I guess I am not your typical abuse survivor. I still hurt from the turmoil that I have gone through, but I will not ever allow it to control me or change how I feel about me. Healing myself was ugly, hard work, but I did it.
I thought a long time about no longer allowing myself to be angry with this person. I still have an emotional response to the memory, but I chose to learn from where I had been in life. I understood both sides of the coin. The first step was learning and accepting that I did not have to allow those things to make me feel like I was the worst person on the planet. It is not easy to let these things go, by the way. Healing the wounds of the Soul is very dirty, very ugly, very personal, and of course, very hard work.
Yet, it is work that is well worth the effort because it helps us to grow into who we are meant to be. It takes time, patience and lots of acceptance of ourselves with all of our flaws. It is not for the faint of heart. Judging from the things that I have learned, I find that the only thing that is missing for a whole lot of people on this planet is NOT the balls to do anything, but rather the permission.
It seems kind of weird to think that we would need to permit ourselves to feel one way or another. We have been taught to turn the other cheek and “take it like a man,” and when we did, we just ended up getting hurt.
I was not meant to be someone’s target, but that is how they win – by our being so damned down on ourselves that eventually, the control that they have wielded for so long finally makes us sick enough in the soul to end our own pain. If I did not choose to let my abuser’s own sickness of the soul further permeate my soul, I would have probably done something very bad to myself, and would not have even tried to start my own healing practice (which, that is what I am in this lifetime – a Medicine Woman. My first client was me). Had I not decided to stop the ongoing recording that was his voice, and then eventually my own voice agreeing with him, I would not be here to tell anyone that there is another way of looking at what you have gone through.
I am not saying that you have to literally make amends with whoever it was who hurt you, but you can make amends with you, over what they did to you. You can heal yourself through meditation, art, journaling, through a whole lot of different things. You can go on to be everything you want to be, in your own life.
The reality is that we have all been through a whole lot. The thing about verbal or emotional abuse is that, whatever is being said, is not the truth.
This is the beauty of the other side of things, the part that, when we are in the throes of all the things that we need to escape, is that WE are who create ourselves. We are lucky when we are afforded with the chance to recreate ourselves after we have been what seems as though an eternal wounding. It only stays that way if you let it stay that way. This is one of those things that we are not taught. The sting from it all is not forever. You can create a new thought about it.
Creating new thoughts about anything at all is how this consciousness was created. We were all and each created in the image that is that of Love, not division. What abusers like to do is divide us from all that we know, and then eventually, from all that we are. They do not want us to be who we are – they need to create something that they can call their own. We, on the other hand, have the chance to create beauty from the excrement left by the abuse. It is the other side of the coin, really.
Sure, we can choose to think about our abusers as the pinata at a birthday party, but that just creates within us a negative energy like them. It is our downfall that we feel the need to convince our abusers that we are not the bad person that they have told us we are. It is not up to us to convince anyone else about who we are. We only need to be able to see ourselves as lovable and worthwhile.
Think about it. The thing that makes us all want to cry are the things that are said that hurt us. Okay fine. BUT, the thing that makes us crazy is our trying to convince anyone else who we are. If it is not the truth, it is not the truth, and no one can change that. Truth is truth, no matter what, no matter what anyone else has to say about you.
You went through what you went through for no other reason than that you loved someone else. It is okay to accept that you have come a very long way. You are no longer required to believe what you were told. You alone have walked the fire, barefoot and without anyone there to teach you how to not get burned.
The grass is not greener anywhere else. No one tells us about the messes that they make. They only point out the messes that we have had a hand in helping to create. When we stop thinking that the grass might be greener, that we could have done something different, this is when you would do well to remind yourself that grass does not grow in cement, but only up through the cracks which reveal the truth of the ground beneath it.
There are a lot of ways to think about being abused. One day, the only thought in your head will be that you survived it, and that the rest of the world can kiss your sweet okole.
I am a survivor of domestic abuse. I became one of the lucky ones at the tender age of 15. I got out of the relationship after nearly a year of verbal, emotional, and physical abuse. It wasn’t easy. It was terrifying, but I did it.
It all started when I was a freshman in high school. A senior caught my eye and I apparently caught his as well. After knowing each other for only a short amount of time, we were dating. I thought it was love, true love, and believed whole heartedly that he was the one.
The abuse started slow. First, he didn’t like my friends and thought they were trying to sabotage our relationship. (They saw the signs before I did and tried to warn me). He isolated me and I thought nothing of it.
Then he didn’t like the way I dressed. He called me trashy and a whore. He said I was trying to catch the attention of other guys. He controlled what I wore and who my friends were.
Then he would yell and scream at me whenever I did something he deemed as wrong. The verbal abuse escalated to physical abuse soon after, probably about three months in. He would slam me into lockers and choke me. He would push me to the ground while screaming at me. He broke two of my ribs and I still forgave him. Teachers, bus drivers, other students all saw this occur and some tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. Others just watched the chaos unfold without uttering a word. I can’t blame them, he was very intimidating. He was a wrestler and very built, I even questioned if he was on some sort of performance enhancing drug. It would explain the angry outbursts, but that could just be who he is.
He was smart, he never left marks where anyone could see. I hid my broken ribs from my family and friends. Most of his marks were invisible though. He broke me completely and molded me into someone I didn’t recognize. But I was in love, I was blinded by love and couldn’t see the signs.
When he took my virginity, he repeatedly told me how filthy I am and afterwards, made me scrub myself raw while he watched. He took something beautiful and made it ugly, I’ve seen myself as filthy ever since.
Now that I am older, I see the red flags. It wasn’t love, it was abuse. I see that now. I was finally able to leave by breaking up with him over the phone. He threatened to kill himself and then his mom called me, yelling at me asking what I did to her son. I hung up on her and never spoke to him again. It was summer at the time and I didn’t see him again until the next school year where he would threaten my life if I ever told a soul. I never did, but people knew. They saw it happen for their own eyes.
I am one of the lucky ones. I survived, I got out. Not many can say that. I just want other people to see the signs and get out if you can. If you can’t, there are resources out there for you to help. It takes an incredible amount of strength and support, but you can do it!
When I was in college student, I lived a few blocks away from some relatives. I had a standing invitation to eat at their house every Sunday night – no need to call ahead, just show up. As a starving college student, you would think I would take advantage of that, but I only went a handful of times.
Spending time with that family was painful.
You see, they had a sick game they liked to play in their family. If it had a name, it would be called “Let’s pick on April until she cries.”
April and I were very close. She had her issues, but I adored her. I have come to discover from reading the stories on this site that her mother (and possibly her father) were narcissistic. They had two “golden children,” who could do no wrong, one child who was sort of neutral, and then April was the scapegoat for the whole family.
Almost immediately after sitting down to a meal, they would start in on April. Everyone would talk about their day, but when she would try to talk, they would belittle everything she said. Nothing she ever did was good enough, and everything she said was stupid or unimportant. They would dig and push buttons until the tears fell.
I will never forget the look of satisfaction on that woman’s face when she had succeeded in destroying her daughter.
Again.
A mother is supposed to be a source of comfort and support to her children. Being a mother now myself, I can’t even comprehend how a mother can destroy her child day after day, after day.
April is married with her own kids now. And I still cringe when I hear her call her mother “Mama.” The woman never earned that title.
I always knew there was something wrong with me. Other kids didn’t understand why I acted the way I did around adults. I spent my entire childhood wondering what the hell was wrong with me, afraid to say or do anything, afraid to interact with other people.
30 years later …I know that the problem really wasn’t me. It was the monster who calls himself my father. The beast in me wants vengeance for him handicapping my emotional and psychological well being …vengeance for leaving me afraid to have my own children …vengeance for being afraid to get married for fear I’d end up marrying someone like my father. But this same beast has given me a voice. This same beast gives me the courage to stand up to those who try to use me as a doormat. This same beast drives me everyday to heal the deep wounds and to unlearn all the nasty crap that was beaten into my head as a child and teenager.
I used to worry that everyone was right when they’d say, “You’re just like your father.” I now realize that I’m NOTHING like my father. I just managed to pull myself out of a fucked up mess of a “family.” IT HAS BEEN HELL!!! Forty years of being told that I am nothing, being emotionally neglected and abused, told repeatedly that people don’t like me, told that I don’t deserve friends, that everything I have belongs to my father, that I am a pet to be kept at his discretion, rewarded for good behavior or punished for failures.
There was nothing that I had that he could not take away, everything I had and everything I was, according to him, originated with him and therefore was his to control and do with as he pleased. If I tried to express my feelings I was greeted with anger. “It’s not okay to cry. It’s not okay to show your feelings. It’s not okay to express your opinion. In fact, you are a child – be seen and NEVER heard.”
My father would hit or grab and shake my mother when she did things he didn’t like. He still does. He only ever spanked me twice. When I got to be a teenager he’d just shake his fist in my face. I never understood this. Ultimately I think it was because he was afraid if he hit me he’d end up exposing himself publicly. If I were to report him for child abuse, or if one of my teachers, seeing unexplained bruises on me, would have brought his “I’m the perfect husband and father” public mask crashing down.
I didn’t start to understand what my father had done to me until I graduated from college. The more distance I put between us, the more I understood that I wasn’t the problem. This was wrong. Abuse isn’t just about getting physically beaten, it can also be about getting the emotional and psychological stuffing beaten out of you everyday.
Thank the gods for my grandparents who looked out for me and sent me to college. My father made no bones about refusing to work. He said he “had a problem with authority,” and that no one had the right to tell him how to do his job. When I was 7, he was fired from the only job he’d had. So my father forced my mother to get the paying jobs, and then promptly got her fired from every one of them. He’d try to tell her bosses how to run their businesses or he’d tell lies or exaggerated truths about her boss around town. No one would stand for it, and my mother paid the price.
When I was 5 or so, my father got into a fight with his parents. I didn’t see them again for many decades. I only know who my relatives are because I see them on my family tree, there are only two or three I would even recognize if I was face to face with them. The ones I do know are narcissistic just like my father, so I don’t mourn the loss anymore. Most of them are just as toxic to my well being as my father is.
My father’s mother, his brother and his wife came to our house on the day of my high school graduation. My father’s mother said, “Here is a card for you. We’re going to your cousin’s graduation.” With that, she and my aunt and uncle turned their backs on me, got in their fancy car, and left me standing there. They were just there to rub it in my face that my cousin was more important than I was.
My father is a saint in the eyes of many people. He gives lavish gifts and bails people out of financial trouble, when he can ill afford to do it himself. He invites strangers to holiday family meals and springs it on us at the last possible moment. Meanwhile, utility bills go unpaid, disconnect and repo notices arrive. In the past, if he couldn’t scrape the money together to do these “humanitarian” things that people “love” him for, then he’d send my mother to beg from her family. Later, he would demand the money from me. The last time he did this to me, I threw him out of my home, returned the last of the “gift” money he had given me for Christmas, and told him never to come back.
My father has Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He blames his abuses of my mother and me on PTSD, for which he is considered disabled by the VA, but the truth is, my father is simply a manipulative, truth stretching, self-centered, self-serving, “The world revolves around me, I will live my life anyway I see fit, I don’t care if it’s legal, I’m never wrong, everyone is entitled to my correct opinion, the sun and the universe revolve around me” NARC!!
A huge weight has been lifted from my life. I still find myself wanting to cower when someone gets in my face or publicly criticizes me. Sometimes I have to take anxiety meds, but I can get angry now. I can scream and yell. I can say no and not cave later. I can cry. I can laugh. I’m learning slowly how to love. The anger reminds me that I am a person. I’m not someone’s possession. I’m not a doormat, and I deserve better.
Even seven years after he left me, I have come to realize that my ex-husband still takes up residence inside my head. In an attempt to clear him out of there, I’m going to start telling more of my stories. Maybe if I send my stories out into the world, they will get out of my brain.
He loved to pick fights with me. Easily, 75% of our fights were about food. Clearly, they were never REALLY about food, but that’s how he chose to express his anger with me.
There was an excuse for why food was such a hot point for him. For most of his childhood, he was raised by his grandmother. She didn’t have the financial means to support her children still living at home, as well as the grandchildren she was then responsible for. They were poor. Food was hard to come by. But she was also very frugal and knew how to make every last scrap of food last.
My family didn’t have a lot of money, but by comparison, we were definitely not poor. If a little bit of leftovers went to waste, it wasn’t the end of the world.
The day that some ground beef went to waste, he started a screaming match with me in the front yard. I’m sure the neighbors loved that!
But easily, the worst fight over food was Thanksgiving, 1999.
Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday, and I always went all out to make it special for my husband. I took charge of the entire meal – except for mashing the potatoes. He enjoyed doing that. We had had a lovely morning, we even took the dog for a long walk between basting times on the turkey. As I finished the cooking, he was downstairs, looking through family photos.
When the potatoes were done boiling, I called down to him that it was time to mash them. He said he would be right up, so I left the water in the pan for him to drain and set them aside.
I was busy. There were a lot of other things to do.
I didn’t notice that he didn’t come right back up.
When he finally did, the potatoes had gotten cold and a little slimy.
He was PISSED.
He screamed at me about how the potatoes were ruined and it was my fault and I should have drained them. I should have called him again when he didn’t come up. He stomped around the kitchen, swearing, yelling, and slamming pots and pans around.
He icily told me, “Thanks for ruining my favorite holiday,” and then he got in his truck and left.
I continued to cook as best I could through my tears. I cut up more potatoes and got them boiling. I finished the stuffing – just the way he liked it. I made the gravy. When the potatoes were done, I mashed them myself. They were lumpy, but at least they tasted good.
And then I waited.
He didn’t come home for about four hours.
I know now that when he was downstairs, he must have been talking quietly on the phone to his girlfriend, and she convinced him to have Thanksgiving with her instead. He picked a fight with me so he could justify leaving. If it hadn’t been the potatoes, it would have been something else.
When he got home, we ate in silence, and I held back tears.
I am 16 year old girl. I have always wondered if my mom was emotionally abusive. So I need help. Please read my story and tell me whether she really is.
I was at the top of my class until my eighth grade year. As soon as I entered ninth grade, my grades started reducing. I was not failing, but I turned into an average student. I really studied hard to achieve good grades, but my mother never recognized my efforts. She cursed me several times. She said I should have been born with my both of my parents dead.
Whenever I wake up late in the morning, she starts abusing me for not getting up early and studying. She says would not care if I ran away. She often says that if I do not like her, I should just kill her. She says I will never be successful in life and God will punish me for the things I have done to her. She cries in front of me and says that she wishes she was dead. She says I am selfish, and mean, and I like to waste my parents’ money.
I don’t understand why she behaves like this. Once I asked her if I could go to a movie with my friends. She asked if I had lost all my senses, and said that someone will kidnap me if I go. I only ever meet with my friends at school, because she says I have been spoiled.
I guess I have been dealing with this since I was 2 or 3 years old. I have a memory of saying “No one loves me, not my father or mother” when I was that young. When I was 3, she had locked me on the balcony, and I don’t know why. She used to drag me out of the house as a punishment for not doing my homework. She ran after me with poison when I was in the eighth grade. She doesn’t trust me at all. I have a habit of studying until late at night. The next morning, she will always accuse me of surfing the internet instead of studying. She doesn’t respect my privacy she always tries to read my personal messages.
Staying with this woman under the same roof makes me mad. I get no comfort or support from her. When I confront her, she says I am no longer a kid, and she doesn’t need to motivate me or support my goals.
Eating gives me comfort, so I have turned to food. Now I am obese. I suffer from anxiety and fear. I have agoraphobia and am scared to move out of my home. I feel guilty for many things which are not my responsibility. I think I have been totally damaged inside. I have an inferiority complex.
Even though most of the time she is angry, sometimes she makes me feel like she cares about me. Sometimes she talks to me politely.
So what do you all think? Is my mother emotionally abusive? Please help. I am confused and need the emotional support from all of you.
