I don't usually like to talk about this subject alot, and I have been able to keep the pain buried for many years, but, since I was forced to reopen the darkest place in my life last semester in my English class. I can't seem to close the door on my past. I had to write an essay about how people with disastrous up bringings can grow up to become accomplished healthy individuals. It didn't have to be personal, but for me it was. I tried every way possible to avoid writing about it, but for some reason God kept bringing me back to it. Through lots of tears I was able to get the words on paper, but still can't read through it without sobbing to the point of no return. I thought that once it was all over with my feelings would return to normal, and the pain would repress. Instead I am having nightmares and anxiety attacks. I am not sure why, but I am feeling very led to talk about this. Actually, I am very nervous, but feel like maybe if I share this, it will somehow help me move on and shine a little light on the effects of abuse. Let me make it very clear that this is not to hurt anyone, and I love ALL of my family. I am just trying to find some peace. The following is my essay.
It was just after midnight when I heard the back door open and slam shut. I was six years old and should have been fast asleep, but a deep, peaceful slumber was not something I had ever enjoyed; tonight would be no different. I heard my dad stumbling around in the kitchen, cussing at everything he ran into. I buried myself deeper under the blanket, curling my tiny body tightly against my mother, and prayed that just this once he wouldn't be high or drunk. No such wish would be granted. He entered the bedroom, slurring obscenities at my mother as he dragged her by the hair of her head from the bed. Tears streamed down my face, as I watched her suffer in an almost eerie silence through what had become his increasingly violent ritual. His fists swung wildly making contact more often than not, but it was the awful things he said that pierced me and her the most. Just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she locked eyes with mine trying desperately to reassure me that everything would be alrght, if we both remained quiet. Clearly, the impressionable years of my childhood were anything but ideal. However,I wouldn't change a moment of the hell my father put me through, because it was through his selfish acts that I have evolved into the woman I am today.
My mother finally got the courage to leave my dad when he did something that he had never done before. In an angry rage, he attempted to turn his violence on me. I suppose in my mother's mind the violence she suffered was somehow justified, but when he turned on me, she demonstrated a strength I had never before whitnessed; like that of a mother lion protecting her cub. We left and she never looked back. From that point on she commited herself to making us a better life. For the first time in my life, I had a since of pride and a future to look forward to. Little did I know that my father's abuse was not ending, it was merely changing form and focus. It would no longer be physical abuse towards my mother but a newly targeted psychological abuse towards me.
The yearnings and desire inside of me for my dad to love me was enormous. It didn't matter who he was, or what he had done. he was still my dad. I wanted him to be proud of me. It was this vulnerability that fueled his abuse. When he was allowed to see me he would make comments like "you know I never wanted a little girl." I in return would try to prove that I could be tough. He would tell me that I was to ugly and clumsy to be his daughter, and as I grew into myself he would remind me of how akward I was. The effects of his actions were devestating. I only wanted him to love me, but I knew if I told anyone what he was doing that I wouldn't be allowed to see him. So, I kept quiet,repeating the same silence my mother had kept during her abuse and tried to make him happy.
The fears that consumed me because of what my father was doing were far reaching. Even after my mother and I had moved out, the abuse still haunted me. I suffered repeated nightmares that he was coming through the windows; just as he had so often done when we lived with him. The stress I felt caused me to wet the bed until I was almost thirteen. To this day I am still afraid of the dark. This psychological abuse went on for a long time. The sadness and insecurities I felt were tremendous and almost unbearable. I was a young girl with the idea that I was so unworthy of love, an idea that was down right dangerous. At that point God intervened and opened a door that would reveal a different side of life.
My mother met and married a wonderful man, and we moved to a new city miles away from my dad. Allen, my step dad had three little girls of his own, and even though it wasn't perfect; I finally had a family. A year later my mom and Allen gave me something I had always wanted, a little sister, making our new family complete. My dad and I still had contact, but the grasp he had on my life slowly loosened. Because of the distance and new family dynamics, I was able to step back and see him not as my dad, but as a bruised and broken soul who had treated me this way because of things that tortured him and substances that controlled him. I realized he was only repeating a cycle. It was then that I decided too break the destructive pattern. The abuse would end with me! I was determined to make sure that the legacy that I handed down would be one filled with love and kindness. It was at that point, that I began to grow into the person I believe I was always supposed to be. I promised myself that I would rise above everything he stood for. I was determined to make a positive difference in this world. I began by doing the one thing he never did for me. I loved myself. Everything else began to fall into place. I was no longer the victim of the pain and suffering he had inflicted onto me. I refused to sit in the ashes of my scorched childhood. Instead, I would rebuild a life for which I could be proud of. That meant that I would make sure I did my best to love everyone, including the person who had hurt me the most. In my eyes, loving him, in spite of all the pain he had caused, meant I could accomplish anything.
Life for me has changed a lot from where It first began. On my sixteenth birthday,I took away the parental rights of my birth father. I gave that right, through a legal adoption to a man who deserved the title, my dad, Allen. I married a wonderful man named matt and have two precious, thriving little girls. I make sure my husband, daughters, and family know how much I love them. I still talk to my birth father, and When I do I am reminded of all I have achieved. The memory of what he did will never fade; however, I have chosen to be grateful for the memory of his abuse. After all, it was through the pain that I found strength, courage, and myself.
I know that this was alot, and pretty dreary. I am still having doubts about posting, but I really felt like maybe it might help someone, or at least open some eyes to the effects of our words on each other. I also want to say that I still love the man who did this. He will never be a dad to me, but he is still a part of me. I don't ever want him to feel the way he made me feel. so, I will continue to show love to him. After all God loves me, and I know that I do things to hurt him daily, if God can continue to wrap me up in his arms of love and forgiveness, then I will certainly do the same for the man who had a hand in making me.
With love,
Lexie
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