You can survive, you can endure
The following is not a happy tale.It is not written with the intent to garner pity, sympathy or retaliation for the parties involved. This is a story about child abuse both the psychological and physical variety. This is not a story of revenge, malice or spite. I do not forgive the parties involved, but I bear no ill will. There is love to be sure, as you always love your family, regardless of how mad or crazy they may drive you. I forgive many things in my life. But I will never forgive the overlook, ignorance and at times allowance of my abuse and in later years the callous disregard when I finally began to voice what happened.
This is a story of healing; acceptance, coping and even enduring . I am a survivor of physical and psychological abuse, and to some that statement may seem or come off strong. But that is the phrase I will use: Despite everything, I survived, endured and am healing. There is zero doubt in my mind when my family learns of this they will refute or attempt to explain this in their own way. This is not about them. For the first genuine time in my life, this is about my healing. Not them. They had their chances countless years, and failed me. My siblings, if they remember, probably never will admit these things happened.
So, here I am. 33 years old finally telling a story that should not have needed to be told. There were so many things that could have been done to stop this story from ever needing to be told. But as I said, in order to fully heal I tell this story as it is: true and direct. I must stress under no circumstances must my mother be considered the villain. She DID raise 3 children through 2 very difficult marriages and endured abuse that is never my place to speak of. But she did enable horrible abuse from the age of 8 to 16: the psychological horrors of my father notwithstanding. That I do not forgive because he never has felt remorse or allowed me to talk about it in depth.The reading subject from here on will be graphic. The end of this tale will I hope shed some light and show my true goal for telling this tale.
The earliest memory I have is Kieth, my biological father and my mother again getting into a screaming and physical fight. My mother had a trailer on my grandparents property because that monster was an abusive, horrible person and my grandfather was truly the one person who scared him more than anything.I would have been about 3-4 at the time. I was smart enough to know something very bad was happening and didn't hesitate, i ran crying to my grandparents house on top of the hill, scared to death I wouldn’t make it in time to get help, but I did. He never could hold down a job.
The next few years saw us move from apartment to apartment to just hide. By this point my brother and sister had been born. When I got old enough to understand better, I found out he violated restraining orders left and right but they never did catch or hold him for very long. There nights I remember consoling my baby sister and little brother trying to keep the noise out because he would find us again. Screaming and banging on the doors and windows for hours. Police would come, he’d flee before they got there. This cycle would repeat more than I ever cared to admit.
The greatest shock of my life was the age of 4-5 was I’m not sure if he did it out of love or fear, but Kieth saved my life: albeit he caused what happened next to occur. They fought yet again and i left with him to go to a nearby gas station for...I’m not even sure what to be honest. He got angry again as we were heading back to the car and he opened the door..and i knew nothing but pain. Somehow he had opened it hard and fast enough that he had busted my head open. He took me to the hospital and the one thing I know I remembered was him holding a towel on the wound as i lay in the front seat. There was a look of worry. I will never know if it was for me or if he was scared for himself. I would like to think there might have been SOMETHING akin to a shred of honesty. I don’t know. I never will.
I had to of been about 6 or so when finally my mother left us with our grandparents and she fled to hide in california.I didnt know at the time, and I dont know what she told my grandparents, but she later admitted to me in my late 20’s Kieth tried to sell me off to a child sex ring for money. She knew her children were in severe danger, and my grandfather was the one person on earth he was scared of. My life was calm….until she returned with her new husband when i was 7-8. His name was Tom. And Tom would begin the longest streak of abuse no child should ever have to endure.
There was shouting here and there but normal family things. The first true horror began in 3rd grade. I was in the bathroom with my brother brushing our teeth and I don’t know what conversation led him to coming in and getting angry to be honest. Maybe I said something, I don’t know, but whatever it was did not justify what happened next. I was spun around, grabbed by my upper arms, lifted and put firmly against the wall. He had this look of a very angry animal on him...it wouldn't be the first time I ever see “The look” Anger, fury and rage filled him. He told me to knock my shit off and hurry up or i was gonna make everyone late for school. I was...shocked. I didn't tell my mother. But I did tell a teacher. I thought surely it’s gonna help. How utterly wrong and stupid I was. I was picked up and told not to say a word. We went straight to my grandparents house. I couldn't comprehend why I was in trouble until my family rounded on me. How dare I make up a story to hurt him. This was a man who loved you as his own and this is how you repay him? My family was very authoritarian so arguing back or talking in defense was completely shunned. I knew if I said anything it would get it worse. So I sat there dumbfounded and in silence. For the next hour I was berated, talked down to and said what a bad child I had been. And finally the words that burned into my brain. “His heart is like a sheet of paper. You took it and bundled it up and crumpled it. It’ll smooth out as he heals, but there will always be wrinkles.” We went home afterwards and when my mother left, he took a belt and beat me. Spanking me hard, and how dare I embarrassed him like that and if I told anyone about this punishment it would be worse. Small things happened here and there but nothing noteworthy until we moved to south carolina and ohio. The spankings got progressively worse to the point I had bruises and learned to accept the pain.
Ohio I dont remember much except for one incident. It was the day I had a school play. He gave me a black eye for I dont even know what reason. My mother put makeup on it to cover it up and told me not to say anything. I never did until now. That was the first time I never spoke out when I should have...maybe I could have stopped it before things got much worse. I was a fool. We moved into a trailer in a new area and my brother and I had to help him make a driveway and clear the land because they had no spare money. A barely teenader working like an adult. I let that go but not what happened next. The spankings kept getting worse, but I guess he thought he’d do worse. He didnt like how thin i had helped make the limestone roadway and told me so. I must have said something to voice how miserable I was. He grabbed a shovel and with the flat side hit me on one side near my chest. The pain was unbearable. I was knocked on my back and while i was down he stomped the other side of my chest. Kneeling down he got as close as he could while I was frozen scared and hurt. He said I made him miserable and I deserved this as I needed to be more of a man. If I told anyone, Hed do worse.I never did and hid the pain well. To this day, my ribs ache if touched wrong. Somehow I held onto hope that maybe finally if my mother saw me miserable and he didn't notice I could stop this pain from ever happening again. Weeks passed and she worked long days while yet again he could never really find solid long term work. I had no chances to do so, and I was growing depressed but never showed it. Finally he hit me as hard as he could in the back of the head when I turned away from him. I made it to my bedroom and laid down. Crying. And at last my mother returned and she must have heard me and walked into my room and said “Josh What’s wrong?” I looked at her almost beggingly and said” My head hurts.” I didnt elaborate. She got angry because she had worked a very long shift and told me if i had a headache go get some medicine out of the cabinet and deal with it. As she left I finally stopped crying staring as an acceptance grew in me. She was NEVER going to help me. She was never going to listen unless she saw it herself. That’s when I realized I could never trust her to tell her any of the bad things that were happening. I suffered in silence for another year. During that time more beatings, more hopelessness and in general a life of what i felt was true genuine fear and hopelessness. I had no clue what was going to happen next. It would get worse.
The older I get, like some, the harder it is to pinpoint exact dates but the tragedy of these next two incidents occurred during my fourth and fifth grade years While seemingly unimportant to some these two singular events will stay with me forever. To set up the story, my brother had messed up our closet door, naturally we shared a room and all the joy of privacy i got. I was desperately trying to fix it because I didn't want HIM to hear. I had finally succeeded and was about to collapse with joy...until my idiot brother pushed it back inwards and laughed and i let out a yell….HE heard because of course he did. He came in, didn't ask for an explanation, saw what happened and hit me. Then proceeded to stomp and destroy a cherished toy that was my world. Now everyone needs to understand, i was a very introverted child. I didn't make friends easily and had few. I loved to play by myself and had wonderful fantastic imaginary adventures. His reasoning for doing this act was simplistic in his words “You wreck my stuff I wreck yours.” I didn't realize the nightmare wasn’t over yet.
My mother picked us up from school two days later and genuinely looked upset. She explained he burned everything. I got there and went out back and sure enough, the charred remains of a large bonfire were still smoking. He went after all my stuff first. My brother barely had anything touched and my sister, thankfully, was spared the majority. Of course my mother as always did nothing but say she was sorry it happened.
Thanks mom. I can always count on you to make me feel better. A shame you chose misery over your child. As always.
The second event was the court ordeal. Long story short because this one wasn't so traumatic as it was, what I believe, caused a wedge between myself and my brother because we were forced to change schools.They spanked me at school and my mother was outraged. I believe solely because she believed punishment should be handled at home, which I find insanely hypocritical at this point. The paddle they used stung yes, but it did not hurt as much as what step-douche did to me on a weekly basis. I wish she cared enough to go to war with him as she did when she took the school to court and sued. We had to switch schools but honestly.the true problem was what happened before.
See the punishment for what i did ASIDE from that was a day of suspension or sit in a small closet like room all day. No supervision and total isolation. My mother, of course, was not there when we spoke to the principal…step-douche was.He flat out told me if I picked suspension I would regret it. Happy birthday to me, cause thats right, my punishment was carried out on my birthday. Total isolation. And once again no one helped me. Honestly how I never acted out is baffling to me.
That night when I got home and everyone was asleep, i got out of bed around midnight and went to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find. I sat down and rocked and i wanted more than anything to end the life of the person who was causing me pain and inflicting hell on me. I’m not sure why, to this day, I never acted. Eventually about 4 am after sitting there and reflecting I went back to bed. Im not sure why I didnt. I’m glad it passed but I will never know what stopped me that night.
All of this before I was 12 years old and it still wasnt over yet. 6th grade we finally moved back to Florida. Nothing really changed. Except now we enter middle school…
I wish aspergers had been more readily diagnosed and doctors didn't just slap an ADHD label on everything. I was teased, bullied and picked on. I had no sense of humor and couldn't understand things like sarcasm or jokes. Life at home was hard...life at school was hard. My family never listened to anything if it disrupted the status quo. I felt genuinely alone and isolated. Now this wouldn't be a happy story unless I added in a life altering event that actually changed things. It was ironically during a shop class and once again I was being bullied, but for the absolute first time...I retaliated. A detention and oddly...the guy and I actually became friends...I didn't know it at the time. But between being hurt by others and the punishments at home for the weirdest infractions...i came dangerously close to considering suicide. In fact the day this next event happened I had already started planning how I wanted to end it all. The kid who bullied me in shop came up and struck up a conversation about Pokemon and we to this day share a friendship. I told him last year finally, he’s the reason I'm still here. If he had not come up and given me that one act of kindness I wouldn't be here.
I was still bullied all through 10th grade but had friends here and there.It made it tolerable. Junior year is where I hit my lowest and to this day my family does not know what happened.
3 football players ganged up and raped me in a locker room after school. This had nothing to do with my sexuality because at the time I hadn't given it any thought yet. Because my mother always said, “Don't ever do anything to embarrass your grandparents” ad religiously restated this, I decided to be quiet on the whole thing. The sole saving grace being i wasn't too traumatized by this experience as a whole. I did not consent this is true, but it was at the time I was beginning to think about it and maybe that’s why they did what they did. I thought I could trust one of them, and told them, apparently I was mistaken.
There are other things of course, the usual stuff teenagers go through, but the final absolute straw that broke the camel's back was I refused to feed animals my brother and sister wanted. I finally after 17 years told my mother no. I wasn't caring for animals that they should be taking care of and I was tired of everyone else shoving responsibility on me. They had some stupid sporting events after school they were doing. And I was finally sick of it. Its shocking on one level that something so ridiculously mundane as pet care made me finally snap. We argued and I moved out. I couldnt take it anymore. My grandparents, finally, took me in.
Now some of you are probably wondering: why I would I write this down? Is it pity? No I don't want pity. Im now 33 and I have a wonderful, if not always easy, Life I wouldn't trade for anything. There are some updates. The 3 who assaulted me in high school I have forgiven. One is dead and if there is justice he got what he deserved. Another apologized and he actually meant it. He begged for forgiveness and has done good with his life. I bear him no ill will. We all do stupid things, but if we actually are repentant and try to do good, i can honestly forgive. The last has a wife and kids so I won't ruin their life because of my pain and he knows that. He's never apologized but he does worry occasionally if I'm ever going to spill the beans. I have but I haven't named him.
As for my family....Im not sure if I can heal right. They dont want to listen to me. “You’re 33 years old, Grow up and get over it.” “Stop causing drama” “It happened so long ago, what do you want us to do about it?” That last one actually DOES stick with me. I think at the core I want some compassion. I want them to feel bad. My mother isnt an evil woman, there were many good times, but they are completely overshadowed and eclipsed by so much negativity, I cant say she was a good mother. She has never once listened to me and if she reads this I’m going to tell her the same thing I finally worked up the courage to tell my grandmother: “This is not about you. This is about me trying to heal, trying after decades to heal so I CAN move on. For the first time in my life this is entirely about me.” My family remains to this day the greatest source of my stress because they genuinely believe, because they refuse to listen to me and not dismiss what I say, they loved me and supported me financially growing up. You may have, but you failed at making sure your child and grandchild was happy. That I was safe and felt loved and supported. You failed as my guardians and maybe that’s why I’m still trying to heal because you all will never thing you did wrong.
So we come full circle. When I started writing this I borderline thought it would be longer. But it’s ok, it was hard getting through just to this 8th page. And there are other things I can't talk about and probably will never be able to go into because I don't want to deal with being ridiculed and teased as an adult about some aspects. I’ve come to terms with those issues and people who matter know about hidden parts of me.
This wasn't intended to shame, although there is a sliver that hopes maybe if they read this they will feel something, this is about sharing a story. I’m not the only one out there to have a bad childhood. Many do, but it takes courage to talk about it. That’s the point of all of this. Talk to someone. It may take years, but seize the courage and get it out. Dont let it sit there because you have to “tough it out.” That's a bullshit answer older generations have said because they don't want to deal with issues like mental health. And yes it is hard to finish writing this as I just told a friend while I write. But before I finish I have some people who deserve to be named specifically for making my life better. And they deserve to be known by name because of the profound impact they have had. This is only people from my childhood.
Fred Eirman. You saved my life in middle school and I have never forgotten it.
David Coburn. My uncle. You were the only one who listened at times. And indulged my likes and hobbies.
Harry Webber. My second cousin. The only person in my family who cared enough when I was at my lowest points to be there for me. While the rest of my family hated you for stupid, pointless reasons.
This isn't a story seeking pity. This is a story that I want to say the following words if it affected you and you also had similar experiences of abuse. I offer the following words and please take them to heart:
You can survive. You can Endure. You can recover.
Reblog and share and even comment. Get this around so MAYBE it can help someone.
