~Breaking the Cycle~

***Warning this may trigger memories, please do not read if this is an unsafe Zone for you****



I survived a horrendous childhood. I broke from my family and became an island of my own making; living a lonely life filled with secrets. Secrets that I wish I didn’t possess.

I struggle daily with memory issues and confusion. I do a pretty good job too. Few people spend enough time with me to be able to see it. They rarely see the results of too many blows to the head. On my bad days, when my speech slurs or my head hurts too much to think, I’m able to pass it off as a migraine or not enough sleep.

Although for many years, until I was somewhere in my thirties, I was able to tolerate the pain that flows throughout my body. I can no longer. There are times when the pain is so great I can almost feel my father's big boots stomping on my feet; the broom across my back or the ropes that bound me. The weather is another rough thing for me. My joints get so stiff and painful in the cold or damp seasons I can only move through sheer stubbornness. This is from my step-mother forcing me to sleep on cold damp concrete with no covers or clothing.

While it’s much better now, after twenty years of marriage, intimacy used to be torture. I wanted so much to give all of myself to my husband; but there was not much of me to give. I so desired to feel the pure love he had to offer; I didn’t know how to receive it. I couldn’t totally release myself because flashbacks would haunt me. My husband, a very wonderfully loving and patient man has suffered much while I learned the joy of lovemaking. I can’t ever know the fullness of that joy, because even when I can let go of the past enough to feel the true expression of love, I still cannot fully block out the physical pain that lingers from too many twisted encounters with unwelcomed partners. My father wasn't selfish - he shared me with friends. Sometimes I even made him some money.

I self profess several times a day; some days all day. I have to remind myself that I am smart, that I do have value, I am lovable and that life is worth living. There are days when taking one day at a time is too much to handle and I have to take it one hour at a time. On really bad days it’s moment to moment.

I distrust most people. I never believe anything just because you tell me. I have to see it and I’m usually disappointed. There were people in my life that could have helped but didn’t. I went to school with cuts, scraps and bruises. I remember one day that I had been beaten so badly before going to school that I truly couldn’t sit down. My eyes were swollen almost shut and I could barely hold the pencil in my hand. The teacher pretended not to see. I remember being at church and overhearing several women “gossiping” about me. What a dreadful child I was. And how much heartache I brought my stepmother after she “loved me as her own.” They couldn’t understand how my “wonderful” father could have sired such an awful daughter. The police - well they never wanted to cross such an upright citizen as my father, and gave him their sympathy along with a few suggestions for a special hospital for me. He did send me to a few. I remember the fancy jacket that wrapped me within myself. I remember the lies that I had to face when I came out too.

I remember how heavy secrets are. They will drag you down and make you ill; closing the entire world off and making you fearful. Sometimes I wasn’t sure which I was more fearful of the repercussions if I were to release the secrets, or the secrets themselves. My secrets still weigh me down. I’ll sit in a group of people and hear them talk; hearing them whining and complain about their life. Young people complaining about their parents. I sometimes want to tell them my tales, but most would prefer that they remain secrets and never become stories.

I thought I left that all behind...

My children have never met their grandfather, but he has had a lot of influence on their lives. In my effort to protect them I have often robbed them of the very joys of life. Some things probably had little effect on them, some they may never notice. I do, but there are things that will affect them for a long time.

When my children were babies they had more diaper rashes than they should have. I was afraid. I didn’t know where the line was between thorough cleaning and abuse. I was so afraid of it I wouldn’t risk coming even close to it. As they got older and began to wash themselves I still hadn’t established where that line was so they were told how to clean themselves as soon as they could understand.

While other children were climbing into the bed of their parents and sleeping between the two adults assigned to love nurture and protect them, after a nightmare or in the midst of a storm, mine were handed a pillow and blanket and set on the floor beside me so I could hold their hand. When they were sick I would never lie down with them. I would hold them while rocking in the chair or carry them as I paced from one end of the hall to the other.

I haven’t the ability to go out and play ball with my kids; my legs are no longer able to run like theirs. I embarrass them and me alike when their names sometimes elude me. I’m rarely able to help with homework, as it takes me too long to process the work. I have too much pain to sit in the seats to watch a school concert or play.

I’ve tried hard not instill fear in my children. But I never want them to know some of the realities of life. In the process I have deprived them many childhood memories. They don’t go to overnighters. Even though they are teenagers now, I still must know at all times where they are and what they are doing and with whom. I spent a lifetime afraid to close my eyes at night. I spent a lifetime afraid to make even the minutest mistake. I was afraid to bring home anything less than an A. I was afraid of not getting my chores done and I was afraid of having the wrong look on my face. I became afraid of men; women too. I was afraid of my teachers lest they complain to my parents. I ultimately became afraid of my employers lest I were to disappoint them. So afraid of creating that same fear in my children I failed to set specific standards for them. They don’t have the discipline they should. They are poor students because I was unable to give them the necessary skills to be organized and consistent. Don’t expect them to do normal household chores. They have grown lazy and arrogant. I wanted them to have a childhood, rather than spend all day doing housework and such. I was always afraid of crossing that discipline line so I left out some much needed corrections... I gave them too much freedom because I didn’t want the most prominent memory to yelling or beatings. I have caused them, in some respect, to be disappointed too; in themselves and in me. Worst yet, I in them.

It had only lasted a few seconds, but my husband saw the look. I had walked in one day and my daughter, who was about eight at the time, had been sitting on his lap. They were exchanging tickles for hugs and kisses. It was a beautiful sight. But I did check. Just for a second. But he saw it. A few weeks later I had noticed there had been no more moments like this between them so I asked him. His response hurt me. It wasn’t intended to. His explanation was that he saw that look; he knew I hadn’t intended to let him see it but he did. He said to me in the most loving voice: “I never again want to be responsible for the horror that you felt in your heart; no matter how instantaneous it was”. That day I stole something very precious from my daughter. Something I missed and now she will too. No, I didn’t steal it alone. My father stole it too - but stolen it was.

So many things I wanted different for my children. In the process I’ve kept them from reaching their fullest potential too.

Sure I protected them from the beatings, which I endured.

That cycle I have broken.

Sure I protected their childhood and did all the chores myself. In the process, I’ve kept them from growing up.

Sure I protected them from the sexual assault that never heals. They too have no friends.

I’ve not bruised their souls with the cruel words of anger or disappointment; they never learned that it hurts.

I used to wonder about the cycle of child abuse. “Why is it so hard to break? Just STOP! Don’t do it...” Well, the effects of child abuse have caused great pain for my children, some of it they may never recognize, but I do. It is ever so subtle. I almost didn’t see it. It may be too late to fix, I don’t know. I know that I fulfilled my promise. I will never treat my children that way. I’ve done the best I can. But, in the process they still will suffer some of the effects. They don’t live in the fear that I lived in. They don’t know what fear is. That’s just the way I wanted it. But, I too, failed to give my children the tools they need to live a full and rich life.

…perhaps, the next generation.