I never considered myself a victim of abuse. The word victim - seemed so weak to me. I always synonymized victim to helplessness; I was never helpless - or so I believed. When I thought of the word abuse - I pictured blackened eyes, fat lips, bruises - something you can physically see. The thought of abuse being invisible was not imaginable - until I was an adult. It wasn't until I was an adult, spilling small details of my childhood to friends and lovers, who always sat listening in horror, that I realized I might have been a victim of mental and emotional abuse that bordered on physical abuse at times. But, even in those moments, I refused to claim ownership. It was just, quite frankly and plainly, my life. I felt as though I was dealt a hand of crappy playing cards as a child. After all, my childhood gave me my backbone...right?
I'm mentally strong. I developed an armor, a shell of protection. I became a quick witted child turned adult. Quick to squash anyone who might criticize me or judge me. My confidence was unbreakable. Anyone who attempted to belittle me - their efforts would be thwarted. Only now, looking back, I realize the stronger I felt mentally, the larger my waistline became. My dark secrets were well hidden. Hanging in the back of my mental closet, collecting quite the layer of dust..
At 29, I decided my life needed a change. It wasn't enough that I had changed careers (and found something I love). I felt unhappy looking in the mirror. At first, it was the reflection. This girl, who was so strong on the inside, hated the outside. Who was this girl staring back at me? How did she get here? I made the decision to have weight loss surgery. I knew my life was going to change. It needed to change. But, I was not prepared for the change that was awaiting me in the months ahead..
I began to take the steps to have WLS. I'm following the diet. I've met with so many different physcians and nurse practitioners from all corners of medicine that I can't keep track. Its quite the process. And then, at a weigh in appointment a few months ago, my nurse practitioner reminds me that I need to see the psychiatrist, still. My anxiety sets in. I schedule the appointment. I can feel myself amping up. Oh my God, am I going to have to talk about these dark things? I have to talk about them. Its part of the process, right? I didn't sleep for the two nights leading up to my appointment. My palms were sweaty, I was sweating waiting in the waiting room. When the doctor called me in, I felt slightly at ease. She had kind eyes, a welcoming-ness about her. Okay, I can do this. I can talk about my life. She starts by asking me if I am aware of what surgery procedure I've chosen; yes, yes, yes...c'mon. She asks me if I understand the risks associated to the surgery; yes, yes, yes. She asks me what diets and weight loss programs I've tried; I rattle off everything from Weight Watchers to throwing up. Well it seems I am a smart girl and understand what surgery is. She's taking my blood pressure. And then its over. That's it. I walk out of the loony bin feeling short changed. Basically, they wanted my money. I remember saying to my Mom, I was all worked up and prepared to talk.
And here I am. A month and a few weeks before my surgery date. Stewing. A rolling boil at moments. And back to simmering. Tonight, I'm a rolling boil. I feel like in order for me to shed this body, I have to be heard. I have to tell my story. I have to get it out of my head. I have to feel validated in my feelings. I have to feel empowered.
I was sitting at dinner this past weekend with my best friend. I was bitching about my situation. And I said "I've been through a lot of shit. Like, a lot. Shit that would make most people turn to drugs, alcohol, suicide. Me, I turned to food. But, fuck. Just as a kid, it was a lot. And I never saw it as that. Why didn't anyone else stick up for me?" And those words have haunted me since they came out of my mouth.
The abuse was instant. Like, script from a movie. At times, I wasn't even sure what was happening was real. But, again, I never saw it as abuse, it was just my life. I spent every other weekend with my Dad. We did everything together. It didn't matter that my parents didn't live in the same house. It just was my life. I remember the exact day she came into my life. My Dad took me to the park to meet his special friend. I can remember playing and having fun and then looking over to see them kissing on a picnic table, only she was staring at me looking at her - with daggers in her eyes. I quickly ran away. And that was the beginning of the end. My relationship with my father would change from that moment on.
My Dad must have needed money because a lot of times he would be working during the day when I was there on my weekend with him. I was afraid. I played alone, upstairs, away from her. She was cold and didn't interact with me directly, ever. Unless she was scolding me. I became so stressed I couldn't eat - I'd have instant diarrhea. If I was forced to eat, I'd vomit. I can remember encouraging her son to clean up quick so we could watch "Cops" after dinner; she was standing in the hallway and she grabbed my arm and dragged me into the doorway - she told me I was to never talk to him that way again and if she ever caught me doing it - she was going to beat me with the wooden spoon she had in her hand. I didn't even think I had done anything wrong. My Mom had never hit me. I can't ever remember her spanking me. It was new to me. It terrified me.
I became unfocused in school. Acting out. Unable to pay attention. Countless letters and phone calls home. I was in 1st grade. Thursday afternoons were the downhill slope. The anxiety of knowing I had to go back to my Dads - without my Dad there - being alone with her was unbearable. By Friday nights I was a mess. Crying that I didn't want to go. Of course, my Mom thought it was just me unable to adjust to my Dad having a girlfriend. Maybe it was. I was used to having him to myself. But, it was mostly her.
I'd be sitting on the floor playing with my Barbies or babies and if my feet or my hands weren't tucked in - she would walk by and step on them. She would say "Wah wah wah, you're such a baby", if I cried. The worst was when my Dad would come home and I would try to cling to him, try to tell him..they would inevitably get into an argument, my fault. My Dad would go out for a drive and leave me with her, again. "This is all your fault. You have to make a big deal out of nothing." she said to me while I was upstairs crying in the corner of the bedroom.
From that moment on, it just got worse. I was downright melting down before going there. Crying my eyes out, begging not to go. I was being a "difficult" child. And then, the most disgusting human behavior, ever, happened. I was so afraid to be alone with this woman I puked. I puked anything I ate. And then I made the mistake of puking at her table during lunch. She had the audacity to actually call my Mother - thank God (!!) and tell her that if I ever puked at her table again, she was going to make me eat it. WHO SAYS THAT?! WHO FUCKING SAYS THAT?! A fucking psychopath abusive bitch says that. That flew over like a fart in church with my Mom. I don't really remember much immediately after. I do remember my Mom being on the phone with my Grandmother and Grandfather, my fathers mother and father, for a really long time.
At this point, my Dad hadn't talked to me about anything that was going on. He had built a house down the street from my Grandparents and my Grandfather told me if I ever felt unsafe or if she was "doing her bullshit" as he put it - all I had to do was come up to the house. I always kept that int he back of my mind. I remember the night my sister was born. I was so excited. I had a sister. I couldn't wait to meet her. Except, I wasn't allowed to hold her or touch her. And I was never allowed to "bother" my father when he was with her, per the bitch. I can remember waking up Saturday mornings and watching my Dad sleep with my baby sister on his chest, I longed to crawl in bed and cuddle with them both. But, it was forbidden. I had toys at my Dads house that I was only allowed to play with there, and only with permission.
I remember I was going through a growth spurt and the pair of jean shorts my Mom had packed me for the weekend - I was having a hard time buttoning. I was left with only one choice. Ask her for help. She came in the small bathroom and tried to "help" me. If help meant belittle - she did a great job. She called me "fucking huge" and that if my Mom had any brains she'd pack me clothes that fit, or better yet buy me clothes that fit because my Dad pays enough in child support, every week. Yes, the $49 dollars a week was just a plethora of money that my Mom had no use for but to take me shopping. Bitch. And ya know what, you're fucking huge. But, its obviously stuck with me.
My sister was trained to not interact with me. She didn't play with me. I didn't play with her. Our paths never crossed. Ever. And the beast loved every second of it. She had a puppet. She married my father. I wasn't invited. I showed up for my weekend visit and was surprised at the door when my sister said "Come watch the video! Mommy and Daddy got married!" And I had to suffer through a wedding video of their special day, without me. I watched her take my sister on shopping sprees. My sister would come home from the mall and model all of her new outfits. I was never invited. No one ever took me to the mall. No one ever bought me clothes. My sister had a birthday party that happened to fall on my weekend there so I was invited by default. The door handle on my sisters bedroom door was broken, it kept sticking. When it was time to open gifts - she came to get everyone out of the bedroom, except for me. She asked me to put something in the closet and closed me in. When I told my Dad, she denied everything. As usual.
And then she did the weirdest thing. I had eye surgery. She stopped at my Mom's house with a basket of "goodies" and a shirt, to cheer me up. Both my Mom and I were dumbfounded. WTF?
I was a cheerleader. From the time I was 11 until mid 20s. I loved cheer. I lived, breathed cheer - it was my religion. I joined a tumbling gym. Was super into learning to tumble until I fell on my head and neck attempting my first backhand spring and created a nice little mental block. I quit tumbling. I couldn't get over the fall. Later, she would claim that I HAD to quit tumbling because I was too fat, because my Mom let me get too fat. But anyways, she forced my sister to join cheerleading - who hated every second. She had no desire to be a cheerleader. But it was a way for her to intimidate me. She would sit at every practice and stare at me, make faces at me. I was so relieved when it got cold - because that meant we got to practice inside in separate gyms.
The older I got, the less tolerable I became of her antics. It was the morning of our family reunion, I have no idea what she said to me. Whatever it was, struck a cord with me and set me off like a firecracker. All I remember is yelling that I hated her, "I fucking hate you" and chasing her up the basement stairs. I was in trouble. My Dad yelled at me. It was my fault. I was promptly driven home to my Mothers. And that was the last time I would step foot in my Father's house for 8 years.
I can remember there was a bomb threat in middle school. We were locked out of the building all afternoon. Parents were picking up their kids left and right. My Mom was at work and couldn't come and get me. But I watched my Dad show up and pick my step brother up. I'd watch him pick him up after school several times. Oh yeah, my Dad lived 10 miles from my house. I've never spent a Christmas with my Dad. I've never spent a birthday with my Dad; not since before her anyways. Holiday get togethers were always awkward. She would stand in the middle of the room, talking the loudest, laughing the fakest, telling the worst jokes. Everyone would laugh. Everyone would ignore the elephant in the room.
Not once did anyone ever confront my Dad or her. Not once did anyone ever stick up for me. Not once did anyone ever attempt to help me. And not once has anyone ever invited me to anything, unless it was by pure chance that it was brought up in front of me. I've always felt like the outsider in my family. I've always felt like the secret. For a stretch of time my Mother's brother and wife became friends with my Dad and her. Every time they had a party - we had to deal with bitchface - at our family events. What kind of sourcery was this?!
Then, the most glorious thing ever happened. My Stepdad had picked me up from colorguard practice. She had picked up her son from marching band practice. Our cars met at a "T" in a grid locked parking lot. Unbeknownst to me, not paying attention, Kevin blurts out "You gotta be fucking kidding me?" Two things about Kevin, he never swears unless its absolutely necessary and up until this moment it was a "her story" against "my story"situation. So, I look up to see this crazy bitch making faces at me. Sticking her tongue out at me. Giving us the finger. Just acting like a complete wack job. Kevin throws the truck in park and gets out of the truck and approaches her care - it was like the best thing that ever happened. He told her to get her tongue in her mouth and quit acting like a child. Of course she started yelling for help and yelling that Kevin was harassing her. What a fucking joke. Please. Get the fuck out of here. We get home and already the phone is ringing. My DAD is calling and YELLING at KEVIN. Going on about how he better not threaten his wife ever again or he'll put him 6ft under. Kevin's just standing there and calmly says "Listen to yourself. Just stop and think for a second. I'M protecting YOUR child. I"M protecting YOUR child!" He didn't get the message. He was so delusional from her charades. I was actually thankful that someone else witnessed the crazy for once. Someone else saw it. Someone would believe me!
My Dad came to my high school graduation. He stood in the back, stayed long enough to give me a card and run out. Claiming they "had to go". But, really, she didn't want to be there. She didn't have to come. But, she is an abuser. She uses intimidation, because it worked very well for 25 years.
After that we've had a few run ins. Mostly with her tailing my Mom in rush hour traffic, on purpose. Several times tailing me. One time she actually sped ahead of me on 81, flipped me off, and pulled into the gas station next to the exit ramp. She waited for me and then nearly cut me off by pulling out in front of me and missing my bumper by centimeters, then waving her finger outside the window. How do I know it was her? I know what she looks like and I know her "I love my Bernese Mountain Dog" stickers. Nice try. Crazy pants.
This just scratches the surface of the many instances of bullshit that I've put up with over the years. Quite
frankly, I am getting tired. My back hurts from hunching over my laptop and my hands hurt from typing.
I've stayed silent for many years when I should have spoken up. My mistake was believing that my salvation was someone elses' responsibility. I've been waiting 25 years for my Dad to say he's sorry. That day will never come. I've come to accept that. But, I feel compelled to tell my story. I can no longer stay silent. I can no longer bottle up whats been eating at me. I know this will upset quite a few people close to me. They will be upset that I chose a public platform to tell my story. But, like I said, I will no longer be silent. I will no longer let my dark secret linger within. Am I responsible for the heinous behavior of an adult - absolutely not.
"Tell your story. If people wanted you to write warmly - they should have behaved better." - unknown
It blows my mind to think that I never saw any of this as abuse. I saw it as, my life. If by chance you stumbled on to this and are suffering from any form of abuse - you do not need to suffer in silence!
PS I hope you found the link to my blog on my instagram and are reading this. I hope your jaw is open. I hope you feel sick. And I hope you feel like you're going to shit your pants. I'm no longer that scared little child that you can intimidate. That girl is gone..
Confessions Of A Broken Heart (Daughter to Father)
"I wait for the postman to bring me a letter
I wait for the good Lord to make me feel better
And I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders
A family in crisis that only grows older
Why’d you have to go
Daughter to father, daughter to father
I am broken but I am hoping
Daughter to father, daughter to father
I am crying, a part of me is dying and
These are, these are
The confessions of a broken heart
And I wear all your old clothes, your polo sweater
I dream of another you
The one who would never (never)
Leave me alone to pick up the pieces
A daddy to hold me, that’s what I needed
So why’d you have to go
Daughter to father, daughter to father
I don’t know you, but I still want to
Daughter to father, daughter to father
Tell me the truth, did you ever love me
Cause these are, these are
The confessions of a broken heart
I love you
Daughter to father, daughter to father
I don’t know you, but I still want to
Daughter to father, daughter to father
Tell me the truth...
Did you ever love me!?
Did you ever love me?
These are.....
The confessions...of a broken heart. " - LL
You are brave and beautiful! I'm proud of you. ❤️
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