Child Abuse Story From Joy

by Joy
(Arkansas, USA)

I am currently in therapy and chose to finally open the lid on accepting that I was abused as a child. I am confused because currently, I feel love for and from my parents. I also feel frustration and anger, but also forgiveness and compassion. If they cross a boundary now or say something hurtful, I call them on it. But I am grappling with the experiences of childhood. And if I went through the experiences I'll list below, how could I feel so loving?

What started me off with relooking is whenever I talk about things that happened in my childhood, good, bad or indifferent, my mom will say things like: "I don't know whose childhood you grew up in?" My parents always claim having no memory of what I bring up.

Recently, I turned it around and asked, "Mom and Dad, why don't you tell me what you do remember about me." They were silent. I prompted them more. "Dad, where were you when I was born? What was I like as a child?" Long silences.

Finally, my mom said, "I remember when you were constantly at your friend's house. You thought they were your family."

My dad finally said, "I remember when you were 17, and we were in Greece." And then he changed the subject to his travels. That's it. That's all I got for validation as having existed from my parents. I think that hurts me more than the physical stuff.

This is what I remember:

Seeing my younger sister being spanked for not using the toilet at 2 years old or younger.

At 5 years old, being lined up and whipped on the hand with a belt if we didn't say who put their feet on the couch. After my older siblings got hit I said, "I did it" even though I didn't, to avoid getting hit. It was so confusing because he was hitting us to learn to tell the truth. And I lied to not get hit.

When I was 8 years old, Mom (who was working) made arrangements for me to go to a gymnastic lesson at 9 a.m. with a neighbor. Obediently, I went. Upon returning, my father asked if I did my Saturday chores. I hadn't yet. I made a face he didn't like..????...was slapped in the face, got a bloody nose and was sent to the room for the rest of the day. No lunch. When Mom got back, I was reprimanded for not explaining it right to my dad.

It is easier for me to remember the physical abuse of my father, mostly towards my siblings.

I learned how to stay invisible.

The memories of my mom are more vague. I remember the weapons of choice. The wooden spoon, spatula, butter knife, shoe, whatever was in her hand at the time. My head remembers having my hair pulled. Even though I see the weapon coming, I go blank about the being hit part. I know I was about to be hit. I know my siblings got hit.

I remember hearing:
"Your skin is so sallow."
"You have dark rings under your eyes."
"Your hair is too frizzy."
"You're too skinny."
All of which I translated to: "You're so ugly."

I feel the flinch of ducking with certain stimuli.

I remember the sounds of my siblings getting bashed.
Sometimes I think I still carry their pain.

I remember being called stupid by my brother. And his hands around my neck, squeezing so hard, choking me, until my sister pulled him off of me.

A few weeks ago, I told my mom I was looking at these issues. She said she and my father weren't abusive. I said it felt abusive and hurtful to me. She didn't apologize, but she was able to say, "It must be healing for you to say this to me." I brought up my memories of her weapons and she said, "It was hard raising 5 kids and working full-time and having to come home and cook."

At 12, I also remember being pulled into a corner by a gymnastic coach. He held me in such a way that I couldn't get out, and then he kissed me and fondled my breasts. In hindsight, I think my friend who was there told her parents, and her mom started to keep me at her house as much as possible after that.

I don't remember ever holding my dad's hand when I was young. I can't remember ever having one on one time with my dad doing something for me until I was 17, and he took me shoe shopping once and out to lunch. I do remember going with him to the hardware store and other errands of his on Saturdays.

Recently using my active imagination, I realized how much my life was like Jack and the Bean Stalk. My dad is a giant that grinds bones. My mom is passive aggressive, like Jack stealing the Giants golden eggs. And I'm the magic beans discarded as not valuable. But I still grow, like the Bean Stalk, and when Jack (my mom) chops me down, I grow back.

I have always felt loved even if their love wasn't safe or nurturing.

I am wanting to heal, and to open more deeply to my power and take my shamanic healing gifts to a broader use.

Darlene, I appreciate the integrity of this website and the opportunity to write for the first time and speak my truth. I know it's long, but I realize I am not the writing type, so I committed to putting it here now.

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