“Abuse Me!”

“Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, ‘Abuse me?’” she asked.

In a sense, she did. Her actions, her body language, and her words betrayed that in her deepest self she was accustomed to the role of victim.

She had been married 40 years to a husband who abused her sexually, physically, and emotionally. He told her she was incompetent, laughed at her decisions, and belittled her. Though she was successful in her job, he denigrated her accomplishments both at home and at work.

He controlled everything: the clothes on her back, the handbags she carried, the length of her fingernails, the height of her hair, and her weight. He took her paycheck and decorated the house in his taste, not hers. When he gave her money to buy clothes for the children, he demanded sex in return.

This woman’s religion does not allow divorce, so she lived with him, bearing his abuse, until she began receiving social security. At age 65 she moved halfway across the country to get away from him.

Using her social security income, she moved into a small subsidized apartment in Central Texas. Though her money was tight, she managed.

She bought a used car and began to maintain it. Each step she took, his voice of derision resounded inside her. She learned to take action anyway, and with each risk, each success, she replaced his words with her own experience of accomplishment.

He begged her to return to him. He sent flowery holiday cards that repulsed her with their insincerity. She cut up the cards and pasted them into a homemade card of her own that put her memories of abuse alongside the platitudes of the cards. She sent the cards to him; he stopped sending cards.

Her grown children criticized her decision to separate from her husband, their father. It was years before she could convince them that she wouldn’t return to visit them and their children until she could be sure they wouldn’t force her to see her husband.

This woman had chosen to move to Texas to be near to other family members. One day she came in with the question: “Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, ‘Abuse me.’” She had figured out that a family member was using abusive words and actions in an attempt to control her. Once she identified the pattern, she was able to change the relationship.

She continues to live in her cozy apartment beautifully decorated on a shoestring. Though they are still married, she has not seen her husband. She reports that she enjoys life now, especially hanging out at her the pool, reading, cooking, and taking on projects to improve her home. She is no longer abused because she just won’t tolerate it.

Written by HCWC counselor about a HCWC client, age 65

Don’t Ask Why

If you ever walked a day in her shoes,

If you ever suffered the perpetual and insurmountable pain and anguish of having your children deceitfully and maliciously ripped from your heart and isolated from you,

If you ever had to cry yourself to sleep night after night over the once-in-a-lifetime events and childhood experiences that were so selfishly stolen from you,

If you ever experienced the guilt and helplessness of wondering what you could have done differently, what more you could have done,

If you ever watched your most trusted and cherished friends and family suddenly abandon you and incomprehensibly not only condone but contribute to your injustice,

If you ever looked in the mirror and wondered what happened to the innocent, trusting, happy person with hopes and dreams who used to occupy this brittle, empty shell,

If you ever walked a day in her shoes,

You would never, ever again ask

“Why does she stay?”

Written April 24, 2008
By HCWC client, age 53

Point and Counterpoint

The bitterness and frustration weigh heavily

Bringing me to the point of lethargy.

I long for the fulfillment of music

But it does not grow within.

It will not even wither and die.

It only lies dormant, waiting.

Waiting to be born –

For a birth that will never come.

I feel the warmth of encircling arms,

The strength of someone on which to lean.

Yet there is only emptiness.

The times of sharing are past.

I stand alone.

I curse the very strength for which I am admired.

I am tired.

I want to lie down and rest.

The face returns – ever turning, changing.

It will not settle for there is no foundation

Or it is buried too deeply to be found.

The truth does not set me free;

It binds me deeper to myself.

More layers are added and I sink deeper.

The sun shines only on the outside;

Even the moon is a dark one.

Laughter fills empty space

And always before me is that taunting face.

Words fall on empty ears.

There is no power to express

The overwhelming spiraling depth –

The agony without the ecstasy.

But tomorrow there will be the smiles,

The idle chatter of an over-full mind.

And no one will ever really know

The void they cover.

I will not let them see.

A portion perhaps, but never the whole.

Never! It is not acceptable.

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Because I have shut the door

And only I possess the key.

Written by Sharon, Age 41

Private. Keep Out. Abuse in Progress.

Among the locals there were stories of a naked woman wandering on rural ranch land, far from a house, far from the nearest town, and far from the state of Texas. It was a joke among the locals, but not to her. Not only was she being abused, but people in the community knew of the abuse and did nothing about it.

This woman’s married life had been a dramatic saga of victimization. It was her husband who stripped her naked and dropped her off in the middle of vast prairie, leaving her to pick her way back to their ranch home. For years he isolated, tortured and terrorized her. No form of abuse was off limits: physical, sexual, emotional, financial, verbal, and psychological. She served as his constant target. He fathered a child with her, then abused them both.

Her husband knew she wanted to leave the ranch. To keep her trapped, he took the batteries out of ranch vehicles, hid the saddles and reigns for the horses, destroyed the bicycle, and told the mail carrier not to stop because she was “crazy”. Once, the mail carrier veered around her as she stood in the road, waving her hands in the air to stop him. When she was occasionally allowed to go to town, she had to go alone to ensure that she’d return for her child. Finally she did leave—alone. She still grieves for the abuse her 3-year-old child endured as a result of her decision.

This woman--alone and homeless and damaged from years of abuse--contacted a local women’s center for help. She had no money, no place to live, no possessions, no friends, or family, no job, and no will to live. She received housing, counseling, and legal support for efforts to regain custody and get a divorce. Even though she worked through the legal system, and even though her husband’s abuse history was well known in the community, still the court awarded custody to him. He continued to abuse the child.

Her husband died before the divorce was final, and the courts then required her to let their child visit her husband’s relatives. There the child was again abused.

Eventually, she moved to Texas, far from the scenes of her degradation.

Though her husband is now dead, his multitudes of abuse remain in her, as her. “I just want to make it go away,” she says.

Not likely.

Healing from severe abuse and learning to create a healthy life for herself and her little family—well, it’s a huge challenge. She inherited some money after her husband’s death and used it to buy a house. She never wants to be homeless again.

Recently she received two boxes stuffed with documents that represent years of past legal efforts to regain her child. The papers bring back old emotions, including grief for the loss of everyday moments she expected to share with her young child

Today, this family is actively involved in the work of recovery. At age 42, Mom is in college, on her way to a degree. She and her child have long attended individual and group counseling. Many days she fights her way through depression; she fights on behalf of her child. On one level she knows she cannot make the past go away, but works to heal massive old wounds. In daily life with her family, she’s struggles to look forward rather than back.

Written by HCWC counselor about an HCWC client, Age 42

A Tribute

I sink to my knees in tearful prayer

Begging forgiveness for I know not what.

The pain almost unbearable,

A silent scream escapes my lips.

The world passes by unaware.

My soul is shattered, my heart broken.

Trust is utterly destroyed.

Adoring love is met with cold brutality.

The foundation of life eroded away,

I reach out and find only emptiness.

Full retreat, shutters closed.

I sink into darkness.

Agonizing silence.

Stark loneliness.

I grow smaller and smaller.

Then the gentle touch,

And a soft voice whispers,

I am here – for the duration.

I know your pain.

I have walked your path.

Walk with me and talk with me.

Together we will face your demons.

Hand in hand we will conquer your fears.

It will be a long, hard journey,

But you are no longer alone.

Whose hand touched you, you ask.

It was yours. You touched me and lifted me.

Whose voice did you hear?

It was yours – sharing your story.

You gave me strength to slowly open the doors.

Thank you for having the courage to share.

Thank you for having the strength to come each time.

Thank you for caring enough to listen.

Thank you for giving me hope.

Thank you for being you.

Written by Sharon, age 61

A Child Came

A child came to you

Arms outstretched, palms up,

Pleading in her eyes,

Love in her heart,

Her soul battered and bruised.

A tear rolled down her cheek,

And your gentle hands wiped it away.

Her trembling body

Was wrapped in the strength of your arms

And, at long last, she felt safe.

She laughed again

And she played.

Her smile brought the sun.

The deep wounds began to heal.

Her love for you was overwhelming.

But then the clouds came.

They shut out the sun.

Now the eyes held fear,

The laughter was silent,

And the trembling returned.

Words of ridicule and hatred rained down.

Hands rose and fell in anger.

Her eyes now asked, “Why?”

A tear rolled down her cheek.

A slap swept it away.

A child came to you….

Written by Sharon, Age 62

The Shots: Homicide and Suicide, Despair and Hope

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, embracing her, drawing her to him as he had so many times before. “Sorry Baby. I have to do this,” he said, pulling her closer.

She saw the gun in his free hand and recoiled slightly. That quick, small turn saved her heart. The bullet pierced her side and lodged near her back. Bleeding and scared, she ran across the street for help.

He took the gun to the bedroom where their two boys had been sleeping. She doesn’t know everything he said to them, but he did tell them to close their eyes before he shot them, then himself. He died sprawled over his sons.

Their 8-year-old boy died. Their three-year-old survived after dying and being brought to life on the operating table of the local hospital. He is physically damaged for life.

Domestic violence had lived in this family for years, causing numerous break-ups followed by get-togethers. A divorce was finally becoming a reality when he chose the gun as a solution. “I didn’t see it coming,” she says. They hadn’t owned a gun and she doesn’t know where it came from.

She’d heard reports of him drinking in solitude in the local bar instead of hanging with his usual buddies. Friends said he was having a hard time.

She wants everyone to know that he was not a bad person. “He loved his kids,” she says. “He was irresponsible as a parent, but he loved his boys. I know that he loved me too.”

It’s now been over a year. Mother and son cope. He gets professional help: physical therapy, speech therapy, and occupational therapy. They both see counselors.

Scars remain. The child asks for his brother, his father. While she wants to know more about the last few minutes of her firstborn’s life, she’s careful not to probe or push too hard on her youngest child’s memories. What should she do with the anger she feels towards her husband?

She is trying to move on with her life, but questions of suicide are on her mind. She still has bad days, even with support from her religious life, from her family, from her friends. What were the final words her son heard before he died? Did he know she loved him? How could her husband do such a thing?

New life is growing inside her, bringing memories of her first pregnancy. She is in a stable relationship with a loving man. She says she doesn’t want to marry again. Determined to create a good life for her son, she endures, pushes ahead through sheer willpower. Scars from the bullets remain on her body and soul.

Written by a HCWC counselor about a HCWC client, age 27

Vigilant--Evermore

Her soul mate turned killer, and she was his prey.

They were married 21 years, and many of them were wonderful years, years she looks back on with nostalgia for the goodness and for the unexpected, miracle child born when they didn’t think they could have children.

She remembers that the day she became pregnant, he changed. He stopped sleeping with her. He stayed drunk and high on drugs. He quit his job and refused to go back to work the entire time she was pregnant and for the first years of their child’s life.

She was in shock. Along with the challenges of a first baby—little sleep and a post-partum body in recovery from pregnancy—they were in financial crisis. So she went to work when the baby was 4 weeks old.

He was responsible for the baby while she was working. But one day she came home to find the baby under the bed, its head caught in the open box springs, and her husband passed out on top the bed.

He verbally abused her and the abuse increased after their child was born. He accused her of being an incompetent mother. His approach to child-rearing was to treat his toddler as a best friend. She knew the child needed a father. The tension grew.

This family of three lived in her inherited mobile home on family property. Very suddenly one day, she sensed that death was coming. She left, taking their child, the child’s night-night Barney, a basket of laundry and $200 set aside for the house payment. Her vehicle was not street-legal, she had no job, and no real plan. She reached a relative who put her and her child in a motel room for the night.

She got a protective order and started divorce proceedings. She and her child moved back into the mobile home. Her husband stalked her, vandalized her vehicle, and lit fires around the mobile home while they were asleep inside. He continued drinking and drugging, and was in and out of jail. He finally broke into the house and was apprehended by the police, went to jail and received a 10-years sentence for a first-time felony.

Support from HCWC helped this client put her life in order. She got a job, set up a home, and bought a car. She has been committed to learning new skills through counseling, both as an individual and as a member of a support group. Children’s counseling helped correct behavior her child had learned as a result of living with an alcoholic parent.

Eventually, this client met a wonderful man and married again. After nine years of marriage, when that man abused her, she knew what to do. Though shaken, she still left, and she took along her self-esteem, a vehicle, a job, and knowledge of how to set up a household for herself and her child. She says today that her only mistake was to minimize the verbal abuse she experienced the past few years in this relationship.

Story written by HCWC Counselor about HCWC client Robin, Age 38

The Evolving Me

As I slip through the shadows

Escaping into darkness and returning again in ecstasy,

The face dances tauntingly before me.

It is a void and empty face

That beckons me deeper inward.

The faceless form laughs and threatens, pleads and curses.

I am of a grayness encircling me,

But the face is all that I see.

I glance away, and it becomes enraged;

I retreat once and it rushes insanely after me.

It races ahead in temerity;

Yet, it always returns to dance its seductive dance.

I become locked in limbo

As the face is engulfed by the faceless serpent

Who laughs and taunts as it swallows the face.

I watch – the laughing face dissolves into the serpent

And darkness becomes entity.

Written by Sharon, Age 20

A Small Glory

I have but one small glory,

While others have great ones for each day.

My small glory is like a ray of sunlight

Sent from God to open a once dead rose.

While to others it may mean nothing at all,

To me that one small glory is the best thing in the world.

It doesn’t happen very often,

And sometimes not at all.

It’s seldom great, but always small.

It seems to encourage me from day unto day

To live for a cause that is sometime beyond the reach of others.

It goes beyond that wall of nothing

And reaches out into that valley of all valleys

Made of nothing more than glory and beauty.

To me my small glory is the most beautiful thing in the world.

It sometimes means little,

But always something, large or small.

To me it is like an unalienable right

That nobody can take away from me.

I really know not what it is,

But it is there somewhere beneath my heart.

It may be made of one or a dozen things,

But it is there somewhere beneath my heart.

Sharon, age 13