Child Abuse Story of Healing and Recovery From Zaria

by Zaria
(Location Undisclosed)

I can't remember not being afraid. The one memory I have of my biological father was him leaning over my baby sister's crib and my mother frantically pulling him away. I was three at the time. Years later I learned he had tried to stab her in a drunken rage. She divorced him shortly after that. Unfortunately she got out of a relationship with a monster only to marry a demon a short time later. I hadn't turned four yet and all the sudden a new "daddy" had replaced the old one.

The physical and emotional abuse was there from the beginning. He "taught" me how to tie my shoes by striking my hands repeatedly with a small tree branch until I got it right. The words b***h, whore, and c**t were part of his regular vocabulary. Though I didn't understand what those words meant until I was older, I did know they were bad words.

He started touching me when I was seven. I had already learned not to sleep until he went to bed. I never knew when he would decide the house wasn't clean enough and drag me out of bed to clean for hours until just before my mother came home from the graveyard shift. I was only seven and already knew how to function on five hours of sleep a night.

That night I was laying there pretending to sleep, listening intently on his footsteps as he headed down the hall. Would he turn to his room or continue straight to mine? He continued straight. I forced myself to relax and slow my breathing. If he knew I was awake and waiting for him, the beatings were worse. I waiting for what seemed like forever for him to turn on the light and drag me out of bed...but the light stayed off. I was so confused I almost forgot to monitor my body and my breathing. By the time I got back to my rhythms, he was touching me. I stayed perfectly still, concentrating on my body and breathing while screaming in my head. I didn't exactly understand what was going on but I knew it was bad. It seemed to go on forever and then he left. I laid there silently crying into my pillow (something I rarely did due to the extreme danger of showing emotions) and wondered what was worse, the beatings or the touching. I never could answer that question.

Within six months I learned to function on 20 hours of sleep or less a week. At first hallucinations were a problem but after a while, they faded. I never did have a psychotic break. I couldn't...I had to survive. In a way I guess I was lucky.

When I was ten, I was in the car with my mother going home from somewhere when she suddenly pulled over. She began crying and told me that he raped her. I didn't know what exactly that was but I knew it was bad and it was sort of what he was doing to me. She then told said: "I want you to promise me that you will protect your sisters no matter what. I'm not strong enough to do it but I know you can." I promised.

As the years went on, the beatings and touchings progressed to rape and torture. I used my body to keep him from hurting my little sisters. If he went after one of them I would throw myself in front of her and take the beating. It didn't matter to me. I no longer felt pain at that point. In fact, I didn't feel much of anything other than the desire to protect my sisters. Sometimes I failed...I didn't get there in time...and I felt horrible about it. I would stop him from using the full brunt of his rage by offering my body up as a sacrifice. "Stop hitting her and I'll go to the bedroom with you." He would follow me to the room he shared with my mother like an excited puppy. Once there I would strip down and do what was required.

It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered really. I didn't realize how separated I had become from "the body" until I was washing dishes one day and noticed blood dripping from my hands. I had cut myself washing a knife and didn't notice. I was more fascinated than frightened. I cut myself a few more times...nothing...then I wondered what would happen if I cut deeper...

Suicide was constantly on my mind after that. I am living proof you can die in your dreams and wake up. I have died in my dreams six times...three at my own hand.

It ended the year after my sixteenth birthday. A daughter of his from a previous marriage came to visit. She saw what was happening and demanded my mother do something about it. Next thing I know, the cops were taking him away.

For years I had nightmares and suicidal thoughts. Even marriage and two children did nothing to alleviate them. I was lucky in marriage. My husband only hit me twice and constantly insulted me. It was heaven...though I still didn't sleep more than 20 hours a week. Partly due to the nightmares and partly due to my husband keeping me awake with his insults.

In the fourth year of marriage I was attending a free workshop for women. We were talking about choices and how they affect us. I only said that growing up, I had no choices about anything, including my body. The instructor clued in and after class she told me about a book called Courage to Heal. Before I knew it, I was on the road to healing...though I didn't know it at the time.

I divorced my husband a year later and gave him custody of my sons. He has always been a good father. It's odd to say it, but it's true. My boys are adults now, in college and have a bright future ahead of them.

It was a long painful road to healing but worth every step. Oh I stumbled...I stumbled a lot. I probably would have done better if I had access to a therapist but since that wasn't an option due to lack of insurance I had no choice but to do as I've always done...go it alone.

After Courage to Heal, I found a book called Scream Louder about a woman healing from incest. Then I found the Courage to Heal workbook. After years of climbing out of the pit I was in, I finally saw light and realized I didn't HAVE to be a victim! All the horror I went through didn't HAVE to weigh me down, poison me and eventually kill me. I could feel all that pain and not let it overwhelm me. I could acknowledge the sexual abuse and not be overwhelmed with shame and guilt. I could say this happened to me but it does not, WILL NOT define me. I am not a victim. I am a SURVIVOR.

I am happily married now to a kind, loving man.

My ex has gone through his own therapy and is now in a happy, nurturing relationship. I was his inspiration to get help. Imagine that?

My boys were never abused. I was the first to break the cycle. Abuse ran all the down the family line until I decided to end it. They are healthy and happy. They do know I'm a survivor but that's all. They can't imagine what I went through and that warms my heart to no end.

My mother and baby sister also got help and are in happy healthy relationships. Sadly, my middle sister is still a victim and has refused all offers for help but we all hope that she too will see the light.

As a friend of my once said: As long as you can draw breath, there is always hope.

---

Note from Darlene: If I have not left a comment on your story, please understand that it is not personal; it's just that my hectic schedule no longer permits me to do so.

I hope you'll follow me on:


Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in submissions and visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited. Please don't include them, as they will be removed.