Inez

Inez was a grandma.  Skinny as a rail, unhealthy skinny.  Almost starved to death skinny.  She was tall, and you could see past the bony wrinkly cheeks that she had striking features, that she was a real beauty once.  She would sometimes tell stories about her youth.... I think she was a model or something like that... I don't remember... I always thought she would have been beautiful enough to be a model.

Inez's husband was a constant/ mean drunk.  I have no memories of him being sober.  He stank of liqueur and sometimes throw-up.  He fumbled around when he moved.  He slurred his words when he talked.  He was a wife beater, a brutal wife beater.

We had blankets near the couches and the front room door was always unlocked.  Inez would walk down the street in the middle of the night after being beaten, often naked.  She would let her self in, and cover up with the blankets provided.  Then early in the morning she would walk home still wrapped up in the blankets.  Sometimes we would find out about it days later.  Sometimes my mother would go over with her.  Sometimes my mother would call the cops. 

Inez would tell my mother about the beatings.  But she did not have to tell, black & blue marks were all over her face and arms.  Often her face was bloody from the beatings.  My mother would go with her to her home, get her some clothing.  Mom would tell that mean drunk Bill to get out of her way, and leave Inez alone.  Then my mother would call the cops, and her and Inez would wait for them. 

When the cops got there Inez, on the good days, would tell them about the beatings.  Then the cops would get old mean Bill and start to cuff him up, to take him in.  About this time Inez would start crying and getting angry at the cops.  Her most memorable line was "don't arrest him, just tell him to stop beating me."  As time went on it seemed the beatings got more frequent and more severe.  We became increasingly afraid for Inez's life.

Then, one day, my mom found her, in her back yard, unconscious for days.  She was naked and caked in blood.  My mom called the cops.  Inez was taken to the hospital by ambulance.  Bill was taken away in handcuffs.  Inez almost died from that beating.  Her recovery in the hospital was long and slow.  Bill sat in jail while she recovered.

We were so upset for all that Inez had suffered.  But what was the most upsetting is we fully expected Inez to get Bill released as soon as she was recovered.  We expected her to go back for more beatings.  This was not the first time she was found unconscious, but this was by far the worst.

Inez did not go home after the hospital.  Inez went to a woman's shelter.  My mother went and helped Inez pack up her things over several days.  Inez moved out and the home was sold, Bill stayed in jail. Inez got a new apartment, near the senior center.  As time went on, isolated, closed up Inez, grew back into her beautiful self.  She dressed fashionably.  She fattened up.  She laughed and was happy.  She was a regular at the senior center.  Inez became a beautiful, outgoing, happy senior survivor of brutal physical abuse. 

It is statistically unlikely that Inez ever would have been able to make the turn around.... But turn around she did... But only after she was almost beaten to death... Leaving behind abuse, even as a senior, is possible, though it is statistically unlikely.

Sadomasochists number one weapon…

The main weapon Sadomasochists use against you is your doubt…
If they can get you to doubt your impressions…
If they can get you to doubt your judgement..
If they can get you to doubt your knowledge…
If they can get you to doubt your experiences..
If they can get you to doubt your inspiration…
If they can get you to doubt your truth…
If they can get you to doubt your validity…
Then they can control you…

My Mothers Battle with Doubt…

My Mother was a strong fighter. She fought a constant battle on the battle ground of doubt. How could she have known, how could she have accepted… That she was picked by her Sadomasochist mate because of her strong battle with doubt. She was already waging a war against doubt when he married her. But he picked her out of the prime of her life, out of her strongest most alive moment. He picked her to become his groomed doubtful victim. This was not a role she accepted easily. In-fact I believe he had so much more then he ever bargained for. My Mother was a fighter, she fought with great strength and will. Even as my father used gas-lighting and manipulations to corrode at my Mothers confidence she fought fiercely against doubt. I saw her fighting against the doubt and I admired her. But then my dad taught me to see her another way. He taught me to see her as a bad and neglectful wife. He taught me to view the fights as my Mothers problem. He taught me to resent and hate my Mother for defending herself against the constant attacks on her doubt.

My Mother was never stronger in her fight against doubt then she was when I was a young teen. Right after I tried to report my father. I was traumatized so I would disassociate and try to crawl in my skin when my mother was fiercely defending herself against my fathers war on her doubt. I just wanted the fighting to stop. I had already been broken.  I viewed her resistance as wrong.

This is the brutal moment when my father took control of his daughters. We all stood firmly on his side of the war. We stood in unison blaming my Mother for my fathers attacks on her doubt. We stood in unison begging my Mother to be a good wife and stop fighting against my father. But her strength, and her fire, and her fight would not subside. She was always more then my dad bargained for. She held her ground and fought alone. She decided it might be prudent for her to get a divorce. As far as I know her church leaders recommended against it. I know the community she was surrounded in frowned on it greatly. But still she was bold enough to consider divorce as an option.

But my father would not be beaten so easily. He saw the workings in her mind, he saw her consider the option of divorce, and he attacked her with it. My dad declared he wanted a divorce. My dad went to his church leaders and regaled them with horrible stories about all the reasons he was justified in getting a divorce. My dad became the victim. But this was not his only weapon. Me and my sisters were brought into the battle.

My father had been manipulating us and grooming us until we were primed and ready to play like puppets in his parade. I followed my older sisters, because I needed my older sisters. They declared with confidence and fight that they would rather go with dad then with mom, in million years. My sisters stood on his side of the battle field and declared that my mother was an abuser. My sisters declared that my father was one of the best dads. My sisters declared that they would stand before the divorce court asking to be placed with our dad. My sisters were willing to tell of my mothers many abuses in order to get what they wanted, to live with dad.

My dads church leaders recommended that my father move out for a while, a temporary separation. This was so that all those involved could see if being separate suited them both.

My dad got an apartment in the ward next to ours. It was scandalous to us. Would dad go to Church at the ward next door, alone? Would everyone in the ward next door know that my parents might be getting a divorce? Would the kids at school know? So my dad was benevolent… Though the ward next door could see him going and coming from his own apartment, he did not go there. My dad went to our church. He came and sat at the back of the room, decisively apart from my mother. My mother sat at the front of the chapel on the right, the whole congregations eyes boring into the back of her head. My dad came in at last minuet before it started on the left and sat in the back. This is when it happened… This is when my sisters got up and went and sat with my dad.

I sat by my mother and felt the eyes of the congregation boring into the back of my head. Every week it became a conflict. Where are you going to sit Jeanine. Are you going to sit with your dad, or with your Mother? I regret to say that I remember sitting with my dad. I became one of the eyes behind my Mothers head, looking at her. Her vulnerability was easy to see. Her doubt, and aloneness, sat there with her. I felt strongly like I was betraying her. But I needed my sisters so much.

I found out in horror that we were suppose to go and stay with my dad at his apartment. To my sisters it was all an exciting adventure. They had some pocket money from dad. We walked across the busy street after school, went to the 7-11. We spent some pocket money and then walked up to that strange apartment building. I felt this pressing, haunting dread the closer we got to it. But my sisters did not dread, they laughed, joked, even rejoiced because we were “winning”.

The apartment was barren. Nothing was in the one bedroom apartment except for a mattress. A mattress on the floor in my dads one bedroom. We were suppose to stay with him but where would we stay? Surly not in his one bedroom? Where would we sleep? Surly not on his mattress? I felt fear clamping my lungs. My sisters looked in the fridge, nothing, that must be why dad gave us pocket money. I felt caged, I wanted to escape. I looked out the window and I could see horses at ease and peace in a farmers pasture next door. I longed to be with those horses. I longed to be out there and free.

My dad came home. Took me with him to the store to get some food, was kind and friendly and happy. I tried to get past my dread, I tried to feel comfortable. When we were checking out I saw him staring longingly at a photo of a beautiful fully dressed lady on the cover of a magazine. The checker was running our items across the scanner, which included ice-cream, I was excited about that. I looked up and said to my dad. “You wish mom was more like her don’t you?  Maybe if you get a divorce you can marry someone beautiful like her.” My dad was startled and pulled out of his trance. The checker looked agape at my dad and me, she had heard what I said loud and clear. We quickly checkout and I could tell I had upset my father. Once in the car he said “You should not say such things around people we know.” He did not deny what I said. He did not say my impression was wrong. He just told me I should not tell others that is what he thought.

We slept that night in the middle of the front room, on sleeping bags. I was so afraid. I insisted that I sleep in the middle between my two sisters. When the ravenous wolves came in the middle of the night they would attack them first.  Maybe even my sisters could defend me against such attacks,  they were good defenders.   No, it was not wolves I was afraid of, but that was the level of my fear. My sisters slept. But I did not. I kept up a strong vigil as long as I could manage. I listened to my fathers every move, every breath. He got up to go to the bathroom, and I believe he sensed that I was not asleep, that I was on strong guard. I was not attacked that night, and my sisters stayed safely by my side. I do not remember ever sleeping there again, though my sisters did.

At some point the manipulation worked. My mother gave into the battle of doubt. I believe she came to the conclusion that being separate did not suite her, my dad made it too miserable. The fighting subsided, dad came home, and we became the perfect happy family…. From the outside.

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The Problem with Details

Here is the problem with telling anyone you know the details of your abuse.  Once they know some of details they will automatically want to not believe them, it is too horrible to believe.  They can, and will, discount little details here and there saying they are not sure they believe all of your account.  Telling people the details is getting the focus all wrong.  It does not matter weather or not the victim knows the details all exactly correct.  It does not matter weather or not people clinically understand trauma memories and how they are recorded and remembered. The likelihood is high they do not understand trauma memories, and their lack of knowledge will cause them to misjudge perfectly normal variances in details. It is also highly likely that people listening might become confused at the complex details you tell and then blame their own confusion on the accuracy of the details.  Telling people the details gives them the false sense of knowledge and understanding.  They falsely assume they have knowledge about what you are saying, and they falsely believe they understand what happened.  What really matters is the victim was abused.  What mattes is the perpetrator is an abuser.  These are the facts that are the most important.   If someone you tell looses sight of these important facts and gets themselves all caught in evaluating things they have no training , expert experience or firsthand knowledge in, then it is likely they are not ready to support you.  Move on.  In the end what they think will not change what happened to you.  You know what you know.  

I Am Free

I just reported my father to his church.  The fall out of that was horrendous.  Ending with my cherished sister (whom I perceived to be my best friend) and other less cherished family members turning on me.

My sisters actually helped defend my father, and built up a case against my statements.  Their argument against my statements was that I was so mentally confused that I mixed up dreams and reality, and I could no longer tell the difference between true memories and dreams.    Before this back stab they, well two of them, my good friend sister and another sister, she asked me to trust… Before this back stab they pretended to support me….  They asked me to trust them and tell them my story.  When I felt afraid to trust them they told me something was wrong with me, that I could not trust people who deserved my trust.  And I believed them.  I wished I could trust them more.

I told them my story.  And they listened with a critical ear, while pretending (not very well) to be understanding.  Every time I got a hint their understanding and pretense was not real they told me the issue was my misspreception of reality.   So I trusted them.  I let them belittle me into trust.  I let go of my own perceptions of their actions, and let them belittle my intuition to not trust.  And they listened with a critical ear to my stories.

They pretended to be supportive.  While they built up a stronger defense for my dad then he could have ever built up on his own. They claimed to not be under his influence.  And indeed I do not believe that my old good-friend sister has had any direct communication with him.   But still… Even without him there… They critically listened to my story, took it apart, looked for flaws…

When they found an apparent contradiction they did not trust me as a source of truth.  They did not ask me to clarify.  They did not ask me to explain.  Which is what is done when someone trust another.  No instead they took their own misunderstand and mis interpretation of my story to be proof that I was mixing up dreams and reality.  But the fact remains that they are wrong.  I turned in hundreds of pages of statements to the church.  I turned in hundreds of pages of journals and statements to the state.  Not a single one of those pages included any part of a dream stated as reality.  I simply did not do it, ever.

I did have an awful dream.  I told it to my sister (who I was asked to trust) as it being a dream.  That dream symbolized reality. That dream symbolized truth.  I always knew that and viewed the dream as a symbol of truth, though not an actual statement of facts.

Just before this I was asked to write my story out for a book.  I was challenged to write my very complicated story into an extremely shortened version.  In writing my story I had a specific idea I wanted to portray.   I found that every time I told this idea out it took pages and pages to tell with the facts of what happened.  I needed a way to represent this pattern in a much shorter space.  That is when I turned to the symbols of the dream.  I took artistic licence and stated the dream as the shortest concisest way to explain what it felt like for me.

Artistic licence is something survivor writers do night and day, all the time.  Artistic licence is what allows us to keep ourselves anonymous.  Artistic licence is what allows us to convey our stories without re triggering our selves.

In addition this online story was written during a time when I was processing my relationship with my mother, and specific memories of how she enabled the sexual abuse.  Really that short story of my abuse was more about my mothers relationship with me then my fathers abuse.

Time passed, and I forgot the specifics of  my online story.  And I found I wanted to share more, and trust more my less trustworthy sister.  I remembered that the story had allot to do with my mother, and I thought for a short time that this online story would be what I would read to my mother.  In that short time I communicated with my less trusted sister that this was my plan.  She read that and came away with the belief that my focus was strongly on my mothers enabling… well that was partly true… that was true at the time I wrote that story.

My sister didnot believe my stories of my mothers enabling.  She believed I fabricated it all and misunderstood it all.  And I am sure she was acting on fear of societies judgment of enablers.  Which has been a large point of conflict inside of me often.  Wanting to find a way to tell my mother what happened without bringing down the wrath of society on her.  Wanting to find a way for her to open up and heal instead of defend against the wrath of society.

But… I had another fatal flaw… My memories were of a very young age, and abuse at a very young age.  My memories pointed to the strong likely hood that my sisters were all abused too.  But they can not see this or face this.  And they felt a strong need to defend against the chance that I would tell anyone they might have been abused.

I had another fatal flaw…. I wanted to tell everyone in our lives.  I wanted everyone who ever knew my father to know he was a pedophile so they could defend themselves against him.

But you see… If I did this I would not only expose the pedophile.  But I would expose my enabling mother.  And I would expose my sisters who are still in denial.  This public knowledge of their abuses did not fit well into their careers, life, and social plans.

So it became clear to my sisters. I must be stopped.  I must be invalidated. To protect themselves. To protect my mother…. Even if… it meant they became my dads strongest protectors also…

Now I am a lone woman.  Without my childhood family.  I still cherish and maintain a few wonderful cousin connections.  I still have my husband and my kids.  I still have my husbands family, though there are some conflicts there I hope we can work out.

But I am free.  I am free of a life time of trying to live up to their expectations. I am free of everything I did wondering how they would see it. How they wold judge it.  I am free of their pretense.  I am free of their feigned care.  I am free of their fake love.  I am free of their manipulations. I am free from their selfishness.  I am free of their accusations.  They are not part of my life.  And I no longer try to play the impossible game of being good enough for them. Truth is I could never win at that game. And I am so relieved to be done with it.

But this freedom is a sense of vertigo.  I am like an astronaut floating out into space with nothing around me.  I have nothing to push off of.  I am just afloat.  I do not know what motivates me. I do not know what I care to do.  I do not know what I value.  I am just floating.  I try sometimes to move in a direction, but then my head just gets full of the bull$#!T lies I was raised in, and I see the lies.  Someday I will push off and move in my own direction. Someday I will get my drive back. But now I just float, free of direction, free of drive.  It is very strange for me.  The one truth that was always true about me is that I ALWAYS got back up and kept fighting, I always got up and tried again.  Now I do not know even what to fight for, or what to try for.

Some day I will find my jet pack and go in a direction.  Someday I will take this crap and turn it into my life.  But today I float.