Personal Narrative: Child Abuse Victim
How many times had I seen myself in the bathroom of his house, all curled up, feeling his hot saliva on my body as he screamed? Stop crying like a baby. You are crazy. No one else could take you.
How many times did I shiver there on the floor, counting my breaths, almost suffocating in a panic attack caused by one of these madness hits? But he never hit me.
How many hours did I stay there on the floor of that bathroom after he had gone back to bed, my red eyes from the vases bursting?
How many times had I heard the snore and realized that he had fallen asleep not more than a meter away while I hyperventilated, still at the mercy of the panic attack? How many times did I whisper, "How did I get here? How did I become this woman? "
How many times …show more content…
have I said to myself, "Get up, call a cab and leave?" How many times I got up and did not recognize myself in the mirror? How much hatred did I feel for the woman looking back at me? But he never hit me.
How many times did I go back to that bed, instead of getting in a cab, and woke up with his arms around me, saying it was my fault? He was not like that. It was I who brought this side of him. I had to change. Stop accusing him. If I were kinder, he would react differently.
How many times have I changed my approach before realizing that the only way to avoid abuse was not to touch the subject? But he never hit me.
How many emails and text messages did I find?
How many parties have we known that one of the women would be present? I learned not to talk about it so that "I" did not spoil the night. When someone in his family asked me if the lipstick under the sofa cushion was mine, I simply threw it away and said nothing else. Neither did she. Another humiliation suffered in silence. But he never hit me.
How many times did he tell me that he was going to sleep, that he had a dinner with a client, that he did not hear the phone, but actually he had another? How many times did he ignore my calls and the next day said nothing had happened? It was sadism. I saw how he liked that power.
How many slanderous lies did he invent and spread to my former colleagues and friends when I left him? How many times has it tarnished my reputation?
How many times did I come back, believing the promises that he was a new man, believing every excuse? But he never hit me.
How many times did a friend come and rescue me when he kicked me out of bed after I asked about the other women?
How many times did I come back to him before these friends were fed up with helping me? How many times did I defend him and justify his behavior when I told a friend what he had done? When did I simply stop telling people to avoid the shame of the madness I was living in - the shame of being an independent, strong woman who could not shake off a toxic situation. When did I stop expecting? But he never hit me.
How could I explain that I thought it was partly my fault, though I was ashamed to hear those words coming out of my mouth. No one really understood. Nobody knew him like I did. My job was to protect him from the truth of what he did to me. I could not let them think he was a monster. I would not tell anyone. She was totally alone. But he never hit me.
In my solitude I could no longer see in the eyes of others the reflection that indicated what was normal. I could only see the reflection in his eyes and I began to believe what he told me about me. I began to believe his irrational explanations, despite my heart and eyes. I let him define reality. I isolated myself.
It was easier to cut off my support network than to have to lie. Than to face the humiliation of my reality. Part of me knew that when they knew everything that was happening, people would force me out of there forever. Could not go back. And I knew I'd have to go back. But he never hit me.
I set a limit. A border that would not cross. The minute he hit me, I'd be gone. But in fact I knew it would not even go away. He would have rationalized: by hitting me, he would realize how things were out of control. Everything would change.
I would not have to leave. If he hurt me, he would be showing me that he loved me. He cared so much for me that I was capable of this madness. He was so fond of me that he was overcome with anger or jealousy or sadness and he just could not control himself.
When it was over, I had no right to mourning. No one could understand how love, hate, fear, and comfort could coexist. They did not understand that, besides abusing me, he was my confidant, the person for whom I was cooking, the person who spent the rainy Sunday watching TV with me, the person who laughed with me, the person who knew me.
I lost my partner. How to explain that abuse was only part of it? How to explain this to yourself?
To this day I remember tender moments and wonder if things were so bad. I still have trouble reconciling how he could love me and hurt me as his own enemy.
As a child, I am learning to redefine the boundaries of normal behavior and to realign my expectations. I have to remember that acts of violence can never be acts of love.
For the first time, I see my own reflection on other women who have come out of the depths of abuse.
Indescribably brave women I've never met, but who have shared their stories and, in doing so, have saved me. These women hugged me with their pain and, even without knowing it, they convinced me that I was not alone, that I deserve more. It had been a long time since I had believed this truth.
Knowing that other women passed by allowed shame to dissipate.
I used to think I was crazy or too sensitive because I could not reconcile love with abuse.
I allowed myself to accept that both existed. Their stories allowed me to forgive myself. Recognize how arbitrary the border was. Recognizing myself in her eyes made it possible to name the person who abused me. Name my abuse victim experience. And set me free.
I hope my words will embrace other women. I hope they give them the strength and love they need to get out of the depths.
I noticed when you complained about how boring the hospital is while I was recovering from having our first child and pushed me to rush us home, and how you discounted all my pain and discomfort during my second pregnancy even while I was working 6 days a week at our business and taking care of a four year old.
I noticed how you never helped me in our business, even as you yelled and raged at me for how poorly things were being run
I noticed how you never helped me in our business, even as you yelled and raged at me for how poorly things were being run (in your opinion) and how I needed to do more at the shop. I noticed how even when you committed to doing something, I ended up being the one to take care of it. And I noticed how you took and took and took money without contributing at all. To the extent that we ended up having to close the doors. I noticed how you blamed me for that
too.
I noticed how you have discounted, dismissed, and mocked all of my accomplishments over the last 13 years. How you tell me the things I’ve done don’t count because they weren’t as good as what someone else did. You tell me I don’t follow through with anything, but you sabotage my efforts and make me feel horrible, and then throw it in my face if I do anything different than what you would do.
I notice how you talk about people behind their backs and say horrible, judgmental things about them. And I checked your phone, I saw how you say those
How many times did I shiver there on the floor, counting my breaths, almost suffocating in a panic attack caused by one of these madness hits? But he never hit me.
How many hours did I stay there on the floor of that bathroom after he had gone back to bed, my red eyes from the vases bursting?
How many times had I heard the snore and realized that he had fallen asleep not more than a meter away while I hyperventilated, still at the mercy of the panic attack? How many times did I whisper, "How did I get here? How did I become this woman? "
How many times …show more content…
have I said to myself, "Get up, call a cab and leave?" How many times I got up and did not recognize myself in the mirror? How much hatred did I feel for the woman looking back at me? But he never hit me.
How many times did I go back to that bed, instead of getting in a cab, and woke up with his arms around me, saying it was my fault? He was not like that. It was I who brought this side of him. I had to change. Stop accusing him. If I were kinder, he would react differently.
How many times have I changed my approach before realizing that the only way to avoid abuse was not to touch the subject? But he never hit me.
How many emails and text messages did I find?
How many parties have we known that one of the women would be present? I learned not to talk about it so that "I" did not spoil the night. When someone in his family asked me if the lipstick under the sofa cushion was mine, I simply threw it away and said nothing else. Neither did she. Another humiliation suffered in silence. But he never hit me.
How many times did he tell me that he was going to sleep, that he had a dinner with a client, that he did not hear the phone, but actually he had another? How many times did he ignore my calls and the next day said nothing had happened? It was sadism. I saw how he liked that power.
How many slanderous lies did he invent and spread to my former colleagues and friends when I left him? How many times has it tarnished my reputation?
How many times did I come back, believing the promises that he was a new man, believing every excuse? But he never hit me.
How many times did a friend come and rescue me when he kicked me out of bed after I asked about the other women?
How many times did I come back to him before these friends were fed up with helping me? How many times did I defend him and justify his behavior when I told a friend what he had done? When did I simply stop telling people to avoid the shame of the madness I was living in - the shame of being an independent, strong woman who could not shake off a toxic situation. When did I stop expecting? But he never hit me.
How could I explain that I thought it was partly my fault, though I was ashamed to hear those words coming out of my mouth. No one really understood. Nobody knew him like I did. My job was to protect him from the truth of what he did to me. I could not let them think he was a monster. I would not tell anyone. She was totally alone. But he never hit me.
In my solitude I could no longer see in the eyes of others the reflection that indicated what was normal. I could only see the reflection in his eyes and I began to believe what he told me about me. I began to believe his irrational explanations, despite my heart and eyes. I let him define reality. I isolated myself.
It was easier to cut off my support network than to have to lie. Than to face the humiliation of my reality. Part of me knew that when they knew everything that was happening, people would force me out of there forever. Could not go back. And I knew I'd have to go back. But he never hit me.
I set a limit. A border that would not cross. The minute he hit me, I'd be gone. But in fact I knew it would not even go away. He would have rationalized: by hitting me, he would realize how things were out of control. Everything would change.
I would not have to leave. If he hurt me, he would be showing me that he loved me. He cared so much for me that I was capable of this madness. He was so fond of me that he was overcome with anger or jealousy or sadness and he just could not control himself.
When it was over, I had no right to mourning. No one could understand how love, hate, fear, and comfort could coexist. They did not understand that, besides abusing me, he was my confidant, the person for whom I was cooking, the person who spent the rainy Sunday watching TV with me, the person who laughed with me, the person who knew me.
I lost my partner. How to explain that abuse was only part of it? How to explain this to yourself?
To this day I remember tender moments and wonder if things were so bad. I still have trouble reconciling how he could love me and hurt me as his own enemy.
As a child, I am learning to redefine the boundaries of normal behavior and to realign my expectations. I have to remember that acts of violence can never be acts of love.
For the first time, I see my own reflection on other women who have come out of the depths of abuse.
Indescribably brave women I've never met, but who have shared their stories and, in doing so, have saved me. These women hugged me with their pain and, even without knowing it, they convinced me that I was not alone, that I deserve more. It had been a long time since I had believed this truth.
Knowing that other women passed by allowed shame to dissipate.
I used to think I was crazy or too sensitive because I could not reconcile love with abuse.
I allowed myself to accept that both existed. Their stories allowed me to forgive myself. Recognize how arbitrary the border was. Recognizing myself in her eyes made it possible to name the person who abused me. Name my abuse victim experience. And set me free.
I hope my words will embrace other women. I hope they give them the strength and love they need to get out of the depths.
I noticed when you complained about how boring the hospital is while I was recovering from having our first child and pushed me to rush us home, and how you discounted all my pain and discomfort during my second pregnancy even while I was working 6 days a week at our business and taking care of a four year old.
I noticed how you never helped me in our business, even as you yelled and raged at me for how poorly things were being run
I noticed how you never helped me in our business, even as you yelled and raged at me for how poorly things were being run (in your opinion) and how I needed to do more at the shop. I noticed how even when you committed to doing something, I ended up being the one to take care of it. And I noticed how you took and took and took money without contributing at all. To the extent that we ended up having to close the doors. I noticed how you blamed me for that
too.
I noticed how you have discounted, dismissed, and mocked all of my accomplishments over the last 13 years. How you tell me the things I’ve done don’t count because they weren’t as good as what someone else did. You tell me I don’t follow through with anything, but you sabotage my efforts and make me feel horrible, and then throw it in my face if I do anything different than what you would do.
I notice how you talk about people behind their backs and say horrible, judgmental things about them. And I checked your phone, I saw how you say those