Life on the hill: Domestic Violence

Showing posts with label Domestic Violence. Show all posts

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

The tale of two sisters

Once upon a time there were two sisters. The elder one was born as the result of a liaison between a troubled, angry young man of 21, and a confused, lonely, vulnerable young woman of 22. After 3 months of the angry young man not leaving the lonely young woman alone, (staying in his car to sleep in the front of her home - oh my god, does anyone else see the alarm bells right now!!) they married. Within these three months the angry young man had already physically assaulted the lonely young woman once, in a drunken rage. The miraculous conception of me - I mean - the elder sister also occurred.

When the elder sister was born, the lonely young woman felt a love so strong that it birthed within her the protectiveness of a lioness, and she was able to leave the angry young man behind. Alas, that angry young man had the persistence of a wasp, and targeted the lioness, becoming an angry thorn in her side - and the confusion, loneliness and vulnerability leached in, and poisoned the courage that the birth of her daughter had instilled in her.

The angry young man wanted another child. At all costs. The lonely young woman had left and come back, left and come back - so many times already. She could not, would not, bring another child into this situation. So she discreetly applied methods to help that to not happen - but it seemed the universe had other plans, and the younger sister was conceived three years laters. Amongst chaos, drama, violence, terror and fear.

From the womb she felt these emotions ebb through her mother's blood into her own.The angry young man was a musician, and moved where ever he could get work. Home was a caravan and caravan parks - like gypsies they trawled the east coast, occasionally residing in houses. The lonely young woman fell deeper into the black hole of depression until hope of any other existence ceased to exist. The younger sister grew within the lonely young woman's body, hearing the shouting rage, feeling the violence that was going on beyond the walls of the floating world she was in. The sense of danger was so strong that she firmly entrenched herself within the lonely young woman's womb, her feet blocking the exit. Regardless of the younger sister's reluctance to enter a world that was full of anger and rage, the forces of nature took over, and she was expelled from the safety of her mother's womb.

So began the tale of two sisters, and the journey they went on as children of an angry violent young man, and a confused, lonely, vulnerable young woman.

Jenni, at Story of my life has set the challenge of blog every day in May. I would like to be able to say that of course i will, but its highly unlikely. I like the prompts she has given for each day. They appeal to me. There are prompts there that I think I will find cathartic.

The first is the story of your life, or an interpretation. This is the story of where I began.

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Looking for fairies and unicorns, when all I can find are ogres and trolls

It's strange the things that trigger me. I'm still surprised when it happens. The come back from where the nightmares live is quicker, but the residual feeling of general irritability remains.

Aston handed me this morning a worksheet that requested information on significant events that have occurred in his life, starting from age 1 through to 5. My initial reaction was to freeze, and dive into refusal to participate. A 100 images and memories played through my head in microseconds, none of them appropriate to put down on my 6 year olds time line. My internal dialogue was screaming I don't want to fill out this fucking worksheet!... Fuck you R for being such a c..... %#&$*!!!!

I had to physically look through photos to coax memories other then trolls and ogres. My breathing stuck in my throat, as I searched for fairy and unicorn moments. I found them, eventually, as the kaleidoscope of shattered images filtered through my mind rapidly.

I'm irritable now. Annoyed that I feel like this. Annoyed that there were ogres and trolls at all. Why can't it all be fairies and unicorns?

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Its all about the kids! (part 1)

I have three children, two from my first marriage, one from my second.

The 22nd April marked ten years since I left my first husband. 18th June, 3 years since I separated from my second. (I'm sure that one day I won't physically cringe when I say I have been married twice, and divorced twice. Today isn't it.) All I wanted once I had separated from their fathers was for us - the grown ups! to be able to parent our children, and put their best interests first and foremost.

My first marriage was fairly uneventful in the drama stakes. The biggest problem was I should have never have married him. I got married at 22, thinking "He loves me, no one else is ever going to, so this will do." We were like two separate animals species - He was a dog, and I was a cat, that tried to turn herself into a dog. I knew 2 years into being married to him that I had made a terrible mistake. I liked being a cat, I didn't want to be a dog. Then I fell pregnant, and we had a kituppy... Sorry - lame attempt at humour.

Once I fell pregnant, I decided that this was it. I'd made my bed, and now I had to lie in it, whether I liked it or not. I tried to furiously metamorphosis into a dog, denying my cat qualities until I no longer looked or felt like... anything. I surrendered my authenticity to remain in this relationship with my child's father.

While the role of being his wife was slowly killing me, the role of motherhood kept me alive. When I had my first child - she taught me what unconditional love was. It cracked my harden heart wide opened, and out came one that was soft shiny and vulnerable, but bigger then me. The irony of this is not lost on me. Experiencing the unconditional love of my child, brought into the focus the very conditional love that was occurring between myself and her father.

Years passed, another child was born, the secrets that I had buried deep exploded into the now. After spending ten years of supporting every choice he made, every decision, every career change he wanted, when I needed him to support me he couldn't, or wouldn't. And that was the straw that broke the camel- that- was- a- cat- trying- to- be- a- dog's back. I left.

In the midst of Post traumatic stress, when I shouldn't have been making any major life decisions, I married my second husband. My relationship with him was fraught with drama. In fact the whole damn relationship was one long drama that peaked in a painful crescendo of him attempting suicide. He was mean, and ugly, and hurt myself and my children profoundly. The hurt he bestowed upon my children is a guilt that I will carry forever, as I brought him into their lives. The only good thing that came out of my second marriage was my little boy Aston. Every time I watch him with his older sister and brother, and the love they have for each other, soothes my hurting soul from the pain that they experienced at the hands of his father.

Eventually I was able to convince Aston's father that we needed to separate for every one's sake. Even then I still hung on to hope that now the reason behind his ugly mean behaviour had been identified, and was being treated, we could reconcile. But I was broken, and weary. So were my children. He was inconsistent with his treatment, and it just drove more nails into my heart. I realised that being with him wasn't living. I was only... just... existing. And it would end up killing me.

I did what needed to be done. To protect myself, and my children. It was met with fury, and of course, more drama. Once I severed the connection between Aston's father and myself, everything I did after was motivated by making sure that Aston's interests were being taken care of. That he was kept safe. That meant that if he was to have a relationship with his father it had to be conducted in a manner that kept him safe. Based on his father's history, I wasn't prepared to throw the lamb in with the lion. If he wanted a relationship with his son, it had to be under supervision. He fought this. For six months Aston didn't see his dad. Once he finally agreed to it, there were only 4 visits before his anger got in his way. It was then that I was given the contact details of Foundations Child and Family Support and their Parenting Orders Program.

Burning...

On Saturday night we had a camp fire. The weather was perfect for it. We’d had one the previous night when my daughter had a gathering of friends around. One of the benefits of living in the country is you get to do stuff like that.

Because this was the second one for the weekend, wood that had been cut was getting low, so it was decided that anything that was stored in the shed, waiting to be chucked out, could be burned. It would be good as it would reduce the size of the skip that would be required when I move. Cardboard boxes, old magazines, broken wooden toys, junk. You know, that kind of stuff.

Lying amongst the “stuff” was the album that had been gifted to me and Aston’s father on the day that we got married. The day that I knew with absolutely certainty that I had made a monumental mistake. The wedding itself was fairly uneventful. It was afterwards, when R proceeded to get drunk, and aggressive, and very publicly abuse my 8 year old sad and confused daughter by calling her a bitch. Hello Wicked Step-father. The night got progressively worse when on the way home he continued to be abusive and proceeded to get out the moving car, terrifying my children. I think by this stage I was well and truly numb – left my body, watching it all from far above. Sweet disassociation….

Laura saw it, and asked me, “Can I burn that?” I mutely nodded, and watched as she threw it onto the fire, knowing that it was more than an album she was throwing on. I stood and watched the flames engulf it. Then Laura came out of the shed with the air rifle, and fiercely chucked it onto the fire, and my heart started to break.

I stood behind her with my arms around her as tears ran down her face, my own tears hot and heavy with shame, falling as well, both of us re-living the trauma of her being shot in the thigh. By a stupid man, who knew better than to ever point a gun at someone, regardless of whether they thought it was loaded or not.

On the first weekend of the first week Laura started high school, R, Laura, Nathan and a friend of Nathan’s were shooting targets with the air rifle. R was drinking, as usual. Of course, nothing I said was ever heard, or paid attention too. I hated the damn gun. Like I hated him drinking, and by this stage, pretty much everything about him. I was inside the house with Aston, when I heard Laura scream. You know, the type of scream that a mother knows without a doubt that their child is badly hurt. I ran to the door and saw her on the ground. R picked her up and carried her inside, all the while telling her to stop carrying on, that the gun was empty.

I looked at her leg and there was a very definitive entry point, an entry point that could not have been made by air. Which I screamed at him. And as always, because I could never possibly be right, he had to prove a point, and stood in front of us, Laura screaming NO! and promptly fired the air rifle at his own foot. Which of course did nothing, because by now it had nothing in it. That was embedded in my daughters thigh! So, I was right – air cannot penetrate flesh and leave an entry point. Funny that.

He took her to the hospital, where they tried to get the pellet out, unsuccessfully. Consequently she was scheduled for surgery first thing on the Monday morning to have it removed. The whole time, Laura was more concerned about me losing it with R, then what was going on with her. Which only enraged me more, and finally ignited within me the courage to do something about the nightmare my children and I were living. But that’s another story.

Having to see your child go under general anaesthetic is a horrible experience. Especially when the child is having a panic attack. Thankfully the hospital was wonderful and allowed me to stay with her in the theatre until she was completely under, and came and got me to be there when she woke up in recovery.

I really don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive him for doing this to my daughter. She has two 10 cm scars on her thigh, and constantly gets asked how they happened. It’s hard enough being a teenager without any other elements thrown into the mix.

Throwing the air rifle into the fire has opened up a wound inside her heart. Inside of my heart. No amount of prompting on my part to talk to someone about the incident, to help her process it, has had any result. This last week she has been crying a lot, and thinking a lot, and having flash backs. All classic symptoms of PTSD.

I feel helpless. And guilty, and burning with shame. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I brought him into her world.

Victim or warrior?

Abuse, in any form, leaves an indelible mark on your heart, your soul and your psyche. Being on the receiving end of abuse as a child leaves a scar that runs so deep that only another person who has experienced it can truly understand. I, unfortunately, understand.

We either become a victim, or a warrior. (I don't like the word survivor ...yep I survived it. So what? So does a victim that still lives in it. I'm a warrior. I fight every single god damn day to be better then where I came from.)

A victim is someone who continually blames every thing that has gone wrong in their life on someone else, their abuser, anyone but them, never taking responsibility for any of their behavior, stuck in an endless loop of 'it's not my fault', allowing the abuse to be the excuse for, and be excused from, anything that they do as a grown up. Well in my opinion that's a cop out. That's the easy road.

A warrior, recognizes and acknowledges the things that happened that were beyond their control at the time, and in spite of those things, fights to become a better person. A warrior takes responsibility for the things they do as an adult, and owns their behavior. A warrior feels in a state of exhaustion a lot of the time. They are fighting a war after all - a war within.

I use my experiences to educate. I can recognize someone that has or is being abused, be it a child or an adult, without them telling me. I use my experiences to illustrate that you don't have to be a victim to them. You can be a warrior instead.

When I'm feeling exhausted, from fighting the war within, I look for words for inspiration, for soothing my soul, or to champion me on to fight another day. Ralph Waldo Emerson (leader of the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century and champion of individualism) is someone whose words speak often to my very core.

'Be not the slave of your own past ... plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience, that shall explain and overlook the old.'

My past will always be there. It just doesn't shackle me. Instead it empowers me to be bold, forthright, passionate, and not to be afraid to fly my freak flag!!

I have another Emerson quote tattooed down my side...

What lies behinds us and what lies before us are but tiny matters compared to what lies within us

It's a visual reminder that I'm doing OK.... In spite of.... Because of.

If you have been abused, as a child, or as an adult, or as both, to stop the cycle from perpetuating, you have to stop being a victim, dig deep, and become a warrior. Look for inspiration, seek assistance, use your experiences to educate, fly your own freak flag! It can be done.

If you have, or are experiencing abuse of any kind here are some links to help you on the road to becoming a warrior:

Bravehearts

Reachout

If you are a warrior, and know of an organisation, or information that can help someone, please share it.

tears, accomplishments and the black dog

I got into the car, and tears came unbidden. I struggled to keep them from overflowing. I looked out the window, and tried to surreptitiously wipe them away, desperately hoping that she, or anyone else for that matter, would not notice.

__________________________________________________________________________________

A few days before, Nathan had asked me what was my greatest accomplishment. Without even thinking about it, my answer was, "You guys, my children."

"Oh." was his response.

Then I added "And putting John in jail. But having you three - that's my greatest accomplishment."

The question came out of nowhere. We were discussing accomplishments or achievements, he just randomly - or so it appeared - asked. When I questioned him where it had come from, his answer, "was no where, I was just wondering." OK - thanks for clearing that one up Nat.

But of course it has rattled around in my head now for days.

A few days before that conversation, I had a conversation with my sister. I was practising "grace" - trying to extend grace to her, in spite of her behaviours, in spite of her denial that she suffers from something far greater then depression. So I called her when I had received a text from her. The conversation with her was pretty much the way most of the conversations with her are - either manic, or black. This one was manic. She was racing. I could have put the phone down, walked away, came back 5 minutes later, and she would have been none the wiser.

During the conversation she mentioned the "blow out" that her and our mother had had recently. She alluded to the fact that our mother had "vomited" stuff at her when she had arrived at her place to stay. Vomited stuff about me. I should have known better. I shouldn't have pushed to know. But I did. I've taken advantage of her, I do things to suit myself, if I'm not careful Aston will be a bigger brat then Beth (my sister's daughter) ever was... I should have known better then to expect that my mother could do anything for me unconditionally.

But of course that too has rattled around in my head now for days.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Laura came home for a visit this weekend just gone. She arrived Friday night, and I took her back to her other home last night. In the 96 hours she was on the Sunshine coast, 52 of them she spent with us, 21 of them awake.... what does it matter? I know. I'm being pathetic. 21 hours is better then none at all... I guess I'm feeling greedy. I wanted more... more time. more of .... what?

Maybe what I really wanted was to rewind time.

Nothing like wishing for the impossible is there? Kind of like putting someone in a round room and telling them to sit in the corner....

__________________________________________________________________________________

The further down the road I travelled the heavier and tighter my chest felt. The black dog dug in deep, and settled firmly on my heart. The harder it began to hide the tears. Snide remarks were exchanged between us. I didn't want it to end this way. Why could I just not keep my mouth shut?

Nathan had made an interesting observation. That she was different towards me, then she is towards her father. That she speaks to him, their father, and their father's girlfriend, kindly, conversationally when they are at their father's. Here she speaks to him rudely. Here she speaks to me rudely. There is no respect.

How did we get here? Where did it all go so horribly wrong?

More to the point,can it be fixed?

So much for my greatest accomplishment........

Even the cat senses something amiss....

Shaking off the shame

I had mixed feelings when I saw that Wanderlust was speaking out against Domestic Violence. I admired her confidence in speaking out... I tingled with shame at my own story.

You see, I grew up in a family where domestic violence - in all its categories... physical, verbal, mental, emotional, sexual - was the norm, not the exception. And I swore as a young adult that no-one would ever treat me like my mother (and every other woman that the sperm donor brought into my life) myself and my sister had been treated. Ever. I swore it adamantly. Vehemently. Absolutely.

In March 2009 (while this story started a long time ago, you can read about my awakening, everything in between, and finally resolution to make changes) my husband attempted suicide. It was horrible, horrific, devastating.

I sat in the special room at the hospital speaking to the Psyche nurse... no, make that vomiting out my husband's behaviour... all of it. The nasty, horrible, hateful things that he had done, said, behaved towards me and my children. Suddenly I stopped. Because I HEARD myself....

I turned to my friend that was with me - someone who had saved me from myself once before (but that's another story for another time) and said to her "Oh my god. If someone was sitting in front of me telling me the things that I have just spoken I would be looking at them aghast and asking them what the hell are you doing??" That was my moment of realisation. Realisation that I had landed in a relationship that I swore I would never have. One full of violence - verbal, mental and physical. I was devastated. How the fuck had I got here?? What had I done???

I started to cry - not for my husband, but for myself. For my children. In disbelief.

It took me nearly another 12 months and an Apprehended Violence Order, changing my home phone number and mobile number to finally cut him completely out of my life - or as completely as you can cut someone that you share a child with. It took another 12 months and a whole lot of persistence, and me standing my ground, for something that resembled him having a relationship with his son to occur. For ME to no longer be afraid, and know that he no longer has any power over me, to be able to see him for the pathetic sad little man that he is - that took another six months.

Two and a half years in total. To feel like he no longer had a psychological hold over me in some form. To feel like the person I know I am. To reclaim my self esteem. To trust. To love myself. To forgive myself - well that's still a work in progress.

Its easy for outsiders to say a million things about a situation that they haven't walked or lived. To have an opinion. Hell, I even had a million things to say, and an opinion, and I had already lived it as a child... and I still fucking ended up in an all to similar situation as an adult. Why do women stay in abusive relationships? There is a myriad of explanations out there. Its insidious and gradual the slide down that slippery slope. By the time it happens your self belief, esteem, courage, worth are so eroded that you start to believe it is all your fault. That you are the cause of it all.

What should you do if someone you care about is in this situation? Don't judge them. Be there for them. Let them know, when they are ready, you will stand there beside them. They are going to need you.

What if you find yourself in this situation? Firstly - even though it no doubt feels like it, please know that you aren't alone. Reach out. Speak out. You too can shake the shackles of domestic violence. If you can't do it for yourself, and have children - DO IT FOR THEM. Show them how brave, and strong you are. Show your daughters that it is not OK to be treated badly. Show your sons that it is not OK to treat women badly. Show your children that domestic violence is never OK.

Knowledge is power. Find the knowledge. Find the power.

Domestic Violence Resources and Help in Australia

Lifeline Phone: 13 11 14 (cost of local call from landline) Website: http://www.lifeline.org.au

This website is all about the line and the kind of behaviour that crosses it. http://www.theline.gov.au/

What is domestic violence? http://au.reachout.com/find/articles/domestic-violence

Domestic Violence Resource centre http://www.dvrc.org.au/

Australia's Campaign to stop violence against women