The visions are becoming obscure to say the least. I reflect back on a time when moments of standing still in my life would evoke memories of a very painful past. The snipets of emotional peace were few and far between the darkness that enveloped me. Eventually the "why me's" became "when does it stop." I tried to come to terms with the reasons for events in my life, but the answers never really seemed to come to me.
I developed an aversion/fascination with men. The underlying current in my life was that I was destined to gravitate to the "bad" ones, either that or they gravitated toward me. I must have had that "treat me like shit" magnet. The progression of my male influences set me on a path that was bound for destruction. Self-destruction.
The beatings and emotional abuse as a child didn't begin until I was seven. There was no escape, no way out, after all, I was just a child. The feeling of being trapped became a reality that developed over time and placed me into that pattern for years to come. I spent a lot of time alone as a child and teenager. My comfort zone was in my room, listening to music, reading, writing, and dreaming of the day that I would be free. In the meantime, I tried like hell to avert the abuse by putting every ounce of effort I had into being the perfect daughter. I had no idea what perfection was, but I still tried to obtain it. My last beating was at the age of seventeen, I finally stood my ground with no regard as to what the repercussions would be. My father must have sensed a certain danger in my words and actions, because it stopped as quickly as it had begun ten years earlier. The sense of empowerment and control over my life created a change in me that was profound. I would never be a victim again. Little did I know that ten years had already created the need to please an "audience of one." The path was set and I was on it for the long haul.
At nineteen I met the "man of my dreams." The abuse began early on; however, the need to please, to love, to be loved, was paramount and strong enough to make me ignore the reality of where I was headed. At twenty I was married, and at twenty-one I had a child. A daughter. At twenty-four I was divorced and broken in every way because of the emotional abuse. He never laid a hand on me, but at times I'd wished for that, at least bruises heal. The attack on emotions is a difficult demon to battle. The nightmare was over, but the path was even deeper ingrained in me.
At twenty-five I was remarried to a man that had witnessed much of the trauma I had gone through with my first husband. He was a friend, a confidant, and someone that reiterated on a regular basis that he could not understand the reason for the abuse I had endured. It sickened and angered him; he could never fathom treating me that way, because I was an amazing woman. I trusted those words. The next eight years would prove those words to be chains that bound me to an even darker and soul draining existence. At thirty-four I was alone again, this time with two children.
For six years I struggled through days and nights trying to survive in a harsh world while battling the unforgiving self-blame that consumed me even further, then I met "him." Tall, dark,handsome, intelligent, and very kind. On the surface. His brand of abuse was one I had not yet experienced. I was convinced that I loved him more than life, and I spent every day trying to show him that. He was an alcoholic, like my second husband; he just disguised it better by lulling me into that world. Though he wined and dined me, took me places, bought me gifts and was nice to my kids, there was a darker side to him. As time passed, I found myself crying more and more on lonely nights while hugging my pillow and asking "God" to make it better. I needed a reprieve from the bad. We were together for two years, until I walked away from him. I was devastated, crushed, emotionally destroyed and determined to never get involved in a relationship again. I didn't have a problem with the idea that I would spend the rest of my time here alone. It gave me a bizarre sense of peace and tranquility.
Eight years have passed since then, and I am still a single woman, still raising my children, and still fighting the world. Though I have become stronger, more determined, and much more forgiving of my choices, there was a sense of something missing. The solitude of my life has given me a sense of comfort and stability in the reality that I am not being abused and never will be again.
I only realized recently that there has been an overwhelming amount of love buried deep in the recesses of my being. The fear of letting it go was more intense than any fear I have ever felt before. There has always been a very real and very healing sense of being for the love of my children, but in that reality I came to understand something that rocked my world. Through the role of daughter, wife, girlfriend, and lover, I had never really given or recieved love. I never shed a tear during the "it's over phase," and just moved forward in life with the understanding that I could heal quickly, because I had never really opened myself, mind, heart, body, and soul to anyone. I had never received it either. The risk of being hurt beyond repair has been a powerful tool to keep me from taking that step.
That has changed. I have felt a deeper sense of love for who I am as a whole, and I have given a deeper level of love than I thought possible. Not storybook, cliche love, but love for what it is meant to be, the acceptance of myself as a beautiful spirit with much to give and the ability to receive in return. It has all come from "allowing," and I am grateful beyond words.
I developed an aversion/fascination with men. The underlying current in my life was that I was destined to gravitate to the "bad" ones, either that or they gravitated toward me. I must have had that "treat me like shit" magnet. The progression of my male influences set me on a path that was bound for destruction. Self-destruction.
The beatings and emotional abuse as a child didn't begin until I was seven. There was no escape, no way out, after all, I was just a child. The feeling of being trapped became a reality that developed over time and placed me into that pattern for years to come. I spent a lot of time alone as a child and teenager. My comfort zone was in my room, listening to music, reading, writing, and dreaming of the day that I would be free. In the meantime, I tried like hell to avert the abuse by putting every ounce of effort I had into being the perfect daughter. I had no idea what perfection was, but I still tried to obtain it. My last beating was at the age of seventeen, I finally stood my ground with no regard as to what the repercussions would be. My father must have sensed a certain danger in my words and actions, because it stopped as quickly as it had begun ten years earlier. The sense of empowerment and control over my life created a change in me that was profound. I would never be a victim again. Little did I know that ten years had already created the need to please an "audience of one." The path was set and I was on it for the long haul.
At nineteen I met the "man of my dreams." The abuse began early on; however, the need to please, to love, to be loved, was paramount and strong enough to make me ignore the reality of where I was headed. At twenty I was married, and at twenty-one I had a child. A daughter. At twenty-four I was divorced and broken in every way because of the emotional abuse. He never laid a hand on me, but at times I'd wished for that, at least bruises heal. The attack on emotions is a difficult demon to battle. The nightmare was over, but the path was even deeper ingrained in me.
At twenty-five I was remarried to a man that had witnessed much of the trauma I had gone through with my first husband. He was a friend, a confidant, and someone that reiterated on a regular basis that he could not understand the reason for the abuse I had endured. It sickened and angered him; he could never fathom treating me that way, because I was an amazing woman. I trusted those words. The next eight years would prove those words to be chains that bound me to an even darker and soul draining existence. At thirty-four I was alone again, this time with two children.
For six years I struggled through days and nights trying to survive in a harsh world while battling the unforgiving self-blame that consumed me even further, then I met "him." Tall, dark,handsome, intelligent, and very kind. On the surface. His brand of abuse was one I had not yet experienced. I was convinced that I loved him more than life, and I spent every day trying to show him that. He was an alcoholic, like my second husband; he just disguised it better by lulling me into that world. Though he wined and dined me, took me places, bought me gifts and was nice to my kids, there was a darker side to him. As time passed, I found myself crying more and more on lonely nights while hugging my pillow and asking "God" to make it better. I needed a reprieve from the bad. We were together for two years, until I walked away from him. I was devastated, crushed, emotionally destroyed and determined to never get involved in a relationship again. I didn't have a problem with the idea that I would spend the rest of my time here alone. It gave me a bizarre sense of peace and tranquility.
Eight years have passed since then, and I am still a single woman, still raising my children, and still fighting the world. Though I have become stronger, more determined, and much more forgiving of my choices, there was a sense of something missing. The solitude of my life has given me a sense of comfort and stability in the reality that I am not being abused and never will be again.
I only realized recently that there has been an overwhelming amount of love buried deep in the recesses of my being. The fear of letting it go was more intense than any fear I have ever felt before. There has always been a very real and very healing sense of being for the love of my children, but in that reality I came to understand something that rocked my world. Through the role of daughter, wife, girlfriend, and lover, I had never really given or recieved love. I never shed a tear during the "it's over phase," and just moved forward in life with the understanding that I could heal quickly, because I had never really opened myself, mind, heart, body, and soul to anyone. I had never received it either. The risk of being hurt beyond repair has been a powerful tool to keep me from taking that step.
That has changed. I have felt a deeper sense of love for who I am as a whole, and I have given a deeper level of love than I thought possible. Not storybook, cliche love, but love for what it is meant to be, the acceptance of myself as a beautiful spirit with much to give and the ability to receive in return. It has all come from "allowing," and I am grateful beyond words.
