by Band Back Together | Apr 2, 2014 | Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Estrangement |
I want to make this short and to the point, as best as I can.
My husband was abused (mentally, emotionally, physically, and sexually) by members of his family. His father sexually abused him as a child, his mother and grandparents covered up the abuse, and outside the sexual abuse incident, they themselves were physically and emotionally abusive. When we met, I didn’t know this, and he’d blocked much of it out, or pushed it down and chose not accept what happened to him. It’s taken years for him to find the strength to shut these people out of his life. It’s also taken years for me to find the strength to deny his mother and her parents access to our daughter.
I don’t want to explain why I even allowed my daughter around them in the first place. Honestly, I have no excuse and I feel like an unworthy mother for not putting my foot down harder when my husband pushed to have them in her life. His family is prominent in his hometown and thought highly of, despite the dark secrets they have hidden in all the corners (the abuse).
A few months ago I had enough, separated from him, and he went to a psychiatrist who echoed what I’d been saying for years: these are not good people and it isn’t safe for him or his daughter to be around them.
Through therapy and medication he’s been able to start coming to grips with the abuse he endured as a child, and he’s starting to break free of the emotional control they’ve had over him. It’s now been about 4 months since our daughter has spoken to or see his family, and it’s our intent that she never sees any of them again.
However …up to this point, she grew up with them in her life on a regular basis. This last month she’s begun asking when she’ll be seeing them again. She liked his grandparents especially (his grandmother was the ringleader in instigating and covering up the abuse). She’s starting to ask at least once a day to go over and visit with them.
She’s never going back over there. I will never put my child or my family in danger like that again.
But, she’s 5 years old. And I honestly don’t know how to explain to her why she won’t be seeing them again. I just don’t. I have an answer for nearly everything for her. But this situation is beyond my scope of understanding. Sometimes I think we should just come right out with it and tell her that they all hurt her Daddy when he was a little boy, but I don’t know if she’ll understand that, and I don’t want to put more on her than she needs right now. (I want to preserve some bit of her innocence, I guess.)
Has anyone else been forced to remove several family members from the lives of their children? Does anyone have any advice about how to talk to my daughter about this situation?
by Band Back Together | Mar 18, 2014 | Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Psychological Manipulation, Puberty in Girls, Teen Body Image, Teen Self Injury, Teen Substance Abuse, Therapy |
Before I take you for a ride down memory lane, I think it would be wise to take a moment to explain my family tree. (Cue “The Brady Bunch” theme song.)
My dad and his first wife had a son, my older half-brother.
My mother was his second wife. Together, they had four daughters. I am the youngest.
My dad and his third wife have a son, my younger half-brother.
My mother married for a second time. My step-father has five children, three boys and two girls. They are all older than I am.
I’m going to try to make this as painless as possible and not too confusing, so bear with me!
My parents can’t stand each other, I don’t think they ever could. Why they stayed married as long as they did, beats the hell out of me. They lived together, at least physically, until I was six months old. That was when my mother moved her four girls into the home of the man who would later become my stepfather. I’m surprised the three bedroom, one bathroom house didn’t explode from all of the hostility and tension caused by the eleven people living there. Being so young, I was automatically excluded from the fights between my sisters and my stepfather’s kids.
My mother conveniently decided to quit her motherly duties around the time I was conceived. Granted, she was never in the running for Mother of the Year or anything before that, but she was decent, I guess. I was pretty much raised by my oldest sister, who was only 9 or 10 years old at the time. Mother was always gone, even when she was home. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if my sister wasn’t there to care for me.
When I hit puberty at 11, my oldest sister no longer lived at home. No one was there to tell me what was happening to me or my body. I was already in a bad place in life because I also had just been sexually abused for the first time. This lead to many embarrassing situations at school, ruined clothes, being made fun of, etc.
I started cutting when I was 11 and kept all my cutting tools in an old CD case under my mattress. One day when I was 12, I went to grab them and they were gone. The blood-stained knives were washed and put back in the drawer, razors back in the box cutter, and scissors on the counter. Mother never said a word, never asked why I was wearing long sleeves through summer, or why I had a plethora of sharp, bloody instruments under my bed. Nothing.
Two years later, when the school nurse discovered my cuts and called my home, my mother suddenly put on her “distraught mother” hat. She swore to the school staff she would do anything and everything to help me. When we got home, she told me how I made her look bad because she does not want to be known as the mom with a fucked up daughter. At the school’s insistence, I started therapy. I don’t know how many therapists I went through because she would pull me out as soon as they said the words “depression” or “medication” or “she should really be tested for bipolar.”
During this time, I went to my dad’s house on the weekends. I hated it. I loved my brother, we have always been wicked close because we’re closest in age, but I hated my dad and stepmother. I hated them because my mother taught me to. My mother is the best manipulator I know, and constantly fed us and anyone else who would listen lies about how evil my father was.
When I got into high school, my mother introduced me to alcohol. She’d make me margaritas at family cookouts, look the other way when I grabbed a bottle from the shelf in the kitchen. Soon I was drinking at school, bringing vodka in a water bottle so no one would know. I started smoking in my room, stealing packs from her cartons of cigarettes and she never said a word. At that point, I thought, “Fuck yeah! My mom is awesome! She doesn’t have any rules.” My friends loved her, and she was always trying to be the “cool mom.” It was fun for a while, until she would go behind my back to invite my guy friends over. I can’t confirm or deny anything that happened when I wasn’t there, and I don’t want to know.
By 16, I was leaving the house every night to walk three miles to my drug dealer boyfriend’s house, drunk as fuck and taking railroad tracks as a shortcut. She knew, but never said a word. One summer day when I was drunk, I got into a fight with my stepdad and was arrested. I spent the night in jail, went to court, where I was charged with simple assault and sent to placement for six weeks. At the end of my time, I was told I wouldn’t be going home. I was going to be sent to a long term placement until I was 18.
After a lengthy battle, the judge finally decided to allow me to go live with my father. My mother’s selfish need to keep me from my father prompted her to fight tooth and nail to keep me in placement for those next two years.
I was in for a rude awakening at my dad’s. New school, new rules, new lifestyle to adjust to, with no friends or anything from my old life. It was not easy for them to deal with me. I would get into loud, screaming, in-your-face fights with my dad and stepmom. I wouldn’t trade it for the world because when I became an adult, I sat down with my dad and learned the truth.
The lies my mother told me about my father weren’t true. I was told the reason I never had winter jackets or new clothes or went to the doctor when I was sick was because my dad never paid his child support, He paid it, but mother used that money for herself.
My arrest was orchestrated by my dad. When he found out what I was doing, he fought Mother until she finally agreed to have my stepdad instigate a fight so the police could charge me. He convinced the court that my mother was unfit, and that living with him would be the best thing for me. He could give me a normal life with structure and discipline.
He saved my life, and I’ve spent most of my life hating him for no reason other than being a pawn in my mother’s sick game.
I’m 23, married with a beautiful 2 year old son. I wouldn’t have this life if my father hadn’t fought for me. It kills my father that two of my sister’s hate him because they’re still under my mother’s thumb.
I haven’t spoken to my mother in five years, and never plan to. My family tree may be split, but at least I know who my true family is now. My stepmom has become the mother I never had, and we are all really close.
by Band Back Together | Mar 17, 2014 | Bullying, Cyberharassment, Cyberstalking, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Fear, Guilt, Insomnia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychological Manipulation, Sexual Harassment, Stalking, Stress, Trauma, Workplace Bullying |
I’m many things: a daughter, friend, a pet lover and a 4.0 student. I swim, volunteer, love the beach and enjoy music. I’m also a victim of a growing epidemic among teens and young adults entering the workplace: sexual harassment.
On Valentine’s Day 2007, I attended my first corporate event as a volunteer for a major media corporation. I dressed professionally in a long-sleeved pants suit and arrived early to Houston’s baseball stadium. Plastered on my face was the biggest, most secure smile I could find, in spite of the butterflies in my stomach.
This corporate event was a huge deal and I played a special role in it. Around sunrise, the radio station’s videographer arrived and began setting up his equipment. He spotted me and walked over to extend a handshake. Eager to make a good impression, I introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Jill. I’m the poet,” I said, confidently.
“Hi, I’m Howard. I’m on-air each weekend and do video as a side-gig.”
“I know. I’ve heard you.”
“Well, I work at another station, too.”
Having varied musical tastes, I said I knew – I’d heard him there, too
When the brief, friendly banter had finished, we each continued our business, the discussion far from my mind… Until I arrived home that afternoon and discovered that within an hour of meeting me, he’d found my website and sent a highly personal email. It discussed his dating history, his taste in women, that he thought I was in my forties because “forty-something women are the hottest around;” because I was “hot.”
I wondered how he’d found my information, I told my instincts to “hush” – I was certainly overreacting. After all, the media must’ve given him my information. Pushing concern aside, I believed I needed to keep the peace for my new position and sent a simple, friendly reply.
The conversation continued as he told me he had a daughter my age and found my information through an internet search. The third day, he asked to purchase signed copies of books I’d written. I gave him my home address – easy as that.
The subtle signs of trouble were there from the beginning. The wishy-washy words to keep my feelings off-balance. On my birthday he said, “The world is a better place because you’re in it.” Not two hours later, he said, “You’d look good in black lace … and I’m not talking shirts.”
It took nearly five years for me for me to find the courage to accept that the harassment was serious and not the jokes I’d thought the man was making.
“Nice to meet you” slowly became “You’d look great in an adult film” and “The world is a better place because you’re in it” became a blend of comments like “My girlfriend is an iceberg in the bedroom,” which played to my empathetic side. Feeling “sorry” for his “plight” he claimed would “improve” if he could buy me lingerie and sex toys.
I never thought he was serious, I’d thought he was joking. I know now to trust my gut; this kind of behavior is not normal for the workplace.
By the time a box of lingerie he purchased for me was delivered to my home and I pursued action against him in 2012, I’d endured a lengthy history of requests for dates, pressure to pose for pictures and/or provocative video, cyber-stalking, emotional abuse, and calls and texts at all hours. The toll on my life was apparent – sleepless nights, stomach upset, and stress. I lived in constant fear of what the next step in his obsession might be.
My innocent response happens far too often among teens and young adults unprepared for workplace sexual harassment. Today’s teens and young adults are not alone in dealing with job-related harassment. According to Adolescents at Work: Gender Issues and Sexual Harassment, thirty-five percent (35%) of high school students reported they experienced sexual harassment in their part-time work. Of the 35% who were sexually harassed, 63% were girls and 37% were boys. In 19% of cases, perpetrators were supervisors, and 61% of the time harassment came from coworkers.
Sometimes it can be difficult to tell the difference between flirting and harassment, but it’s never okay for an adult to flirt with a child. It’s not okay for someone in a position of power to flirt with or suggest improper behavior. Such behavior in the workplace is illegal and companies must have guidelines in place outlining zero tolerance for sexual harassment.
If you are going through something like what I experienced, I want you to know that this is not your fault. Nothing you did or didn’t do caused this to happen. This did not happen because of anything you said, your choice of friends, your appearance, or your personality. Anyone who harasses another is a bully. Bullies are cowards that pick on the strong and innocent, simply the person is there. No more, no less. You are not guilty of anything, even if you initially went along with the harassment. The blame is with the harasser; you are a survivor. You can heal.
You deserve respect.
From the minute that you feel awkward about a work-situation, tell someone you trust and begin documenting every comment, action, or event that’s left you feeling uncomfortable. If you’ve received e-mails, save screenshots. If you save the e-mails, don’t alter them in any way. If someone says that they don’t think what you’re going through is that bad,” remember – it’s not their place to judge. You own your truth. You own your boundaries. Only you know what you will or will not accept.
While someone else may tolerate behavior that bothers you, it’s your life and your decision. You’re allowed to end uncomfortable situations; no job is worth trauma, torment, or the health toll enduring daily abuse can cause, such as depression or post-traumatic stress disorder. You cannot always leave your job, but you can stop the cycle of harassment. The harasser wants your silence; don’t give them the satisfaction.
Some may believe you’re weak for choosing to address sexual harassment and strive for change, this is not true. You are not weak; you are courageous and brave, trying to make the world a better place for others; that is an admirable aspiration for anyone.
As the result of my journey, I reached out to a therapist to help me understand what had happened. My therapist put the harassment this way: “The harasser is an annoying gnat you can flick away until the pest becomes smaller and smaller on your horizon. By standing up, speaking out, and refusing to accept abuse – you are a big flyswatter with the power and will to end the cycle of harassment.”
If your boss, co-worker, or friend demands your undivided attention, calls you five or ten times per day, follows your every move on and offline, or starts mimicking your style or words, there could be a deeper problem.
Stand your ground; know your boundaries; always listen to your inner voice. Respect, trust yourself and you will get through this. I told my story and put the spotlight on my harasser; you have the power within you to do the same.
Even on the darkest day in your fight against sexual harassment, always remember you’re worth so much more than workplace abuse. You will come through the experience with greater awareness and more compassion for others. You have a bright future ahead of you and you will survive this.
I believe in you!
by Band Back Together | Mar 13, 2014 | Marriage and Partnership, Marriage Problems, Self-Esteem |
I hate being married.
There, I said it.
I hate every little thing about it. I literally cringe when I hear about someone getting married. I literally cringe at their ideals, their hopes, their dreams for their marriage. I consider this a character flaw. I tell myself to step back and just be happy for someone. Don’t dampen their happiness with my own bitterness – not every marriage is going to be like mine. I understand that, I really do. I am just so terrified that one day these people with all their wonderful hopes, dreams, wants, needs will wake up and be me.
I hate being married. I hate feeling ignored, irrelevant, unimportant, worthless, like so little of me matters.
I wrote the above a couple of months ago and re-reading my draft now makes me realize how far I have come within myself these last few months. I hit rock bottom. I didn’t think I would be able to pull myself back out of it. I considered committing myself to the psych ward and knew I couldn’t because of my children. When I finally realized (and accepted) how completely overwhelmed I was with life, I decided that it was time to work on me.
I cannot change my situation. Don’t get me wrong – I know divorce is an option and one that I soon hope to explore – but it won’t change the past. It won’t change the way I feel about myself. It won’t change the position I have found myself in and it won’t change him. It won’t change the fact that for almost 14 years of marriage I allowed him to make me feel that way about myself. It won’t change the fact that I had based my self worth on what someone else thought of me because I didn’t know any better. I had allowed myself to be put in that position.
When I finally hit rock bottom, when I finally knew the answer for the people that used to ask how much i would take, when I finally decided that enough was enough, I decided that working on me was the only way I would be strong enough to leave.
Emotional abuse is a tough topic to discuss. Part of me wonders if I am imagining it, that maybe I am over sensitive, but part of me knows I am not. Emotional abuse doesn’t leave physical scars. It leaves your entire soul empty, like there is nothing left inside, like you are just hollow. And, after almost 14 years of marriage, I decided to do something about it.
I started counseling – a fact that I have to keep hidden because he is against anyone possibly telling me I am right. He doesn’t want anyone telling me that I don’t expect too much, that a divorce is a good thing for me, that maybe I will find out I am not the crazy one. I also started antidepressants. Generally, I am against medication. I have never been one to take something unless it is absolutely necessary, but I can’t keep crying every single day. I am proud of myself that I swallowed the pride, the shame, the “holy shit, this girl is crazy” in order to let someone else help me help myself. It seems so simple, and yet, it is so huge for me. It gives me hope.
Hope – I don’t think I remember the last time I had hope that the person I used to be still existed. My counselor told me the other day that that person – I am still her. She may be pushed aside because of emotions or circumstance but I AM STILL HER and I can get her back. I think those words sealed the deal for me that I was doing the right thing. I think maybe I just needed someone else to believe that I wasn’t a lost cause.
I hope that I am strong enough to leave. I know it will be hard and I am sure that my life will be a living hell for leaving but then, it is a living hell now. I dread going home. There are days where I sit in my car for a few minutes (as long as I can before my 3 year old realizes Mommy is home!) and convince myself that I have to go in. I have to suck it up, put on a brave face, and be prepared to deal with whatever he decides to throw at me today. How can leaving be any worse than that?
Maybe I really am the crazy one. As I type these words, I wonder if it’s crazy to have to make yourself strong enough to leave. I wonder if it’s crazy to work on yourself so you can leave your husband. All I know is that right now, at this moment, I am reclaiming myself, the woman I used to be. I am reclaiming that I am an individual outside of my marriage. Most of all, I am reclaiming the fact that I have worth.
I hope I succeed.
by Band Back Together | Mar 12, 2014 | Bipolar Disorder, Caregiver, Compassion, Hope, Love, Loving Someone With Bipolar Disorder, Marriage Problems, Single Parenting, Special Needs Parenting, Teen Bipolar Disorder, Therapy |
I admitted my 10 year old son to a psychiatric hospital Wednesday night.
My son is mentally ill.
For years, I have apologized to people for who my son is. His behaviors or quirks were something that were spoken about quietly, like they were something to be embarrassed of – Like WE were embarrassed of him.
For years, I have defended myself, made excuses for a multitude of things – his medications, the therapies he receives, the fight for Special Education services, the way I choose to parent and discipline him.
Today, all of this stops. My son D is who he is. My job as his mom is to provide the best care for him that I can, to the best of my knowledge. I am not a sheep – being blindly led by psychiatrists and therapists. I do my research, and I am well educated about his associated Alphabet Soup diagnoses. He HAS to have medicine to function. I don’t let the staff at his school run over me at his Individualized Education Program (IEP) meetings. I am on staff at his school, plus I know the laws regarding special education.
D got the shitty end of the deal when it came to genetics. See, I understand the raging in his mind, and the lows where all you want to do is hide from the world in a closet. I have Bipolar Disorder, Type 1. So does his birth father. I am compliant on my medications. It took me 8 years to finally get it right. There were times I almost lost everything – my family, my job, my mind. I am grateful for those who stuck with me through the good times and the really dark, ugly times.
Everyone knows at least one person who suffers from mental illness. One in FOUR people in America suffer from some sort of mental illness. Yet, there still is a stigma.
Today, for my D and me – this WILL STOP. No longer will I apologize for his behavior to strangers in public because he is on overload or having a meltdown. I will no longer listen to people tell me that my child is on too much medicine. I will not let people tell me I baby him when I choose to talk him down from a rage rather than “spank that ass.” I will keep fighting for his equal treatment at school. He has a mental illness, but he is a bright, smart boy. I will love my child for who he is, not for what others think he should be. I will not listen to negative ex-husbands telling me that I am doing it wrong, when he is only with D four days a month and only is “Dad” when he wants to be.
Today the stigma will stop. Follow me on my and my family’s journey.
Peace.
by Band Back Together | Feb 17, 2014 | Autism, Child Sexual Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Domestic Abuse, How To Cope With A Suicide, Incarceration, Murder, Suicide |
I don’t know where to begin. Too much has happened in my life, it even seems unreal to me at times. My coping mechanisms are different than most people because I have Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID for short. I will try to be as clear as I can about the events while protecting myself from the grief.
The first trauma – I was sexually abused by an older brother from ages of 5 until 9. That is when my DID began. When I was 9 years old, my mom committed suicide. Her suicide had 2 lasting effects on my life- 1st, it sent my abuser away to live in another state and 2nd, it formed a wall inside of me that will always and forever prevent me from taking my own life.
My twin brother and I went to live with our paternal grandparents. It was not always easy there. I don’t think or believe the same as the rest of my relatives, so while not exactly worthy of outright hate, I was not worthy of unconditional love either. I tried to earn love and respect by getting good grades in school, but that only seemed to alienate me further. My grandparents were hard working farmers and completely illiterate. I would keep my mouth shut, so my “book learnin” wasn’t quite so obvious.
It wasn’t that they didn’t care, I think they just didn’t know how to respond to me. They felt uncomfortable with me. I loved them anyway.
My dad was a truck driver. He drove “cross country,” so he wasn’t home much. Once, he was gone for 2 years. I used to sit on Grandma’s front porch and wait for him, hope in my heart for the slim chance of him coming home. When he did arrive, he would flood my twin brother with gifts and stories. I would get a hug and a pat on the head. I wanted to sit on his lap, to hear the stories, to ride in the “big rig” with him like my twin. I still don’t understand how being a girl made me unequal. I needed him to love me the way he loved my brother, but that would never be the case.
After I was married, he came to my house looking for my twin. He had not yet met my newborn son. I begged him to come in. I would make coffee, we could wait together for my brother to come home. He stood at the door and said he would come back when my brother was home. I shut the door, slid down to the floor and cried. Why was I so unlovable? Why was I not worth an hour of his time? After that, I decided that I was done begging for his attention. I had my own issues to worry about.
My husband was abusive. I left him when my son was 6 yrs old. I moved in with someone I met online, a terrible decision because he was not good for me or my son. I left him too, and quickly found myself living in my dad’s basement.
I went to college, earned all A’s and a degree, and met a wonderful man. He does not abuse me in any way, and I finally felt loved for the first time ever.
My son was 15 by then. He had undiagnosed autism and an IQ of only 72, but we tried so very hard to create a safe and loving home for him. Sometimes it was really difficult, he was rebellious towards my boyfriend, never wanting to listen to him. I cringed every time I heard him say, “You’re not my dad.” We worked to try to make things better.
When my son was 19 years old, he came home from school one day and told me he had met a wonderful girl and wanted to date her. The problem was she was only 14. Her parents were divorced. I spoke with her mom, and she was alright with the situation. I never heard from the girl’s father, figuring I would get the chance at some point because he welcomed my son over to his place once or twice.
It was early morning on a Friday. I went to check on my son. There was no answer when I knocked on his door. I open his door a crack. It smelled like old socks because he never cleans it, but he was not in bed. His backpack was gone. I figured he must have gotten himself off to the school bus by himself, unusual, but I was happy about it. I spent the day dreaming of the wedding I hoped to be planning with my boyfriend soon.
When my boyfriend arrived home, I realized that my son was not home from school yet. I told myself he was probably at his girlfriend’s house having dinner, so I had my boyfriend call over there. At first, my boyfriend was silent, then he stood up and turned on the TV. There on the news, was a picture of my son and his girlfriend. The caption on the picture said, “Man, 19, kills 14 year old girlfriend’s father.”
In that moment, I lost everything that I had ever held dear, my hopes and dreams gone, blasted away in pain, regret and remorse. What did I do wrong? How could I not know that was going to happen? I blame myself every single day …if only I knew what was happening, if only I would have done things differently …if only …IF FUCKING ONLY!!
That was 8 months ago. I have not been able to touch my only child. He does not emote very well, never has. He will go to trial in the spring. The best I can even hope for is that they will put him into a mental institution instead of a prison …but how likely is that? I don’t know. I know if you are capable of doing something like that, you need to be kept away from society. He had never been violent before, and has not been violent since. He waited for the police, admitted his guilt. He cooperated and did not flee.
My son was nearly strangled to death already. It is a painful reality that he will not do well with the rest of the prison population. He cannot read people’s emotions, and does not understand when someone is being sarcastic. His mental age is 14, and he is easy to manipulate.
My boyfriend is still with me, thankfully. My twin still talks to me, but my dad and grandparents passed away before all this happened. The rest of my family speaks ill of me because of my “different” ways of thinking. My community hates me because I am the mother of a murderer. I feel completely and utterly alone.
I am not suicidal, I won’t take that road, even after all of this, but I am not actively living now either. So, where does that leave me? I don’t know, but I don’t like it.
