the closet, isolated, and the sharer. The closet collector maintains and views his erotica in secret and does not molest children. The isolated collector is actually engaging in molestation and will display the material to the victim, and the sharer collector trades
and displays his material to others and may do so for a profit. Both the sharer and the isolated are engaged in molestation and maintain contract with others who share his views.

How my life seems to be but a basket fulled with haunting memories and shadowy doubts, doubts in myself and the world around me. always fearing that no matter what I do or say it will never be good enough, prefect enough, yet I am always striving for prefection. What a battle I rage?

Today I choose to begin an excerise, and thus this is what I wrote:(The excerise calls for one to begin if the statement, “I don’t remember” and write what ever comes to mind.)

I don’t remember being held and loved. I was a child crying to be loved, but remember the angry words, the critic always seeming to speak. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t prefect enough. What was wrong with me?

I don’t remember the laughter. The simple pleasant of laughing and enjoying life. All I remember is the times I was locked in a closet, yelled at, forced to do what a child should not do. What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t there laughter?

I don’t remember being a child. A simple fact that I know I was, yet I was only an adult trapped in a child’s body, struggling to be a child when I held no knowledge of being a child, so lost and alone in a world I did not make, but was forced to flournish within. What had been wrong with me?

I don’t remember the good times. Did they even exist? What is wrong with me? If there was nothing wrong with me, then what was wrong with them? Didn’t they know a child needed love and laughter, a chance to play, a chance to be a child?

How I wish I remembered more of what could of been good about my childhood instead of all that was wrong with my childhood, it triggers me to wonder where is the good that must of been, for it could not all of been so bad? It couldn’t of been so bad!

“Upon the wings of despair I came to be, borne of a mother lost and alone, both frighten of what was to be. The mother seeking guidance, and the child longing to be loved. Both trapped in a confusing world, lost and alone. Either having answers, but stumbling along in the dark, forever trapped amongst the growing shadows.” How I wonder if the shadows will ever back away, allowing in the pleasures to be had in
life? Thus, I stumble upon the pathways within myself, the memories I do have, always wondering if they are truths or distorted views of what truly was, for if I listen to my family, then I must accept the fact that I was nothing more than an over-sensitive child believing everything was directed at me, when it was not. Could of that been my long standing failure?

The whispers I hear from the past refuse to lay to rest, thus I feel I am trapped amongst them like an animal trapped in a cage. How I long to break the bars keeping me here? I pray that someday they will be but a memory.

“I cry for the children, lost before their time. The children never allowed to be a child. The children who should of been loved, and protected. I cry for all the lost children, as well as for myself.” Will there ever be a time when the tears will be dry and no longer a child is harmed in any way? Is society never going to accept the fact that the children are our future and if all the children are but damaged shells then all we know is warped and damaged as well?

Memories are a map to the past. A map I now feel myself retracing and yet, is this truly what I should be doing the silence of the night, when everything and everyone sleeps? Is it with weakness I retrace or strength? I know not, I only know that as each breath I breathe, the past spills forth like a decaying building collasping in upon itself. Yet, what foolishness do I utter?

The dark side of society, the silent tale 
Do you think child abuse is new? Do you think that only in the last century that it has become a new phenomenon? No, Child abuse has existed throughout the centuries, and only in the last century or so has the silence been broken. In this time and age, child abuse is talked about, exposed, and the child can be protected, but it wasn't always the case.

In the past, there was no term "Child abuse" nor was it looked upon as anything harming or wrong. Just as the silence has followed century after
century, abuse travels from generation to generation, infecting whole families. In every aspect of our society the dark side has been a silent
tale; the part of our history never mentioned, or taught in our schools, yet does that make it any less true?

No doubts exist within my mind that childhood has always been a living nightmare. A nightmare in which society has just begun to wake from by
understanding that childhood trauma influences the adults they become. Mayhap, today's society isn't completely equipped to deal with all the
current problems, but much has changed since the beginning of man and will continue to change.

Today, in most westernize cultures children have more options, choices, and rights then they have ever had. Children can seek help, assistance, and
escape their abusive situation. Doctors, teachers, coaches, and others who deal with children on regular bases are trained on how to recognize and
report abuse cases. Children are no longer property of their families, forced into labor, considered as sexual beings, or beaten in schools. Most
of the old taboos have been shattered, even though problems still exist, society has deemed all forms of child abuse as being unacceptable behavior, and many areas have child abuse laws to protect children.

In the United States by 1966 all fifty states had passed legislation regulating child abuse, all of which mandated reporting. By 1986 every state but one required reporting of neglect, and forty-one states made explicit reference to reporting of emotional or psychological abuse. At first all mandated reporting was restricted to physicians, but now entails teachers, coaches, nurses, counselors, and the general public. Many states also have a public registry of convicted sexual offenders to keep the public informed of possible dangers in their areas. Granted, in some states, such as in Connecticut the sex offender registry was considered unconstitutional, due to the way in which they were using it. In Connecticut, they were using the registry to include anyone accused or convicted of a crime against a child, but in other states with better guidelines the registry is a useful tool in informing the public. The legal system may not be prefect, just as the laws now presently in use may not be prefect, it is better then it was ten or twenty years ago. There is probably more that should be and could be done, but change comes slowly, and with every change comes the debit of whose rights are becoming infringe upon, but there are more laws today that protect children then in the past.

But not only has the legal system changed, families have changed as well, since it is less common for children to be needed as extra work hands on a farm, or needed to support the family, children of today are allowed to be children. In many families the abuse was past from one generation to the next, past from parent to child, and then when the child becomes an adult passing the abuse down to their children. With education, exposure, talking about it even on talk shows, TV sitcoms, and movies the word has gotten to the general public. For some, you may have no further to look for proof of abuse passing from generation to generation then your own family. My own family was very much like this, with my stepfather being beaten, humiliated, emotionally and physically tormented by his alcoholic father, to my mother who was emotionally battered by her mother, who had been sexually abused by her father, and I am pretty sure that if it was possible more abuse could be found further back in the family. Yet, in their time frame, it wasn't even seen as being abused at least not in the same extend as it would today. Even when I had spoken about my own sexual abuse in 1984, the laws were just beginning to change and my abuser was treated less severely then he would have been today.

Lets travel even further back in time, back to sometimes between 400 and 200 BC when children were being used as sacrifice to their parent's gods. Proof of this was discovered years ago "in Carthage, where a large cemetery, called The Tophet" had been uncovered. The cemetery had been filled with over twenty thousand urns. Each urn had consisted of infants and small children's remains. No matter how strange and horrible this seems by today's standard it was common practice then. Even today, there are still cases of sadistic ritual abuse, which may include sacrifices, physical, emotional, and sexual abuse all in the name of a religion or organization.

In school, I can remember learning about the great Roman and Greek Empires, but what I recently discovered was never taught in school, or spoken on any History or Discovery Show, and yet is hard to accept that even in those cultures children were treated unkindly? One remembers their leaders, and their accomplishments, and architecture, but what about their children? How were their children treated? Granted, one can expect that children from slaves were treated badly, but were they only case? One must keep in mind that the well to do; the rich who lived surrounded in luxuries could afford to have their every whim indulged upon. They lived in a theme of excess and boredom, building towering homes, temples, and having slaves to perform their labor for them. It has been documented that in both societies children lived their "earliest years in an atmosphere of sexual abuse". Girls were commonly married to men twice their age and boys till they hit puberty were often given to men for "buggering". Sexual has existed throughout history, and still lurks today, it is the norm and not the exception.

During the colonial period in United States children were viewed as little adults. They were forced to adopt adult behaviors and assume adult
responsibilities. By the age of ten, most children were hired outside of their homes as servants, apprentice to a craft, and laborers. After the
Revolutionary War changes began to occur, and slowly families began to see children differently, including children began to go to school. Still the
attitude in the schools at the time was one of "no larnin without a lickin" meaning those children couldn't learn new ideas unless the ideas were beaten into them. Thus, it was standard practice to beat a child who was tardy or any other infractions. By today's standard, that is hardly imaginable since corporal punishment is no longer used, other forms of disclipine are used instead.

In America, during the textile industry hay-day, children were employed to "tend spinning machines in the mills". By 1900's, 13% of the textile workers were under the age of sixteen. The industry preferred hiring children for unskilled tasks, since they could pay them less then the adults and their families needed the supplement income. Granted, this no longer occurs in the westernize cultures it does still concur in third world nations around the world. During the Progressive Era "reforms advocated a variety of changes in regards to children." They assisted in establishing playgrounds, enacted laws requiring children to be in school till they reach a minimum age. As the economical standing of families improved so did children's lives.

Throughout the twentieth century Americans attitudes toward children have changed. No longer was it believed that the main job of a child was to supplement and assist the family. Now, it was the job of the family to raise the child. Granted, critics may say that there are still a lot of needed
changes that need to occur, but essentially, in today's world, children have it a lot easier and society is moving in the right direction. Today's
children have more rights then ever before, and each of us needs to do our part to ensure that are children are safe and happy.

A new year is upon us. Each of us searches to find happiness, contentment and satisfaction in ourselves and in our life, yet how does one go about it? How does one overcome the trauma of the past to step toward a better future? The path isn't an easy one, nor does it happen over night, and yet, what can we do to bring ourselves the joy and happiness we deserve and should have? Please feel free to share with us how you make yourself happy from activities you do to how you changed how you think of yourself. I once read that "happiness is a state of mind", do you feel that statement is true or false?

Is the search for happiness actually an illusion we can never find or is it something we can find and have in our lives? Is happiness nothing more then finding satisfaction and contentment in who we are and the lives we live? What does happiness mean to you? Is it a factor in your life or something you feel that you will never be able to find?

Insert from "Help Yourself"By Dave Pelzer "Happiness is a state of mind-your mind-so you take the control. With everything else you're committing to, in order to better yourself don't take this one vital item for granted. Whenever you step out of a certain comfort zone to enhance the person you wish to be, make sure you have a sense of contentment with each and every step you take. If you're doing all that you can without a sense of joy or even satisfaction, there' s a strong chance you may not get to where you want to go. Don't throw this important element into the wind; if you do it will end up in the hands of Murphy's Law.

Don't leave your happiness to fate. Even with the best of luck, destiny can only take you so far.

Essentially, if happiness is a conscious chioce we have to make, to have joy in our lives, then I wonder why so much misery seems to walk hand in hand as we move through our lives? What truly is the difference between those who are happy for the most part and those who walk with a shadow over their heads?

In the end, I hold no more answers then the next person, only the desire to find the illusion that I am not even sure I know what it is. Is happiness nothing more then contentment, of the ability to enjoy the small pleasures in life, of being able to see the positives, to know that what may come can for the most part be overcome? We all must decide what happiness is for ourselves, and I for one have decided to make my new resolution a simple one of enjoying the life I have, of being satisfied with myself, and whatever I don't like to set about changing, to find the things or activities that make me feel good about me. Letting go that which drags me down.

Note: This tale is based upon a day in my life when I was fifteen years and I had shattered the family secret, exposing the family’s dark secret…I have also posted a poem that I wrote reflecting on this as well called “Did you think of me?” May haps, this is a self serving piece, but it has been something that for the last few days as been on my mind, and I hope that my writing this and sharing this, that somehow parts of this day will trouble me less. The piece will be written in third person point of view, but like I have said, it is based upon a real event in my life, even though some parts are foggy in my memories, others are very clear, and if possible, please enjoy the piece.

Nervously, Katlin glanced out the window of the classroom as she heard the teacher, Mrs. Zimmerman shut the behind her. She didn’t know why Mrs. Zimmerman had asked her to stay, but she had saying that it was important.

“Katlin, why don’t you sit down?” Mrs. Zimmerman commanded, taking a seat at one of the tables. Slowly, Katlin turned around, facing her favorite teacher as she shifted from one foot to another.

Katlin studied her teacher.  Mrs. Zimmerman was wearing a pale green sweater, simple white pants, and her brown hair was in a tight bun, but there was something different about her. Her gray eyes were filled with concern and seemed to sparkle with unshed tears. Katlin shook her head no, preferring to stay where she was beside the window.

“I like to talk to you about something that you wrote in your daily journal?” Gently, she asked, getting up from the seat she had taken only moments ago and walking toward Katlin.

Katlin shook her head, filled with dread, wondering what had she done. She knew that she had written something in her daily journal, but hadn’t she torn the pages out? She thought she had, but what if she hadn’t? Panic rushed over her like ocean waves, and everything seemed to be crashing in around her. “No” she shouted.

“No, what Katlin” The teacher gently demanded.

“I wrote nothing.” Katlin mumbled, barely holding back the tears. She grasped for air, backing away from the teacher and bumping into the radiator that ran the length of the wall underneath the windows.

“I have it right here in front of me.” Mrs. Zimmerman held the journal out to Katlin with it opened to a specific page. She had always been curious about why Katlin’s journal had always seemed to have pages missing, torn from the book, and now, she knew why, if this was the truth. She had found it difficult to grasp that this quiet, well-behaved child could have such a secret, but if it was the truth, it could not be overlooked, not now.

Like a startled rabbit, Katlin took the book from the teacher’s hand. She held it in front of her as if it was burning her hands as she glanced at the words she knew she had written.
<I>Last night I had gone to bed like I always do, hearing mom leave for work. I curled up in my bed, wearing my favorite jeans and t-shirt, and curling the blankets tight around me. I hoped that it would be different, but as the moon shined into my room and I heard the familiar footsteps, I knew what was coming. Like a monster, he stood over me, cursing me, telling me that I would like it, that it was his place to teacher me, to instruct me, but I didn’t want this. I couldn’t get away, and instead I counted the tiles in the ceiling, smelling the sweat and booze on his breathe, hearing his grunts and moans. In the end, he thanked me, but I didn’t want this, I don’t want to be here.</I>

The book fell from Katlin’s hands crashing to the floor with a loud whoosh. She vehemently shook her head no…frightened of what would happen to her if she spoke, if she acknowledged the words she had written. She should have made sure that she had torn the pages out like she had done with all the others. Why hadn’t she?
 
“Katlin, can you explain that to me?” Again Katlin vehemently shook her head no. She didn’t want to explain it. She wanted it to go away. She wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and vanish from sight. Her body shook. Her stomach turned, and she feared that everything she had ever been frightened of was going to become a reality.

“Katlin, is someone at home molesting you?” The teacher pressed, knowing that she had already reported what she feared, and that the police were here to speak to Katlin, but she had asked them if she could speak to the girl first.

Katlin fell to her knees; tears were streaming down her face. She nodded her head yes, no longer able to keep the lies, but inside she wanted to die. What would her mother say? What would they do to her? What was going to happen? What had she done?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For hours, Katlin had been trapped within a small room with two police officers, one male and one female, answering their questions over and over. Her head throbbed and her body ached all over as if she had been put through a meat grinder, but now, it was time to go home. Did she even have a home now? They had told her that they would be there when she got there, but it wasn’t them that she was frightened of. She was worried about her mother, wondering if her mother was okay, and how she was handling what she had done. She accepted the blame for if she had never written those words, then no one would know what was going on. If only she could go back through time, and undo what she had mistakenly had done for hadn’t been living with this for a long time, and didn’t she have only three more years before she could escape? Why had she done this?

Dragging her feet and cinching her books tight against her chest she walked toward the bus. As if in a nightmare she took her seat on the bus, staring out the window. She was mindless of the chatter and excitement around her. As the bus began to move, a crushing weight fall upon her as she felt everything that had happened and was about to happen crashed in upon her.

She watched the trees speed bye, draped in their autumn colors like a rainbow. Counting the houses as they past, knowing that soon, it would be her stop, her time to exit the bus. She gulped loudly each and every time the bus paused letting kids off the bus. She spoke not a word, but with tight control trapped her fears inside herself.

Finally, it was her stop and she was slow to stand as watched her siblings, two brothers and a sister exit the bus, but follow them she did. She dragged behind them as they raced up the mile driveway toward the house sitting on the hill. She heard the rustling of leaves, their giggles and shouts, but she shared none of their pleasure and excitement. Her eyes grew wide as she spotted the police car in the driveway, and knew this was nightmare she was going to wake up from. It was real, and she had done this.

As she reached the back door her mother was standing there waiting for her. Her mother’s brown eyes were blood shot and her short brown hair was a mess. She was wearing an over-sized long sleeved blue shirt and navy elastic pants. “Get in here.” Her mother growled and Katlin dashed past her, frightened that any moment she would feel her mother’s hand upon her, but it didn’t happen as she slipped into the kitchen. Once inside she froze only to move forward again as her mother roughly bumped into her, ordering her to take a seat. She obeyed.

She sat at the round kitchen table with a strange woman to her left, two police officers, and then her stepfather with her mother standing behind him. She watched as her mother placed her hands on her stepfather’s shoulders. She said nothing as glanced about. The woman to her left was a portly woman with a deep scowled upon her face, and her eyes seemed anger and demanding. Instantly, Katlin didn’t like her. She couldn’t explain, but she didn’t like the woman as everyone introduced themselves. The woman stated “I am Ms. Ablertson from DCF, and this is officer Binterson and officer Cains, who both spoke to your daughter earlier today. Do you know what this is about?”
Katlin turned toward her parents and watched as they both shook their heads no.

“Your daughter has come forward claiming that you have molested her, and we are here to arrest you, Mr. Tatterson on charges of sexual abuse.” Officer Binterson stated.

“Why are you harassing me? You should be out chasing real criminals, not here in my home.” Katlin’s stepfather growled, pushing away from the table.

“Sir, these are serious charges and I am here to give you rights.”

“Listen buddy…” he slurred as he reached for his beer, taking a big gulp before continuing “I can do whatever I want in my own home, these are my children, and as such I can do whatever I want with them.”

“Sir, the law says otherwise, and I am here to place you under arrest.” Both officer stood up, and Officer Cains began reading Katlin’s stepfather his rights.

With a growl, he replied “I have committed no crime.”

The words sunk deep inside Katlin, rattling inside the corridors of her mind like a bullet. She heard nothing else, felt nothing else, only the fact that he truly believed he had done nothing wrong, that what he had done was his to do. Inside she screamed no, over and over. As she heard the door slammed, she looked up to see everyone gone except for her mother who glared angrily at her.

“What have you done?” Her mother growled.

“Mom…” Katlin pleaded, wanting, needing her mother to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay.

“Don’t mom me, look at what you have, you selfish little whore!” She snarled before she continued “Take care of your siblings while I head down to the police station to be with your father.” Then her mother was walking away, traveling toward her bedroom to get her coat and purse before leaving.

Katlin rushed toward her, touching her mother’s arm. Her mother spun around, slapping Katlin across the face with the back of her hand and barked “You caused this, you wanted this, you selfish little whore, now get the hell out of my face!”

Katlin collapsed to the floor; burying her face in her hands as once again she heard the back door slam shut and the car’s engine start up. She was completely alone, knowing that her mother stood by her husband and not her, that they both believed that no crime had been committed here, but what about her? How was she supposed to live with all of this? What was she suppose to do now?
As the tears freely fell upon her cheeks, she heard she words over and over, “I committed no crime.” But who was he to judge that no crime committed against her? She had never asked for his touch, to be molested over and over. Hadn’t police officers told her that it had not been her fault? She knew it had to be, as everything crashed in around her and there was no one but herself to catch her fall.

In a moment before dawn when the moon and stars linger, and the breeze lays in waiting, 
not a sound is uttered, not even the call of a rooster; I venture with care and optimistic
from my nightly perch (originally part of poem I have written). The night had been a pleasant one with no haunting ghost upon my thoughts and no intrusions upon my sleep. But as I ventured downstairs, the stairs creaking with each step I take and the railing rattling loudly with each touch; I know that soon everyone will be awake and chaos will begin, I take a moment for myself. May haps it is a moment I should not be taking for as I look about me, I see the stack of dishes in the sink, the laundry piled up in front of the washing machine, the pile of cleaned clothes in the basket to fold, the dust on the shelves, and the rugs to be vacuumed.   I know what must be done but as time slowly ticks bye, I find myself dreading the chores, and long for them to vanish into thin air. Again, the doubts begin to fall upon me for what kind of wife or mother allows the chores to go undone when they need doing, but as I hear the first stirring of my children up above, I smile.

The first one to appear, groggily wiping the residue of sleep from his eyes is my youngest. His ready smile greets me as he spots me upon the conch and without hesitation he crawls up beside me. His little arms wrap about me, giving me a wonderful hug, and a kiss upon the check. I whisper “morning” as he smiles. Before long his brother stomps down the stairs shouting his brother’s name in a harsh tone, but he grows silent as he spots me. Again I whisper “morning” as he plops down on the floor in front of the television as a commercial blare.

“What would you like for breakfast?” I ask my two boys. They both turn to look toward me. The older of the two answers “eggs” and the youngest chimes in “French toast.” I smile as I get up from my sit and walk into the kitchen with the two following. In turn each one helps me as I make their breakfast, giggling and enjoying the moment. As I finish up, placing their plates in front of them.

“Mom ” I hear my daughter shout as she barrels down the stairs with a frantic look in her eye.

“What?” I ask as I enter the living room. She is searching through the pile of magazines on the stand.

“Do you know where my glasses are?”

I smile reaching to the table to my right and scoop her glasses in my hand as I hand them to her, she whispers “Thanks” and off she goes back upstairs to finish getting dressed as one of her brothers shouts “want some French toast?”

“Sure” she happily replies, spinning on her heels and joins them in the kitchen. I stand in the entrance of the kitchen, watching my three children, one of seventeen, one of ten and one of nine, enjoying their easy-going banter and jokes.

I smile, knowing what kind a mother I am, for I am not one who cares for how the house may look, but instead, enjoys the moments spent in my children’s company. I know that the moments I have with them are the jewels I will always hold dear in life for sometimes life can get pretty hectic and crazy, demanding much of my time away from them; but the chores will always be. They won’t be little forever.

I smile, knowing they will remember the times I made them breakfast, drove them to school, played games with them, read to them, listened to them, and took walks with them, more then they will ever remember how often the laundry was folded, the dishes stacked in their place, and the dust free from the shelves.

Prolong:
The following is a fictional piece focused on Salem Witches of 1692. The Salem Witches trials was a great tragedy in New England’s history that continues to interest many. Most people knew of the witch trials through Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible”, however there are many factors that induced this hysteria from the Puritan’s beliefs, political issues, to the cold winter. The horror began in Salem Village within the village’s own pastor’s home with his niece, Abigail Williams and daughter, Betty the first to be inflicted. Both girls displayed odd behavior, thus began naming those who caused the infliction upon them.

New England winters were cold and bitter which encouraged isolation and boredom. Many within the community were bored, had feelings of envy toward others, of being marginalized, which these trial ills were allowed to fester into violence. The Puritan beliefs further encouraged the atmosphere behind the witch trials, an atmosphere of intolerance. The class deference was strong, the notion of gentleman was fully alive, one attained their rank by birth and those within the higher ranks believed that he owned natural authority over others. Along with the cold winters, the area constantly had the threat of Indian attacks hanging over them. They felt that Indians were servants of the devil.

Samuel Parris, the pastor of Salem Village was a man obsessed with sinfulness, he saw it everywhere, he was filled with self importance and felt ill treated by a fraction of the community. He feared that Satan was raising an army against him. He had arrived in the community with his wife, children and niece, along with slaves, Tituba and John Indian. The Puritan beliefs, which Samuel Parris uphold with a passion, were filled with contradictions.  They maintained that every person was predestined from birth to where they belonged, either hell or heaven, however, in the same token they believed that those destined for heaven would live saintly lives.  They did not celebrate festivals or holidays, only socialized during harvest time and roof raising for they believed that individualism was wrong, and that all activities besides work and prayer were potential sinful distractions and believed that they should be extremely wary of impulses that led to fun or amusement.

The lives of young girls were monotonous and filled with anxiety. They lived as everyone did with the danger of Indian attacks, serious illness, and political upheaval. They also felt the continual need to repress feelings of rebelliousness and rage. “The puritans saw human nature in the starkest possible terms. A person was saintly or sinful, godly or devilish.” For a young girl, she was forced to display docility in the face of her dreary existence for to display anything else would have meant that she was evil. It was in this atmosphere that the witch’s trails began.

For a moment, forget your modern life and travel back through the generations to a time where central heating didn’t exist, no electricity or running water, no indoor plumbing exist. The year is 1692, and you live in Salem Village during the witch trials.

I sat huddled by the fireplace absorbing what little warmth I could as I prepared the morning meal beside my mother. My mother wasn’t her normal cheery self, and something seemed to be bothering her greatly, but today was Sunday, and we would soon be leaving for the meeting house. I dreaded the place with its cold, and everyone packed inside like sardines in a can, however, it was one of the few times I might be able to chat with others my own age, and in that sense I looked forward to it. Efficiently, we served hot porridge to my father and my two brothers before we joined them. Once breakfast was finished, we quickly cleared the dishes, grabbing the blankets, and hot bricks, lunch of cold cheese and bread, and headed into the wagon for the cold ride into the village.

The ride was over an hour long in the bitter cold with the horses carefully making their way through the deep snow. The trees were like giant silhouettes, forbidding and frightening, and I wondered what dangers they held inside and upon thinking of an Indian attack, I shivered for I had heard of the 1676 massacre at Lancaster which was only 40 miles from here. On top of that, I had over heard father saying that many feared that the Indians were preparing to launch another attack upon us. With us in the wagon, we were valuable to attack and without thinking I prayed that we would reach the village safely.

Upon reaching the meeting house, I was alarmed by the buzz of excitement. Quickly, I overheard that the pastor’s child and niece were bewitched and that they were seeking the witches which had inflicted them. They have as yet, named no one, but I shivered from the horror of it, witches…here in this community? Had I not only last Sunday spoken with both Betty and Abigail? They had seemed fine then, but what had happened since then I wondered? I was curious and bit excited for this was something new to think about.

Amongst soft murmurs we entered the church. The men sat on the west side, women on the east, and the children and servants sat amongst the galleries built around the walls. I took my seat amongst the galleries, and I could see the two girls. There seems nothing unusually about them at first, but soon, I began to see them twitch and fidget in their seats. Fear builds inside of me, could they really be bewitched, and if so, will I be next? I shiver more from my growing fear then from the cold as the pastor opens one window.

Only a few years ago I had over heard my parents talking about Elizabeth Knapp and Goodwin’s family troubles. Would that be an echoing of what was to come here? For had not Elizabeth Knapp adopted strange manners, sometimes weeping, sometimes laughing, sometimes roaring hideously with violent motions of and agitations of her body crying out ‘money, money’; she had accused a local woman of causing all this by witchcraft, only she had retracted the accusation saying that Satan had deluded her. Was something similar happening here? Would it turn out to be a false? Or would this be more like the Goodwin’s, who had named an Irish Catholic woman, Mary Glover as a witch who was inflicting them and who paid for the cursing of the family with her death?

The room hushed as Samuel Parris took his place in front of the meeting house. He stated the following passionately “Diabolical means was used, by the making of a cake by my Indian man, who had his directions from this our sister Mary Sibley; since which apparitions have been plenty, and exceeding much mischief hath followed. But by this means the Devil hath been raised amongst us, and his rage is vehement and terrible, and when he shall be silenced the Lord only knows.” Quickly, he asked the room for a show hands on whether the unfortunate Mary Sibley should be forgiven her error as he goes on lecturing. He winds down by stating “Nevertheless, I do truly hope, and believe, that this our sister doth truly fear the Lord, and am well satisfied from her, that what she did, she did it ignorantly, from what she had heard of this nature going to the Devil, for help against the Devil.”

I was comforted knowing that the community opted to forgive her, but the growing buds of fear and uneasiness were growing within me. Had it not been only a few weeks ago when my father had argued with the pastor over some issue I knew not of? I feared the worse, and my fears danced within every corner of my existence as we filed out of the church and headed home.

The week moved forward as it always does, when news reached us that four other girls had joined Betty and Abigail in having fits and seeing visions. The other four girls were Ann Putnam, Elizabeth Hubbard, Mary Walcott, and Marcy Lewis. They all had been friends, and had visited each other often. I had spoken to them a few times, and I wondered if I would soon be justly inflicted. I wondered who was causing this, what evil had descended upon us? I sensed my parents own uneasiness and fear. However, we had not long to wait before we learned that Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborne were the accused witches and an examination would be occurring, an event none of us wanted to miss as we made the journey into the village.

The meeting house was crammed with people squeezed into the tall-sided pews and onto the benches in the galleries or stood, pressed together at the back and in aisles. The men were dressed in the Puritan’s high-crowned black hats, cloaks and breeches, and the women, me included were dressed in layers of shifts, skirts, bodices, hooded cloaks, and muffs. I had a blanket wrapped around my legs, and my feet sat upon a heated brick wrapped in cloth to help against the chill. A table had been brought in and placed at the front of the room where the magistrates would sit, and the prisoners were waiting outside with their attendants.

I watched in awe as the magistrates took their places. They were Samuel Parris, Thomas Putnam, and two others that I didn’t know who had traveled to the village on horseback. Parris ascended the pulpit and in a sudden, deep hush, said a prayer. “Evil has descended upon us, has crept into our community, tainting the very beliefs we have, and with the thanks of the lord, we have weeded out these evil doers, these witches who have cursed our children, and thusly, have inflicted evil upon us all.”

I sat on the edge of my seat, unable to phantom the scope of the event around me. The first of those accused to enter was the beggar Sarah Good who was placed in front of the magistrates with the constables flanked on each side of her. Then the girls who accused her were lead to the front of the room and told to stand near her, but not to look at her. I could not turn my eyes away as I stared intently upon those in the front of the room.
One of the magistrates, whom I learned later was John Hathorne began the questioning.
“Sarah Good, what evil spirit have you familiarity with?” He asked of the Sarah Good. The crowd was hushed, and we waited expectedly for her reply.

Defiantly Sarah answered, “None” and again he questioned, “Have you made no contract with the devil?” Once again she answered with a no, but the questioning continued, and with each question Sarah Good denied her guilt and the magistrates frustration grew for he like most within the room deemed her guilty. He finally turned to the girls and they replied “This was one of the person who had inflicted them.” The girls then begun to screamed, writhed, twisted their limbs beyond what seemed possible, collapsed, choked, and fainted. I watched in horror as the proof of witchcraft assaulted me as others rose to the fallen girl’s sides, supporting them and reviving them.

Once again the questioning began, and Sarah Good named Sarah Osborne as the one who was tormenting the children. Sarah Good’s husband had been questioned as well and the statement that stuck in my head that he had said was “that he was afraid that she either was a witch or would be one very quickly.”  She was led away still protesting her innocence, but many of us, believed that she was guilty for even her husband believed she was, so how could she be innocence when faced with all the facts?

The room grew even more quiet and chilled as Sarah Osborne was half dragged into the meeting house and placed into the front of the room. She was too ill to stand without support. The magistrate questioned her as he had done with Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborne denied that she was witch; however, when he stated “Sarah Good saith it was you that hurt the children.” Her replied sent shock waves through the crowd, “I do not know that the devil goes about in my likeness to do any hurt.”  What was even more disturbing was how the inflicted girls looked upon her, named her as one of the witches, and fell into a fits again.

Once again I was alarmed knowing that I had found myself within the same walls as that of witch, and I felt faint as if all the excitement was too much for me. Deep within me, I wondered if I was not being inflicted as well as I watched the girls in horror. Sarah Osborne was removed form the meeting house and Tituba was brought in. The questioning of Tituba proceeded similar as with the other two with Hathorne pressing her to confess to her crimes. She continued to deny her guilt; however, the pressing grew too much for her and cracked. She told them what they wanted to hear.

The crowd went still. I listened to description of devil himself, for even the inflicted girls grew silent. The room felt as if a pin drop could be heard it was so silent as Tituba recanted what the man had told her to do, and she said that Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne had been the ones to harm the children. She went as far as to say that there were five of them with man, and that they urged her to harm the children.

On pins and needles I listened to the testimony, and was alarmed when Tituba herself fell into a fit. At the conclusion of all the testimony, all of them, Sarah Good, Sarah Osborne, and Tituba were sent to jail to be further examined.
It was shortly there after that my father fearing the events occurring around us that deemed that we should pack our belongings and leave. I had little choose but to do so, and thus, we left the Salem Village and haunting mess behind us. It was only some time later that I learned what had happened to the women. I had heard that Sarah Good along with many others who had been accused of witchcraft in the time after we had left had been hung, and that Sarah Osborne had perished in prison. I never learned of Tituba’s fate, but imagined it had not been any more pleasant then the others.

Aftermath:

The Puritan’s lived in a world of intolerance. They had little tolerance for those who were different, or those who didn’t conform to their ways. There exist an important lesson to be learned from the witch trails as there is to other events in history that parallel to the witch hunts such as the McCarthy trials of the 1950’s and throughout  history, those that society has deemed to be an enemy of society have suffered greatly. We have witnessed the prosecution of Jews, Muslims, heretics, Communists, and women. This is a reminder that no matter how modern a society we may become that in the end we can still be plagued by inner demons and with these inner demons we can reflect them outward onto other members of the community. In this day and age, one would think that is doesn’t occur, however, truly look upon the world and notice the intolerance that lurks around us, for it is in an intolerant society that great harm can be done to those who are innocent.

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