Child abuse

Domestic Violence: Physical Abuse

I think physical abuse in a domestic violence situation is one of the easier types to identify with. When someone hits you, it’s hard to deny, although, it is possible to minimize the actions.

You don’t have to have a black eye or bruises to have been physically abused. Some abusers are more subtle, and make sure they don’t leave marks. Black and blues, or not, it still counts.

Some examples of physical abuse are as follows:

Pulling your hair, punching, slapping, kicking, biting or choking you
Forbidding you from eating or sleeping
Hurting you with weapons
Preventing you from calling the police or seeking medical attention
Harming your children
Harming your pets
Abandoning you in unfamiliar places
Driving recklessly or dangerously when you are in the car with them
Forcing you to use drugs or alcohol (especially if you’ve had a substance abuse problem in the past)

Most every time my abuser assaulted me, he would choke me, followed by a threat of my murder. Thankfully I was strong enough to fight my way out of his grip before I lost consciousness. When he would fly into a fit of rage, I knew my safety, and the safety of my children was at risk. I knew if I didn’t try to escape from his grip, he would have kept going until I was dead. Once he started, there was no way to get him out of the dangerous trance he was in.

I remember the fear I felt the first time I saw the look of rage in his eyes. I was uncertain if I would live another day. Thoughts about the future I would miss out on if he took my last breath flashed before my eyes. I’d never get to see my kids grow up. I wouldn’t have a chance to meet my grandchildren. I wouldn’t grow old.

Thoughts frantically raced through my mind. Who would take care of my kids? What lies would he make them believe? Would he even be held accountable for my murder? No one knows who he really is. No one would believe he could do such things. What would the headlines in the newspaper say? Would I be missed? Was he right? Would anyone notice I was missing?

The monster he usually was, became magnified. Reasoning with him while he was in this state was not an option. The only thing I had left that I could do was fight back. Find the adrenaline induced strength and become my own monster. There was too much to lose to let him win. I’m not sure where the strength came from, but I am thankful everyday that I was able to find it. I am thankful he did not own guns, because I know the outcome would have been different. I know I would have become a headline in the local paper, either as a missing person, or as a murder.

*Harming your pets

But that was just the bad days. There were normal days that he was abusing me, and I didn’t even recognize it as abuse. He was notorious for hurting my pets. Because I loved them, he would hurt them in front of me so I could watch them suffer. When my son was a baby, we got a kitten. The poor thing didn’t stand a chance. Had I known what his future was going to be, I never would have adopted him.

His name was Howard. A small, black kitten. Howard was playful, as most kittens are. He was sweet and wanted loved. With a small baby it was sometimes hard to give him all of the love he was looking for, but he was learning how to fit into the family. Howard picked the wrong lap to crawl into looking for love. He did not find it. He found brutality and abuse. My ex-husband threw his little body against the wall, and laughed as the little baby cried. Howard, and my son. I rushed to the kitten’s rescue, where he came over and kicked his little body, yelling, “you had it coming you piece of shit.”

I tried to keep them apart, but there were times I was unable to. As expected, after the abuse Howard faced, he became mean and started attacking us. I knew for his safety and quality of life I had to find him a new home. He was still just a baby, and I knew he was scared and craved love. My mom agreed to add him to her collection of cats. This way, we would still be able to visit him. Howard was never the same. He couldn’t breath out of his nose and his teeth had been broken.

My love of animals made me try again. We adopted a dog. I thought maybe this time it would be different. It was not. The first accident in the house and he was at it again. I didn’t wait this time, I returned the dog to the shelter. Heartbroken, but I knew staying at the shelter was better than the life with us.

*Harming your children

It didn’t stop with pets though. His abuse began with the children, too. If my son woke up one too many times at night he was called every name you can imagine, and manhandled. Never really hit…not then anyway.

When I wasn’t able to protect my animals or my child, I knew I needed to leave. I had a plan, and packed my car ready to leave while he was at work. A neighbor clued him in on what I had been doing, and it became too dangerous to leave. If I couldn’t leave, I had to gather the strength to fight back.

*Driving recklessly or dangerously when you are in the car with them

Most of this abuse stayed behind our closed doors, but there was one time I remember well he was unable to pretend. He was driving my new car, with me and my three young children in their car seats when he noticed a young girl driving. The girl misjudged the distance between us and pulled out on to the road. There was plenty of time for him to slow down to avoid an accident, but he hit the gas. He ran my car into the side of hers, and when she got out her car, she was already crying. He tears infuriated him, and he screamed at her, calling her the names usually reserved for me. My babies were crying, but I had to get out to comfort this young girl, who was obviously a new driver. She was no more then seventeen, and he attacked her. If I did not step in, it may have become physical. Because of his behavior, I told her to go. I told her it was’t a big deal, and I didn’t care about the damage. I paid the price later for the kindness I gave her.

These were things I didn’t know were abuse, not until I started talking to others and doing my own research. This is why it is so important to share our stories and our experiences. When we recognize that we are not alone, it takes the stigma away. It makes us feel less broken or damaged. There is camaraderie in knowing someone else knows. And when you see others have survived some of these horrors, you know that you can too.

I urge you to speak out, even quietly. Talk with others who understand, and who have been there. There is healing in the release of these things. You never know who you might help. Stay strong. We are in this together.

#DomesticViolenceAwareness

**Beautifully Broken, we will rise again**

2018 In Review

When 2017 slid into the finish line, I was nervous that 2018 would have a hard time living up to all the greatness from the year before. On January 1st, my apprehension was confirmed when I received a call that an important man in my life had passed away. The knowledge of this loss took the wind out of my sales. There was no way 2018 was going to be a good year.

There is no doubt in my mind that this mindset helped pave the way to disappointment throughout the year. How could positive thoughts come, when grief was so close? One more loss, added to the sea of those gone before. After so much loss, you would think that it would take the sting away a little…but it didn’t.

Depression shadowed a lot of the previous twelve months. A lot took place the last 365 days, things I had never imagined possible. Here is a condensed recap:

January: I reached out to The Dr. Phil show, hoping to share my book with more people. A week after the first contact, my sister and I were in the air to Los Angeles. In the few days leading up to the trip, it was a whirlwind of emotion, and false hope. We had to dig through photographs, and documents that had been put to rest for some time. It opened wounds that had been hidden for years. In the midst of the pain, there was hope. Hope that my goal of getting my book into the hands of people who needed it most would come from this. Hope that needed healing would take place for my sister, myself, and even my sister’s father.

By the end of the trip to California, the familiar feelings of rejection had taken up space in every ounce of my being. The broken promise of talking about my book helped the inadequate feelings to creep back in. Depression lingered, as the internal voice mocked me with the reminder that I was not good enough. The memories, and truth of my childhood swarmed around me, beating me lower and lower, until the thought of getting back up became too overwhelming. To read more about this adventure: A Peek Into The Monster That Ate My Mommy and #TeamKimandJessica

February: The show aired in February, and our secrets were exposed to the whole world. Yes, they were in my book, but so far, the audience was not very large. There was no turning back. There was no hiding. Shame. Fear. Guilt. All the emotions circled me as I sat to watch the trauma from January take over the screen.

Through the trauma came healing. After seeing my step-father on TV, I was able to see the real him. For so long, even after all the hurt he had caused me, and my family, I was able to understand the depths of the damage he caused. I no longer looked at him and felt sorry for him, for what he had become. For the first time, I was able to see him for who he was, and look past the why. He hurt me. He hurt my sister. He hurt my mom. He did not deserve my pity. He had my forgiveness, but I did not owe him anything else. February brought freedom.

April: The Dr. Phil show had said they were going to offer my sister and I the treatment we needed to heal. This is where Onsite comes in. The offer of healing was only as deep as Onsite could provide. A week long, intensive therapeutic retreat, to work on a year’s worth of healing in seven days. Looking into this, I was skeptical of what could really be done in seven days, but I was willing to give it a try. What could it hurt?

Onsite is still an experience I am trying to process. I physically detoxed trauma while I was there. Deep healing, and even deeper connections came from the week there. I let go of some deep seeded thoughts and beliefs. I went in to the week, ready to give it all I had. A chance of a lifetime would not be wasted.

To read about this adventure find the four part post, beginning here: An Adventure Awaits

June: Only weeks until my 37th birthday, and depression circled around me like vultures on a carcass. I could not shake it, no matter how hard I tried. The 26th anniversary of my dad’s death took center stage. He was 37 when he died. How could it be possible that I was going to be the age he was when I lost him? Time was a funny thing, and I was not ready to laugh.

To Read more about this go to: 37 Days Until 37 Years

July: Depression continued to hold tight as my birthday came and went. Through the fog, I was offered a job, where for the first time in many years, matched my heart. This was the job that I had held out for. Director of the local Senior Center. Without Onsite, I do not believe I would have felt worthy of such a position. I had just enough confidence to say yes to the job offer.

September: On the first day of September, I found out that my memoir, The Monster That Ate My Mommy, received honorable mention in the Readers’ Favorite International Book Awards. This was also the month when my new job began to feel like home. There were so many great things happening, and for the first time in a while, the depression lifted.

November: Leading up to November, I was unsure if should attend the award ceremony for Readers’ Favorite. I was hung up on the idea that it was a pity award…negative self-talk had a tight grip on me. When I was able to shake it off, I knew I had to go. This was not just any book…this was my story. These words went deep. It was a lifelong dream, that I had accomplished. I had to go. To Go Or Not To Go? goes into much more detail about that adventure!

December: The last month of the year brought much reflection with it. A buried secret became unearthed, and threatened to take away the progress that has been made in the lives of my children and myself. For a split second, anger took over my thoughts, revenge was all I could taste. I wanted to hurt them like they had hurt us. I went to bed full of rage, and guilt, and woke up full of peace. I am not sure why the change happened, but it reminded me that I hold the power. It is up to me to react, or not. It is up to me how I allow others to affect me. It is up to me.

I take this lesson, and all the others from the past 365 days, into 2019. I have big plans to better myself in many areas of my life, but the most important, the most productive thing I can do is to allow success, allow good things to come. Think positive, and dream big. I am ready for what the next year has to offer.

Going on an adventure!

An Adventure Awaits

: Going on an adventure!

In January, I reached out to a producer at The Dr. Phil show. Within hours she emailed me back, and in seven days my sister and I were flying to Hollywood. We had a story to tell, and hoped that what we went through would help others. Similar motivation is what led me to write my memoir, The Monster That Ate My Mommy.

Bad things happened to us. One of the worst aspects was having to keep quiet about it all. We couldn’t talk. We were the perpetrators’ prisoners in more ways than one. They hurt us, changed us, and then stole our voice. We did not want to keep the secrets any longer, so we shouted them for the world to hear.

(My sister’s story stops here. We are on our own separate healing journeys, and she is the narrator of her story. )

I did not think past that. I did not know what preparing to go on the show, and being on the show would do for me. In preparation for the show we went through old family pictures and old court documents. Dust was brushed off of the things I had packed away. During our search, my sister found a college paper my mom had written about me. (I wrote an earlier blog about it, The Devil Inside). After reading my mom’s words things began to shift inside me, at that point, only to a small degree.

When we arrived in Hollywood it all became real. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. We kept ourselves busy between the demands of the show and touring the city, and sitting by Tom Petty’s star on the Walk of Fame. Anxiety pulsed through my body as I thought about what was ahead of me. Excitement that my book would be talked about on the show filled the spaces that fear left empty. When I wrote my memoir, I hoped my story would get to the people who needed it most, and this was going to possibly make that happen. Our story that was being discussed would also help others who have been sexually abused.

The mix of emotions filled my body with adrenaline. Excited and terrified. But this was our chance to change things. It wasn’t until the morning of the show that we were told that there was going to be a twist. My sister and her dad would be on stage first, while I sat back stage and watched. I was relived that I had some more time before I would have to be on stage with my stepfather. As I watched my sister talk with Dr. Phil, and then her dad my body began to tremble. I was not sure if it was from being cold or nervous –most likely a combination of both.

As my stepfather talked about the abuse he had done to my sister I became enraged…and felt the guilt creep in. As I tried to push the guilt out of my mind a photograph of our mom flashed on screen. The mom I remembered, the mom I longed to love me, the mom I desperately wanted to protect me. I was no longer able to hold back the tears.

Angry.

Guilty.

Sad.

Enraged.

The emotions switched back and forth inside me. It was time for me to join them. As I waited to enter the stage I heard my stepfather say the words I had read in my mom’s college paper. Jessica is severely mentally ill. She has no grasp of reality. She is a paranoid schizophrenic. I never touched her. She is a liar. His words bounced off me as my body trembled with rage and fear.

Even after thirty years, he still denied he ever sexually abused me. When asked how I could have accused him before he began the abuse on my sister, he said it was “convenient.” My accusations came, were denied, and then he admittedly sexually abused his own daughter, although he stated it wasn’t abuse. There was no way to make him understand how ludicrous it all sounded. There was no point in fighting. He didn’t get it. He never would. My rage switched to pity.

I felt sorry for him. For him not seeing the truth. For being so sick that he doesn’t understand what he did. For being old and lonely. For not having a family. For so many reasons.

When he left stage, he fell into my lap. I could either catch him, or let him fall. As the old man fell, I had to catch him. How could I hurt him? His head brushed against my breasts and he looked up at me and his pathetic eyes were thankful. I saved my abuser, while he continues to harm me. Thankfully they edited this part out of the show, so only the audience saw.

After he left the stage, Dr. Phil offered my sister and I the opportunity to travel to Onsite –the worldwide leader in therapeutic and personal growth workshops, where he said we could work on healing our past trauma. Onsite is located in Tennessee. It would mean more travel, more time away from the kids, and George, and work. Before he was even finished talking, I had already came up with a hundred reasons why it wouldn’t work for me, why I couldn’t go, and how it wouldn’t help. I am healed. I had already worked on so much of my healing, and writing my book did tremendous amounts of healing my past trauma. How could it help?

The show ended –no mention of my book. The familiar taste of rejection filled my mouth. As I left the stage, I could feel tears running down my cheeks. Maybe my book wasn’t good enough to be mentioned. What if he hated it? What if it was trash, rubbish, pure junk? What if everything I believed was false. What if I wasn’t an author after all? My book and I were no good. There was the proof.

So, what was the I said earlier? I am healed…yeah…think again.

Self-hating thoughts would not leave my head for the first few days back home. As with many other events in my life, what I expected and what happened were totally different. Disappointment lingered. I researched Onsite. I wanted to know more. I reached out to the admissions department and was interviewed. The program that would best help me was believed to be Healing Trauma. I completed an application and sent it to be looked over. I was told they would let me know if I was accepted into the program.

Suddenly, this place I had no interest in going to was now some place I had to go. They had to let me in, right? I checked my email every few seconds…still nothing…what if I was too messed up to go? What if the stuff that happened to me really wasn’t that bad and I was just overreacting my whole entire life? The thoughts returned…your book is no good…who wants to read about boring stuff anyway? Maybe you are crazy. Maybe you need more help than they can give you. Maybe…fill in the blank…you get the idea.

The email from Onsite arrived in my inbox…now I was too nervous to open it. As I clicked it open I read that I had been approved for the program in April. All the desire I had before to go turned in to uncertainty. For six days I would not be able to talk to my kids or George. I would not be able to be online, use email, watch the news, look at the weather, listen to Tom Petty. I would be gone from home for seven days. A prisoner of sorts, forced to work on all the past trauma. What was I thinking? Why did this sound like a good idea before?

It was too late, the plane tickets were purchased, the date was set. I was going to Onsite to heal decades of past trauma.

Continued on: Healing Trauma

#TeamKimandJessica

1_IN_10 One in ten children will be sexually abused before age eighteen.

One in ten.

Children who are sexually abused often feel alone. They feel shame and guilt for the abuse that is happening to them. Many are too afraid to tell, in fear that the perpetrator may hurt them or someone they love, and some who do tell are not believed or dismissed.

perpetrators

In most cases, the child is sexually abused by someone they know, and often trust. This can make it even harder for them to tell. By trusting the abuser, they might not know what is happening is wrong, or they may feel obligated to keep the secret.

risk_factors_3 The abuse starts before a child’s eighth birthday for 20% of children who are sexually abused. When the abuse starts at a young age, the abuser has the time to “groom” the child, and make them believe what is happening is normal, or is their special secret. Abusers know the tricks that work to keep themselves out of trouble, and in control of the child.

Abusers are conniving people, who are looking to get their needs met. Many times, they have been abused themselves as children, but that does not justify their actions. They know what it is like to be on the other side of the abuse, and yet, they allow the cycle to continue. Instead of being a voice for the children, they place their hand tightly over the child’s mouth and steal their innocence. They know what it is like, and yet, they chose to harm a child.

My sister, my daughter, and I are in these statistics. The level of abuse varies for each of us, but the trauma caused at the hands of our perpetrators lingers inside of us. We have good days, and bad. We have days that we love ourselves, and others where we loath ourselves. There is anger and rage, guilt and shame. We question our worth. And wonder, “was it really that bad?”

Anytime a child is victimized, it is that bad.

It does not matter if it happened once, or a thousand time. The scars are there. Trust is broken. And the world becomes a different place. Three girls were touched before their eighth birthday, by men we knew. We carried secrets inside of us until we were able to release them. And we fought back.We made our voices heard. We were brave. We were strong. We put one foot in front of the other everyday to carry us a little further from our past. The few moments of the abusers’ gratification left us with a lifetime of imbedded trauma. It is our choice to ignore it or to own it and work through it.

I believe there are more than one in ten children that are sexually abused. I believe the number is much larger, but they are not ready to share their secret just yet. I believe the problem is much bigger than we know. This is a problem that we need to help with, and telling our stories is the first thing we can do.

When we share our stories, the isolation a child feels is lifted a little. The more they hear of others facing what they are facing helps take away some of the shame. A camaraderie is felt, and the world doesn’t feel so alone. These are the reasons I share my story. I know what it feels like to wonder if I was the only one. The isolation alone was enough to crush me, and the fear of what other people would think of me caused me undue stress. I didn’t know there were others.

Our voices will echo throughout the land.

“You are not alone.”

“It is not your fault.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“You are strong.”

“You are loved.”

Tell your story. Share with others how far you have come, or how far you want to go. Together, we have the power to change the stigma attached to childhood sexual abuse.

Break The Silence

When I was a little girl, I was taught to keep our secrets. I was trained to not talk to anyone. If I shared with anyone what was happening, I was told that I would get into trouble, or I would be made to live with my dad. Living with the secrets caused me to isolate, and keep to myself. I was labeled as painfully shy, and was sent to the guidance counselor on a regular basis.

A smile stayed on my face, to hide how I was really feeling. A smile keeps people from asking questions. A smile adds enough light to cover up the darkness. If a child is smiling, they must be happy. No one knew why I wouldn’t talk or engage in conversations, they just figured I was quiet.

And that is where the mistakes are made. Smiles can be worn as masks. Being quiet does not always mean a child is shy. But, how do we as adults know the difference? When do teachers have time to question if the smile the child is wearing is real or if it is hiding something? How do we know if a child is just quiet, or if they are being made to hide things? There are no good answers to any of these questions. There were adults in my life, who wanted to know what was going on, but I wouldn’t let them in. I was too afraid.

I was trained to keep quiet and to not let on that anything was happening. When I was alway from home, I was happy. I was safe, but I was still under strict orders not to tell. For the moments I was out of the house, away from the dysfunction, part of me knew that was where I belonged. There was never anything in me that made me think that I should let another adult in on our secrets. Even my gram, who I told everything to. I never thought that someone might be able to stop what was happening.

I look back at this time, and I wonder why. Why would I protect the people who were not protecting me? Why would I believe the lies they told me? I believed them because I did not know there was another way. I believed that I was the one who was doing wrong. If my own mother wouldn’t help me, who would? It was that one act that made me believe that I was unworthy of protection from anyone, and had me questioning if I really needed to be protected in the first place.

When I encounter six year olds, I wonder how I could have been so resilient, how I could have survived the things that I lived through. And then I get the realization, that maybe they know too. I know other children live the life I lived. I know there are other children who go to bed at night with the weight of other people’s burdens covering them tighter than their covers. When I see children, I know the secrets they are capable of carrying. I know the pain a quick smile can hide. I know that they need our help, even when they do not know it.

For thirty years I held all of the secrets close. I guarded them with everything that I had. When some escaped, I held the rest even closer. I did not want anyone to know the reality we lived in, truth be told, I didn’t want to face that it was reality. I did not have a voice for all those years. I let others mistreat me, I let them hurt me, and I let them own pieces of me.

As a mother myself now, I have to speak up. My voice speaks not only for me, but for my children as well. I hope, that my voice will be loud enough to speak for the children who have had their voices stolen from them. My voice will not be shushed any longer. I will speak my truth and I will never be silenced.

My memoir, The Monster That Ate My Mommy unleashes all of the secrets I held. It tell truths that took me a lifetime to understand. It shares all the things I was told never to tell. The words on the pages are my truth, and I will never again keep them hidden. Secrets are toxic. They are the poison that keep the wrong people in charge of us.

We all have a story to tell. We all have been given challenges to overcome. It is what you do with that challenge that matters.

You are not alone in your struggle.

You are braver than you think.

Never give up.

Child abuse

*Harming your pets

*Harming your children

*Driving recklessly or dangerously when you are in the car with them

#DomesticViolenceAwareness

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