Pillar of Salt

Sometimes, I don't know how my husband puts up with me. I've struggled lately to connect to him or anyone else, so much so that he started to think that I no longer loved him.

We talked and I told him that I felt frozen, frozen like a pillar of salt, like in the story of Lot and his wife, which by the way, I really, really hate that story because I don't think that God would have ever had one of his daughters have sex with their father. This is a scripture that can become quite twisted by people who justify sexually abusing their children. In fact, I'm sure my own father probably used this scripture for his own evil purposes. It should be stricken from the bible.

End of mini-rant and back to my story. We talked and we've both been trying harder to connect with each other, which once again proves to me that I married the right man. He is a saint in how he is willing to be patient, kind, and gentle with his bent wife. I really would not want to be married to me, yet he hangs in there and treats me with love and respect and helps me to continue the healing process.

I am thankful for this man.

"Better off Dead"

Listening to Adults talk:

“Such a shame.”

“A horrible crime.”

“Ruined.”

“Better off Dead.”

If she’d remembered then, would she have felt virginity is valued above all?

Even more so than self?

Even more than an eight-year-old's joy of trees and flowers?

Even virginity ripped away in violence instead of gifted in love or passion?

Worth more than life?

Ruined?

Am I Ruined?

Did the littles remember and hide even deeper, so they would not be, “Better off Dead?”

Or

Did she think, “If someone did that to my sister, I’d still love her, still want her here with me instead of just Dead and Still in the grave, hymen torn or missing, wasting and rotting in a ruined body.”

Isn’t the girl worth more than the act?

The strength of soul and spirit can overcome the battle, but can it overcome knowing that those who gave her life lumped her in the “Better off Dead” category without knowing she is one of who they speak?

Every fiber of her being stretches toward the Light of Life and Love.

Isn’t she worth more by coming through the Refiner’s fire, weakness burned away and replaced by compassion and hate, caring and distrust, strength and vulnerability, joy and sorrow, purity and soil, more and less, different yet the same, but mostly better off still being here?

Happy Independence Day to my Daughter revisited

Today is my daughter's telling day. I am proud of her, but I know that even though she has now made this a day to celebrate her courage, it is still a hard day for her.

I want her to know that I love her so much. I hope that her courage will lead others out of the dark secret of abuse.

I love you little twinkie!

Mom

Independence Day

The Gift

This week at school, a student brought me a gift and laid it at my feet. He gave me the gift of his trust. He trusted me with his story of abuse. I knew this gift was coming because since the first of the school year, he has been dropping little hints of what was to come in his writing. He first trusted me enough to tell me that sometimes he felt like his brain was a series of little rooms and that sometimes he just went into another room in his head. He said, “It is hard to explain, but it happens.”


Inside, I thought, “You don’t need to explain. I understand perfectly.”

He asked a few weeks ago, “If I tell you about abuse that happened a long time ago, do you have to report it?”

“Has it been resolved?” I answered.

“Yes, the person went to jail.”

“No, I don’t have to report it.”

In his written assignment that day, instead of writing the sentences I asked for, he told his story of abuse. In one paragraph, he told me things that I already knew he had been through because in my classroom he is a chameleon.
I am not a doctor or a psychologist. My experiences with DID are only my own, a few other people I love, and a lot of personal research. I can’t diagnose this beautiful child, but he certainly displays many signs of DID.

When I gave his paragraph back to him, I said, “I’m sorry this happened to you. Are things good in your life now?”

“Yes, I am safe now.”

“I’m glad you are safe.”

“When the abuse happened, I did some things I regret,” he said.

“Have you ever talked to a counselor about those things?”

“Yes, but I always forget to tell them the things I am so ashamed of. Can I talk to you after class?” he asked.

“Of course you can.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he would tell me. I didn’t have to worry about it because by the time class ended, he had already forgotten and hurried to his next class.

I knew it was time to talk to the school counselor. I told him what I knew about this child’s situation. I asked if he could call the student in and let him know that he had a safe place to talk about things.

During class today, I pulled my student aside and told him that I had spoken to the counselor.

He said, “He called me in today.”

“How did it go? Did you feel okay talking to him?”

“Yes,” he answered and added, “I really opened up to him. I think he was surprised about all the things I told him. Thank you for having him talk to me.”

“I’m glad you have a place here where you can go and talk to someone. It helps to have someone tell you that you are reacting normally to a bad situation.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “when I am watching T.V. with my dad, my mind goes somewhere else. I come back and time has passed, but I don’t know where the time has gone.”

I listen, but I know this is his journey. I also know it would be completely unsafe and unwise to discuss my DID with a student.

He asked, “Do you know any good books about time travel.”

I can see his mind trying to figure out what is happening to him when he loses time. I hope the counselor knows about DID and will help him through this.

I help him find a book about time travel and send him to his next class. Inside, I feel sorrow that this beautiful child was put on this path by an adult who should have kept him safe but instead chose to abuse him. I feel rage that someone hurt this child – this child who brightens the room with every smile. I am thankful that our school district understands how important school counselors are.

I wish I had a few moments to cry or rage or break things, but thirty-three more children are walking through the door.

My rage scares me. I know that if I had a gun and the person who hurt this child in front of me, I could gladly pull the trigger and send him/her straight to hell, and I think, “Am I any better? If I could gladly kill an offender; am I any better?”

Confusion

I always knew that my dad was not a good person. I knew he drank, did drugs, had anger management problems, was a womanizer, and was sexually inappropriate with people, but until I was 35 years old, I didn’t remember much of the abuse I suffered at his hands. I know that so far on this blog I have painted my dad with only one color on the brush – the color bad, but that isn’t the entire picture.

I think the mind of a child paints people as either good or bad – they can’t be both. As adults we realize that people have both good and bad inside of them. We base friendships on the balance of those qualities. When I started having flashbacks after Dad beat Grandma, I felt really confused. He had often told me that I was his favorite, so it made sense to me that I remembered the abuse he heaped on my sisters but not the abuse he heaped on me. When I did start remembering, I felt like my entire foundation was broken. I felt that I had loved him even when he didn’t deserve my love. I felt betrayed.

My mind could not reconcile the good I remembered in him with the horror that I was remembering now. I couldn’t understand that the man who could sit down with a six year old child and patiently teach her how to play chess could be the same man who exchanged her for money. It couldn’t be right – I must be crazy. I wanted to be crazy. The alternative was just too awful.

I remembered Dad playing in the community pool with me. He could be so much fun. He did everything large: laughed large, talked large, loved large, and had large anger. He loved to take us to the mountains. He taught us how to build a campfire by gathering pine needles and small branches to use as kindling and then putting larger pieces of wood on the fire. He always brought a watermelon and placed in the creek so that it would be cold, crisp, and ready to eat after we finished roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. On the days he came home singing, he was a bucket of fun. Granted – many of his songs were completely inappropriate for little girls’ ears, but none the less, he was fun. I loved those days of being safely on his lap with him calling me his little Bambino. One day I even faked being asleep in the car just so he would carry me inside and tenderly tuck me into bed.

I wasn’t sure what to do with the flashbacks of abuse that terrorized my life. Usually, I thought about them for a week or so before calling my older sister and saying, “You are going to think I’m crazy, but do you remember Dad ever French kissing us (or which ever other memory had surfaced)?”

“Oh, I hated it when he did that,” she replied.

"Damn, I was hoping I was just crazy. I didn’t want that to be true.”

When pregnant with my third child, I suffered complications and was on bed rest for six weeks. During that time Dad was clean and sober. He came to my house. He brought crab legs and watermelon for me to eat because one: he remembered that watermelon was my favorite food when I was little, and two: he felt like crab legs would be really good for a baby in jeopardy. I couldn’t reconcile this man with the father who didn’t care that we were starving as children, or with the man who did all the other things I have posted about on this blog.

As humans we try to classify things. We sort – we make patterns. My dad doesn’t fit a category. He is both good and bad. He is charming and anti-social. He is mean and kind. He is compassionate and narcissistic. He is generous and selfish. He defies all that I know about people. When I studied British Literature, I found characters and authors who embodied him. In my dad I see Shakespeare’s Iago—a man who orchestrates those around him to cause hurt, and then sits back, smiling with a deep dimple in his cheek, chuckling at his own cleverness. I see Mary Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein—a man who gives life but then abuses and abandons the very lives he helped create. I see Lord Byron’s Byronic hero—a soul that is selflessly selfish. When good, he would give his last dollar, but when bad, his cutting words flay his victim’s heart, and then his hatred burns anything good that is left.

Every child (at least this one) longs for a father. My father was the man who did all those good, kind things, and I am thankful for those memories. My father was also the man who did all those horrible things, and I feel sorrow for what he did. Because of the horrible things, the good things are tainted and make me feel confused. Yes, I understand that people are not perfect. We all fall at times, but the extremes in his behavior confuse my mind and thoughts. I am both thankful and ungrateful for the good things because it would be easier if I could say, “He is a horrible person; there is no good in him.” But there is good in him. At least there was good in him at one time. I don’t feel there is enough good left in him for anyone to be subjected to the man he is now.

I hope that when my life is done, the good I leave behind will far outshine anything I have done that has hurt others. I know that we are asked to not judge, but I am a proponent for healthy boundaries, and there is not any possible way to have a relationship with a rabid human. I know that God does not expect me to subject myself to more abuse.

In future posts I want to talk about forgiveness because forgiveness is possible – even in cases like mine.

Did You Pick in my Cake?

The following may be triggering for some. Please proceed with caution.

Dad was a good cook. He taught Mom how to cook because the people in her family can not cook. Trust me, if you get invited to a potluck with Mom’s family, don’t eat anything. Dad loved chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting and he made one often. Like I said before, sometimes Dad was nice and sometimes Dad was scary. We never knew when his mood would suddenly change or what would prompt that change from happy and playful to scary and violent.

One night when I was four years old, Dad made a beautiful two layer chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting. Like most little children will do, I picked in the cake (took several finger swipes of frosting). It was so yummy that I took several more swipes of frosting. My little sister, Danielle who was two years old, also picked in the cake – probably because of my bad example. We were happy and laughing – thoroughly enjoying licking the frosting off our fingers.

Dad came in the kitchen, took one look at the finger marked cake, and went into a rage. He bellowed at me, “Did you pick in my cake?” I was scared. Experience had taught me that right now, he was dangerous. I quickly shook my head, “No.”

Next he approached Danielle, “Did you pick in my cake?”

She of course was happy that she picked in the cake and cheerfully said, “Yes.” She didn’t know enough to be scared. Dad picked her up and hell entered our kitchen. I watched in shock. I don’t remember her cries of pain, but I do remember the sound of the blows hitting her body and seeing her body swing as she hung from his other hand as each blow landed. My soul felt each strike. I knew I had sinned and sinned badly. I knew that someday I would stand before God and he would condemn me to hell for lying and causing my little sister this beating. My hatred for self grew. My shame and guilt consumed me. No one stopped the beating of my little sister: not Mom, not my sisters, and not me. I didn’t speak out. I didn’t tell the truth, and I would have to live with the guilt.

I was surprised that Danielle didn’t die that night. I thought he would never stop hitting her, that she would die, and that I would be responsible for her murder – because I was a liar. But she didn’t die.

The nightmares started shortly afterwards and lasted for the next twenty five years. In the dream, Danielle and I would be walking through our neighborhood. On one lot would be a giant Clorox bottle instead of a house. The bottle had door and window openings cut into it. In our excitement we would enter the house and begin exploring, but then be overcome by Clorox fumes. I would try to get her out of the house but would be too overcome by the fumes to help her and we would both lose consciousness and die on the smooth white floor of the Clorox bottle. Over the years the dream changed. It got to where I would enter the bottle with her and immediately try to get her out, but in the dream I could get myself out, but I wasn’t strong enough to get her out too. Finally the dream changed to where she would enter the bottle on her own because I wouldn’t step foot inside. I would call from the window opening for her to come out, but she would ignore me because the house sized Clorox bottle was so appealing to a little girl. I would watch from the window as she succumbed to fumes and died on the floor.

When I was twenty-nine years old, my youngest daughter turned four. I don’t know why it didn’t hit me when my oldest daughter turned four, but it didn’t. Anyway, as I was snuggling this sweet little girl who was full of mischief and sparkles, I realized how small and innocent she was. I realized that she was little more than a baby. I thought, “You son of a bitch.” All these years I had taken responsibility for my sister’s beating as if I had been the one dropping the blows on her little body. I had reacted the way nearly any four-year-old would have reacted when faced with intense fear. I sought self preservation. I didn’t know he was going to nearly destroy a two year old child. He was the one responsible for beating my sister. He was the one who lost his temper and over reacted to children enjoying frosting. There never should have been anger or a beating.

My nightmares stopped. I never dreamed about Danielle dying in a giant Clorox bottle again. I knew that when I faced God he would probably take me on his lap and hug me. He wouldn’t condemn a child for the sins of an adult. I think God sent me my little sparkler girl because he knew she would teach me how much He loves us even when we are a little bit naughty.

At my house little fingerprints on cakes are never punished. I may say, “Let’s get you a spoon full of frosting instead.” When I say this, the little child at my house looks at me with all the joy my sister and I felt before Dad lost his temper. Children adore frosting. Go to any occasion with cake and children and look at the table after they get finished. You will see cake left on their plates but never the frosting. I have spent the last forty-two years scraping the frosting off my cake – convinced myself that I didn't like frosting. No longer will I do this. I will have my cake and enjoy my frosting too! Life is too short to deprive ourselves of the good stuff.

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother

Exodus 20:12 says, “Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

This is a pretty straightforward scripture – one of the Ten Commandments given during the time of Moses. Many people have no problem with this scripture, but for those of us who are adult survivors of childhood physical and sexual abuse that was carried out by our parents, this scripture becomes a yoke too heavy to carry. We are tied by that yoke to a parent who cannot or will not honor their child. How does one honor a parent who is undeserving of honor?

I struggled with this scripture for many years. My dad even threw this scripture in my face when he felt I didn’t come visit often enough. After I started remembering all the abuse he and his friends had inflicted upon my childhood, I prayed about this and studied my scriptures for an answer. I found it in St. Matthew 22:9 And call no man your father upon the Earth; for one is your Father, which is in heaven. Here was my answer and my freedom from needing to honor a wretch of a man. Now that I felt free to call on Heavenly Father to be my father, I understood how I could honor my dad.

By honoring my Heavenly Father, I was honoring my earthly father. If I spent time with my dad, he would without a doubt re-offend against me or my children. By allowing him to sin against us, I was giving him more sins that he would have to answer to God. How is that honoring him? By staying away from him, he is no longer able to sin against me which means less that he will be held accountable for. I choose to live the best life I can. I choose to be happy and have joy and purpose in my life. By making these choices I can honor both my Heavenly Father and my earthly father.

I am a firm believer that those who have suffered childhood abuse should not be re-victimized by the scriptures. When I struggle with a scripture, I pray about it, read the scriptures, and invariably the answer will come. If we understand how much our Heavenly Father loves us, we will know that his words were not written to cause us more distress – they are there to comfort and lift us.

Grandma

I took the kids to see Grandma frequently. After she had been away from dad for about three weeks, she started to gain clarity of thought and be more wakeful which made us wonder if he had been drugging her. When she was with dad she would often fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, but now it was like we had turned back the hands of time and she was getting younger. She missed dad and she missed her old apartment. My aunt arranged to have Meals on Wheels come each day just so Grandma would have a lunch time visitor. Grandma hated the food, but she would drink the milk and eat the roll they brought each day. I asked, “So what is wrong with the food?”

“They bring casserole all the time. I don't like things that are all mixed together. If they bring vegetables they are overcooked and mushy. I like fresh vegetables.”

One evening the kids and I took her out to dinner. The only thing she would order was a fresh tomato. I had to go back and ask the waiter if the cook could find a tomato that was not too ripe and slice it for her. She was so happy with her plate of tomatoes. Taking her out to dinner was time consuming because she had to stop and talk to every child she saw. She was a life long teacher. We loved seeing how well she related with children.

She enjoyed playing bingo with the other residents and was adjusting to her new life. One morning as she was getting ready for a funeral, she felt a terrific pain in her hip, her leg gave out, and she fell to the floor. Thankfully, she was in a place where the staff checked up on the residents and was soon found. She was transported to the hospital and diagnosed with a broken hip.

She had surgery to repair her hip. The doctors informed us that she had an aortic aneurysm. They felt she was too old to survive the surgery to repair it. They said that eventually it would rupture and she would die quickly. We worried about this, but since there was nothing that could be done to repair it, it fell into the category of “help us accept the things we can not change.”

One night after I’d returned home late from the hospital, I went up to check on my youngest daughter. The teenagers had gotten the little ones to bed. My eight year old daughter had kicked off her covers. The moonlight through the window spilled over her golden hair, her slender legs, feet, arms, and delicate hands; the sight brought out a feeling of intense protectiveness for this child I so adored. She was eight years old – older than I had been when I was sexually abused and beaten. I looked at her tiny limbs and wondered how anyone could look at the body of a small child and see anything but a dear sweet child. How could anyone look at what I was seeing and feel sexual arousal? I couldn’t understand it. I carefully tucked her covers around her and said a silent prayer of thanks that she was unscathed by the evil of sexual abuse. I talked to my kids on a regular basis about good touch/bad touch. I felt confident that they could and would come to me if anyone touched them inappropriately.

Mentally, I was still dealing with the trauma of my own abuse, but still lacked time to get into counseling. Grandma was soon moved back to the assisted care center where her apartment was located. One side of the complex was a hospital – which was where she was moved. I called her one day to ask what they had brought her for dinner. She said, I don’t know what it is, but it looks like cooked grass.”

“Do you want me to bring you a chicken breast with steamed vegetables and a sliced tomato?”

“Oh would you? I’d love that.”

When I got there, I asked, “What do you eat on the nights I don’t bring dinner?”

“I just ask them for another can of ensure.”

“Grandma, you look so pretty today.” She was in a lovely pink nightgown and had just had her hair done.

“Mary was up earlier; she took me to get my hair done. Did you know they have a salon in the hospital?”

“I didn’t know that. I’m glad she took you. I know how much you love to get your hair done.”

I helped Grandma into a wheelchair and we (my two youngest 3D childen and I) took her for a walk. She wanted to go see her neighbors. We walked over to that wing of the building and joined her neighbors in the great room and watched the news. There was a story that the schools were facing a substitute teacher shortage. Grandma who taught school until she was 86 years old said, “I am going to get out of here and go sign up.” I chuckled because I didn’t doubt that she would do it. Her mind seemed as sharp as ever now that she was a way from dad. “What do you think your dad is doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “He got so mean, and what he said to Rose was so awful that I can’t go see him again. You know he was violent to us when we were kids. I guess he just got mean again.”

“I want to see him,” she said.

“I know you do, but he said he doesn’t want to see any of us.”

“I guess you are right. Did you know that I am going home tomorrow?” she asked.

“No, you are going home on Sunday. Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, “because I think I am going home tomorrow.”

“Sunday, Grandma; I promise.”

“Well, okay.”

We wheeled her back to her room. I helped her into bed, gave her a kiss goodnight, and said, “I love you Grandma. I’ll be back up on Sunday to see you.”

“I love you too. Thanks for coming up.”

The next morning my cousin called me, “Grandma died early this morning.”

“No! I was just up there. She looked so good. She can't be gone.”

She had awoken with a terrific pain in her chest. She called out to her room mate. Help arrived quickly, but the aneurism had ruptured. They gave her morphine, called my uncle to come quickly, and she died within fifteen minutes.

She was right when she said she was going home tomorrow. She died only a few days before what would have been her 65th wedding anniversary. I know she was old. I know her body had issues, but her mind was sharp and I wanted her to stay. I missed her so badly. I couldn’t believe the beautiful, bright grandmother I had put my arms around only hours before was gone. She was the most important adult in my life. She helped me be a better mother and a better person. She was the best role model, and I was thankful I got to have her for as many years as I did. She had said she was going to get out of there and go sign up to teach. I hope there are children for her to teach in heaven.

I still miss her everyday. So often, I long to pick up the phone and say, "Grandma." I send her messages in thoughts and prayers every day. I hope she gets them.

Memory - Not Nearly as Reliable as a Scrapbook or Video

My thoughts are all over the place today. I can’t decide what I should write about. I could tell you about my two favorite growing things at the old house – or about the never ending hole in the back yard of the old house. I could tell you about my thoughts on memory and share a couple of stories regarding memory. I could tell the chocolate frosting story, but I’m not sure if I can tell that one yet. I could tell you about the first time I ever saw haunts at the old house. I think I should give the old house a name – any ideas for one? Suggestions are appreciated because I’m drawing a blank. You can check here to see a picture of the house:
My Old House


The following may be triggering for some. Physical abuse is described. Proceed with caution.

Maybe while it is fresh in my mind, I will share my thoughts on memory. I just got off the phone with my older sister, Ann; we discussed what we remembered about the abuse we endured as children. I find it interesting that until I was thirty five years old, I had no recollection of my father ever hitting me. I could remember him hitting my other siblings, but not me. My aunt even asked me one time, “Did your Dad ever hit you?”

“No;” I answered, “He hit the other kids, but he never hit me.”

I felt guilty about this. Dad used to tell me that I was his favorite, so I thought that is why he hit the other kids and not me. It didn’t seem fair that I didn’t get hit, but I was glad to not be hit. Yes, I was afraid of him. Yes, I hid when he came home, but I didn’t remember him being abusive to me (in that way). I knew about one time when I thought he might have hurt me, but I had lost time, so I couldn’t recall what happened.

My dad is/was an avid gardener. If he planted one seed, two seedling would pop up (yes, I jest), but he did grow an amazing garden.

He wouldn’t let me help in the garden because he said I wasn’t big enough to not mess up. He let Ann help because she was four years older than I was. I stood at the edge of the rose garden and enviously watched Ann help with the beautiful roses. I could hardly wait to get big enough to help.

The rule of our yard was that we could play anywhere he hadn’t planted. We had a strip of ground that ran next to the driveway. He hadn’t planted this area, and I played there often. I pretended to plant. One day as I happily walked on the bare dirt, poking my stick in the ground, singing a made-up song, Dad came barreling toward me. “You G** D*** stupid little kid.” (only he used the words) “Get the %&^$ out of my garden. I just planted there. You $%^#@!& little whore. You’ve ruined everything.” I cringed as he grabbed me by the arm and marched me into the house, swearing and yelling all the way. He took me into a room – I can not recall which one. I think it was my bedroom, but in my memory it was backwards, so I am unsure. Then something happened, but to this day, I have not been shown what. This was the first time I was aware that I lost time. Whoever was forward that day has not shared the memory of what happened.

I was six years old and clearly remember being distressed that I couldn’t remember what had happened in the moments before he walked out of the room shouting, “You will stay here until I tell you you can leave.”

I thought, “Is my brain broken.” I thought of all the things I could remember. I ran through the list of holidays and memories that went back to me being a toddler, but I couldn’t grasp what had just happened. If I could remember everything else, why oh why could I not remember the last thirty minutes? It could have been less or more time – my six year old mind gave it the value of thirty minutes. I worried about this for years – until I was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder – then I knew what had happened.

Memories are mysterious things. When I told my siblings that I didn’t remember Dad ever hitting me, one looked at me like I had two heads. She said, “You don’t remember when we were fighting over a chair in the rumpus room, and Dad got mad, grabbed us, threw us on my bed, and beat the hell out of us?” She had a vivid and clear memory of this, but I still don’t remember. Another sister clearly remembers him grabbing Mary and me and smacking our heads together - often. Mary and I did fight frequently. Mom said we would love each other when we grew up. I always swore that I would NEVER even like her, but Mom was right and we became good friends.

One of my clearest memories is the day Dad hit Ann right smack in the nose just because she was the unlucky person who crossed his path as he walked through the front door. I can still see the tears well up in her eyes as she struggled not to cry in order to save herself from a further beating because he said, “I didn’t hit you that hard. If you cry, I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

I remember praying, “Please don’t cry; please don’t cry.” I couldn’t bear to see my Ann get hit again. She still has no memory of that day.

When we were adults she told me about a beating I took that she always felt guilty about. When I was three or four, Ann, Mary, and I hid under a bed with Dad’s slide projector. We were not supposed to play with this "expensive" piece of equipment. Ann had the projector shining on the wall as we happily watched the slide show. Dad came in and realized immediately what we were doing. He ripped a board off of a crate of grapes. Ann remembers seeing the small nails in the end of the board. She knew what he was going to do with the board. As he came for us, self-preservation took over, and she ran as fast as she could. Because I was the youngest and slowest, he was able to grab me. He beat my legs with the board. She says she can still see the red scratches that covered my tender skin where the nails hit me. She felt guilty for running, but her response was completely normal for a child of seven or eight. The only one who did anything wrong was Dad. He completely over-reacted to us using the projector.

I still have no memory of the beating, but it is one of Ann’s most vivid memories.

One night, at age thirty five, I had a flashback as I was dropping off to sleep. In the flashback, I was being pulled out from underneath a bed. The bed sat higher than a normal bed. My hair snagged and tore in the bedsprings. The floor under the bed was linoleum, so as I was pulled, my little hands slid desperately along the floor seeking something to grab on to. The sense of dread and terror I felt was completely overwhelming. I came out of the flashback with a start. I called Ann the next day and described what I saw and felt. She said that was what happened when Dad grabbed me out from underneath the bed to beat me with the board. My little mind knew what was coming and went somewhere else. I saw and remembered the beginning, but to this day, although I still have a scar on the back of my leg from one of the nails, I do not remember the beating. I hope that I never have to remember it. Memory is mysterious. It tells us what it decides we need to know – for what ever reasons. Although memory is fallible, it is what ties us to the past and it makes us act how we do in the present.

On a side note, one day when I was at Dad’s house (as an adult) during a time when we were still on speaking terms, I borrowed the slide projector and all the slides. He and Grandma were out of town, and I was the person designated to water the plants and pick up the mail. I told him I took the projector. After I learned what he had done, I never returned the projector or slides. I felt I had paid for them with my pound of flesh. He wanted them back after I stopped communicating with him, but I didn't respond or send them back. If he could beat a child for watching a projector, he didn't deserve to have it. Now it was my turn to punish him - of course me being me, I found a punishment that was logical. When things become more important than the people we are supposed love and protect, it is time to re-evaluate our priorities. Give your kids an extra hug today – they deserve it. If you feel they don’t deserve one, it probably means they need two.

Response to Comments

Two visitors have posted comments and questions that I want to respond to tonight. I figure since I remain unable to talk about my dad, this is a good time to do this.
One reader comments:
“I struggle with being so interested in a story that has ultimately been one of sadness and hurt in your family, and to you.”

I don’t want anyone to struggle or feel guilty because they find my story interesting. The reason I say this is because for so many years, I was unable to break my silence – even to myself – about the truth of what happened in our home. When you read and comment on my story, it gives me a voice – the ability to speak out and say, “What happened to me was wrong. I didn’t have a voice as a child, but I have one now. I am no longer powerless.” We as a society can not turn away from things that cause hurt and sadness. To do so removes the voice of many who need to share their stories in order to reach further healing. This also gives me the opportunity to validate that same pain in others – to say to them, “You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. You matter.”

To those reading my story who have not felt the pain of being abused – temper your interest with a renewed determination to be aware. Be aware of those around you who may not have the ability to speak out or to defend themselves. If you witness the abuse of another, get involved, and please report it. I can not tell you what a difference it could have made in my life if even one person had reported what they saw. I know that sometimes the system (police, social workers) drops the ball, but it is still important to do what we can to protect the powerless. If you have a loved one who was abused, allow them to heal at their pace. Be kind and supportive to them. Let them feel the love you have for them. Listen to them and respect their right to feel how ever they feel.

Statistics show that one of every three girls will be abused in their lifetime and one of every four boys will be abused in their lifetime. Chances are huge that someone you know is a survivor of childhood abuse. They may not have developed D.I.D as a result, but if this blog helps us all to be a little less judgmental and show more love and kindness to those we come in contact with, then sharing my story is worth every minute I spend here. We have no idea what sorrows people have been through. We may not understand why sneaking up behind someone and saying “boo” may be a trigger. (I have a story about that). We may think someone is over-reacting, but unless we have walked in their shoes we simply can not understand.

The other reason I want to share my story is to help create a society where those who live with D.I.D do not have to hide their diagnosis. If my only diagnosis was PTSD, I could sign my name to this blog, but because of the stigma of D.I.D, I can not claim my own blog. I want everyone to understand that many successful people: doctors, lawyers, teachers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, business people, business owners, nurses, etc., live with this diagnosis. We are not a danger to society (generally speaking). You may have a coworker or neighbor that has D.I.D and they probably appear completely normal. My coworkers would be shocked to learn I have D.I.D. because I am a good employee. My system works hard to make sure that I appear normal.

One reader commented in regards to my old journal entry:
“I'm just curious as to how this makes you feel reading it now that you have a better understanding.”

I have mixed feelings about it. When I wrote this entry, I was under the care of a therapist. I had told the therapist about losing time, yet the therapist did not diagnose me with D.I.D. When I read the entry with 20/20 hindsight, it is easy to see that I should have been diagnosed with D.I.D. That being said, I also recognize that during that time, I was in an extremely fragile emotional state. A D.I.D. diagnosis on top of dealing with the intense flashbacks of PTSD may have been enough to send me over the edge. I thought about suicide during that time. My plan was to wait until my children were adults and then end it. The emotional trauma of the flashbacks was nearly too much to bear. I recognize that God had a plan for me. When I was diagnosed with D.I.D, I was in the best place possible. I have a supportive husband who loves all of me without question. I have the most amazing and supportive adult children a person could have. I haven’t had a flashback for a long time. I think God knew that I needed a completely unwavering support system in place before I dealt with this big scary diagnosis. I’ve heard it said that alters need to feel safe to make themselves known to the host. My family provided that safe place for me to continue my healing journey.

I cried when I read that journal entry because I could again feel my sadness and confusion, but in hindsight I understand why I was so confused about who I was. Again, I need to trust the process, and allow my system the time it needs to heal. Patience is a virtue when dealing with D.I.D.

To my child who posted, “I love you too.” To my other children who read this blog, “I love you all.”