Part II: Surviving Physical & Emotional Abuse
January 2001
It is difficult at times to know what to say. I have spent so many years not calling it abuse, that I find the words hard to form. They are foreign to me. They sound so horrible and shameful. Yet they cannot come out of my mouth any other way. I came from an abusive home. My father was physically and emotionally abusive, and my brother also abused me physically. There was a lot of anger going around my house when I was a kid. My mom left my dad when I was three or four because she could not take the emotional strain of trying to please him anymore. My dad was bitter, and he took it out on all of us. He used us against her, and used her to punish us. My brother and I were constantly in trouble, which meant we were getting whippings that got harder with each new offense. Worst thing of it was, I know that neither one of us ever did anything that deserved a punishment so severe. My dad was hard to please. Nothing ever met his standards, which meant I was forever doing things again. When I could no longer handle the pressure of trying so hard, I stopped trying at all. At this point, the whippings became a regular installment in my life.
Over time my brother became more and more aggressive. Anytime we played Monopoly or Chess and I started winning, he would get violently angry. He would then pick up the pieces and the game board and throw them everywhere. Any time he would get mad at me, he would hit me leaving bruises behind.
Over the years I have come to despise him for being so cruel. Until today, I have never really thought it as abuse. I just thought he was mean. I didn't like him because he hurt me when I was a child. Yet, as I write I am beginning to see it was so much more. I hated him. I hated him because he hurt me. I hated him because I saw my father in him more and more each day.
Though it may sound strange, I find some small comfort in that realization. Now I see that what he did was a reflection of what he saw. He was twelve when my parents divorced. He was in the middle of it all. He heard and understood every cruel word my father said about her. He saw that my father dealt with his anger by hitting us. That was all he knew. He never had any other example, so that is what he learned to do.
Now that I know why my brother hurt me, I can forgive him. He lived through the same stuff I did, but he had no one to turn to. He didn't know there was any other way to cope. I can forgive him for that. I will forgive all the things he has done, cry for what he went through, and let it all go. I still may not agree with the choices that he makes, or the man he has become, but the past is now forgiven, and the present understood.
My father however, was an adult. He had a choice in every action and word. He chose to be so hard on us. He chose to tear my mother down every chance he had. He chose to hit us, and he chose to hit us hard. He chose to withhold his love if we failed to meet his expectations, He chose to tell us that our feelings did not matter, but everyone else's did. He chose to ignore the signs that something else was wrong. He chose not to find out why my grades began to fall, but instead he chose to whip me a little more. He chose to humiliate me in front of my peers by sending me for a paddling every time I failed to turn in an assignment. He chose to decide that he was not to blame because I "bruised easy." He even chose to tell me, a grown woman of 26 years, "Don't make me get out my belt!" when I did not wish to be in a picture last Christmas.
Every choice he made has been a step toward destroying a life. However, the last choice he made broke something inside of me, and I will never let him do it to me again. I can't go on like this anymore. I can't take it. It's over. I don't care anymore if it hurts him. He broke my spirit once, and I won't let him destroy it again. Everything he has ever done has been to make him happy. He bullies others so that he can get his way. He is a selfish, bitter old man and I can't stand him anymore!
I don't want this pain. I don't want this anger. I don't want to be a bad child. I don't want to hate him, but I can't do anything else. He won't let me.
Yet there is a part of me that recognizes that if I hate, and if I fear, he will win. I will be just like him. I will have no room in my heart for love, and I will spend my life in loneliness. I don't want that. I want to be happy. I want to know joy. I want to have peace.
The only thing that has been of comfort to me in the last 9 months has been the words that Jesus spoke to his disciples the first time he sent them out to minister. He told them,
"Whatever town or village you enter, search for some worthy person there and stay at his house until you leave. As you enter the home, give it your greeting. If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let your peace return to you. If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake the dust off your feet when you leave that home or town."
~Matthew 10:11-14
For so long I have been trying to give my peace to a home that does not want it. It has hurt so much to know that nothing will ever change. I realize now that there is nothing more I can do. I must let my peace return to me, shake the dust of my father's bitterness from my soul, and move on to a more worthy place. It is a hard thing to do because I feel that I am being a bad child by turning my back. However, he turned his back long ago. I cannot stay where I am not accepted and loved. I am not bad for walking away. I am actually doing him a favor by putting him in my Heavenly Father's hands, which are much more capable than mine.
Thanks again for letting me share. I hope that my words have helped to soothe old wounds and give encouragement for the road ahead.
Lots of love & ((((((HUGS))))))))
Kylee