I remember being at a Manager’s Meeting one day and there had been a woman murdered by her husband on the news the night before. The Manager’s were discussing how there had been a history of violence with the husband but the wife continued to take him back.
There was one Manager that as I listened to him I could feel my face growing hot. I could hear blood rushing in my ears. What he was saying was so insulting, so sexist, and never should’ve been allowed at a professional meeting. But no one stopped him. His view was she must have done something wrong or liked it to stay.
None of the other Manager’s knew about my past. I wasn’t exactly eager to tell them. Most of them viewed me as quiet and meek. I rarely spoke at meetings. This one time I had enough from this 6’1, 280 pound bully. I stood up and looked him in the eye. I quietly asked “Have you ever had someone larger than you, pin you to a floor with their knees, while they repeatedly punched you in the face until you felt you were drowning in your own blood?” He said no. I said “I hope you never do.”. The conversation ended there.
He wasn’t the only one to feel that way. My own family never understood why I continued to go to J’s. They hated him and everyone who went there. Even when I stopped going there and was just at W’s house they didn’t like it and thought W was the problem.
I can’t sit here and blame everyone else 100%. I have a Mental Illness that went undiagnosed for far too long. I am the product of 2 alcoholics but no one put a gun to my head and forced me to drink. I chose to. W couldn’t have stopped me. She did try. I was going to destroy myself regardless.
I did fall into that small percentage with one person where I thought if I loved him enough, if I gave him whatever he wanted or needed, he would change. It never happens.
I need to say in all seriousness that no amount of prayer or gospel is going to heal me. It is gibberish to me. I find it insulting when I’m sent Evangelical propaganda having to do with Mental Illness, Domestic Abuse, or Child Abuse.
I don’t want to be disrespectful. Everyone has a right to their own opinion and beliefs. I just don’t want to be flooded with them.
Everyone has an opinion about abuse. I don’t want to get into that. Here is what happened in a shorter version and the consequences because of it.
I became an alcoholic at 17. I was an undiagnosed Bipolar person and also had severe social phobia and anxiety. I hated myself and had trouble in social situations. Alcohol made me numb to any pain I was feeling and I didn’t care who I talked to or what anyone thought about me. The more I drank the more I had to surround myself with people who drank like me. This brought me to places filled with mostly men who had been in and out of prison, were a lot older than me, and were not the nicest of people. The more embarrassing things that would happen to me or I would do at the place I drank the more I drank to make it go away. If someone touched me without my permission but I was too drunk to say or do anything I would think “It’s your own fault. You put yourself in that situation. Deal with it.”. I would deal with it by drinking more and sometimes showing bursts of anger myself. I would also hurt myself. I felt I belonged with them. I didn’t deserve better in life. I had felt that way from the age of 12/13. When you have felt that way for so long there is pretty much nothing that will change your mind.
When the last and I think the most violent act occurred, I finally never went back. My feelings about myself never changed. I did have a new hatred inside of me that I didn’t like.
Those years left me with not only physical scars but psychological scars that are hidden deep inside. I have memories my brain will not let me access because they would be too much for me. Instead these “traumatic” memories come out in physical ways. Stuttering, tremors, startling easily and crying. That’s everyday anyway but when my father starts to slam doors and yell “Goddamn!” it reaches a very high level. I’ve dropped things at the grocery store because of a man’s voice in the next aisle. I often leave if I hear too many deep male voices, there are also too many bright lights, and it’s a new place.
It isn’t a fun way to live. Part of me wishes I knew exactly what the cause is. Part of me is frightened to death it’s something I won’t be able to live with. What my brain plays over and over is bad enough if there’s worse I can’t imagine what it would do to me and my family.