to be aware of an abused child: my story, part 1

How many awareness posts have you read this month? April seems to be a big one. Autism. Month of the Military Child. Sexual Assault. Even distracted driving gets some awareness this month.

Did you know that it’s also Child Abuse Awareness month?

It’s true. And I actually haven’t seen too many posts on the subject. So, if you don’t mind, I thought I’d contribute one.

First let me warn you that this might get a little lengthy. I’m just going to start typing and let the words land where they are. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve written, deleted, rewritten, edited, deleted, and written this post. Or my thoughts on the topic. Why? It’s difficult for me to talk about. I’m sharing my personal story. One I’ve only talked about with a very small amount of people. I can name them all on one hand. There are probably family members who will read this post and flat out call me a liar. There are close friends of mine who will read this, probably in complete disbelief.

What went on in my house behind closed doors pretty much stayed behind closed doors. I can only name two times that I remember that my mother lashed out in front of people. The first time I was four years old. That was also my first bloody nose. Growing up she’d retell the story, but of course it was tailored in such a way that she was the real victim in the situation. We were at a church function for divorced parents. She felt under pressure for whatever reason. She was trying to get a kite up in the air and as she ran to get it launched I followed behind crying and screaming because… I just wanted the kite. Stress. Stress got to her. And she reacted with a full blown adult backhand to a four year old face.

Stress.

I’m not making excuses for her or saying that a certain emotional overload makes it all ok. I am saying, however, I kinda get it. Though, it seemed she was stressed a lot. She was always stressed on the weekends my step-brother and step-sister came over. Stressed over work. Stressed in an unhappy marriage. Stressed over family. Stressed. And when we’re stressed we all need to release it, right? She did. I have been slapped, backhanded, kicked, dragged down the stairs by my feet so my face it every stair on the way down, and pinned down and beat. I remember my breaking point where I began to laugh at her instead of dodge her hits. When she’d no longer see me cry over the pain.

My abuse wasn’t just physical, either. Though, it took looking back as an adult and mother to see the extensive emotional and mental abuse. In my almost-mid-thirties I’m just now finally getting confidence in myself, who I am as a person, and even my looks. When you grow up never being good enough, it’s a hard thing to kick. Every single ‘when I grow up I want to be…’ dream I had and shared was knocked down with a, ‘you’re not smart enough for college, you barely get by now. Besides, it takes a lot of years for that kind of degree. You won’t like it’, or something along those lines, just varied depending on the latest dream.
When I wanted to talk about my feelings, what I was really doing was once again being the victim. Always the martyr. ‘When are you going to grow up and stop all of this bullshit?’

Yeah. Believe me there’s more details to it all than that, but I’m trying my hardest to not turn this in to a 3000 word post. You get the idea.

So. Why didn’t anyone ever notice? My best friend growing up remembers how she, ‘could be a real bitch sometimes, but pull it off with a sharp business smile… I never really felt comfortable around her’. But most people who knew me and had met my mother would say that, in their opinion, she was an upstanding lady. I can tell you that she had a presence to her that was bold, knowledgeable,  and demanding of respect. In zero-point-two-nine seconds she could make you feel about as small as an ant. So, without really realizing it, but to look back now it’s clear, many people were intimidated by her. And you do immediately speak up to those who intimidate you? Not usually. And what about me? My appearance? Where were the bruises?
Mostly, hidden. I rarely wore shorts. Always jeans. Surprisingly, I never remember my face bruising. It was almost like she’d perfected her backhand into a non-bruising art form. Considering the impactful blow, that’s actually a bit impressive.

What about my behavior? Don’t those who are severely troubled at home act out? Maybe. But what signs are you looking for? I can give you two of mine that, again looking back now, should have maybe been taken a bit more seriously. The first one is a mild trait. Actually, probably pretty average. I craved attention. I was always talking in class. Sometimes the class goofball. Never rude, but none the less it was still a disruption. Which, naturally, just annoys teachers. So you become the kid that they roll their eyes at when you enter the room at the beginning of class, not the kid that should maybe get a closer glance. Never the kid to want to worry over.

The second was more of a moment, an incident, than a trait. I was in middle school. In front of me sat this kid who aggravated me to the core. His voice, his obnoxious curls, the dumb things he talked about. Everything about him made my teeth clench. For once there was a kid that talked more in class than I did, but since I’d already made a name for myself I was the one to get in trouble. Every. Single. Time. And I hated it. Well, on this one particular day there he was. Bugging me. Over. And over. And over. And over. No matter how many times I asked him to leave me along, he wouldn’t. Of course I’d already been asked to stop disrupting class, which added to the anger as I was innocent. Was. My reaction wasn’t. And while I don’t actually remember the act of reaching out and choking this kid, the fact is that I did indeed do it. Off to the guidance counselor I go. Mom gets called in. Principal gets called in. Blah blah, if you’re a parent (or ever been in school), you can probably picture the scene. Was the actual act of what I’d done the focus of discussion? No. Mostly my overall behavior, but yes the moment and my ‘emotional outcry’ was discussed. And what do you suppose the reason for my problems were? ‘Oh, well, I’m divorced and her father isn’t really a big part of her life. I’ve noticed a lot of problems stemming from that. And, her step-dad recently had a heart attack so things have been a little chaotic lately.’ And there you have it folks. No matter what or when or how or who, the answer was always, 1) product of an absentee father/divorce, and 2) step-dad/step-siblings. And I guess that was enough for everyone, because whenever my mother had to come to school to discuss something I’d done, those were always the answers and no one ever questioned that. And, ok I guess, why should they? Maybe I was just one of those odd-ball kids that would never completely fit in or conform.

 

To review, we see that the physical evidence was never super prevalent, and environmental evidence didn’t amount to enough that would raise alarms.

So why didn’t I ever speak up?
Please come back tomorrow to read the second part of my story, to be aware of an abused child.

**** edit – 5/8/13 I have added this post to the PYHO link up.