Everything I did was for my husband.  Any ideas or suggestions on my part would end in Bill physically or emotionally abusing me.  I always felt my life depended on making a perfect meal.  When he didn’t like it, he would knock me out of my chair and force me to eat “that crap” off the floor. There was never a choice in how I wanted to style my hair. My choice gave him the excuse to take the scissors to my hair and cut it the way he wanted. Choosing my own eye shadow was disastrous. Bill rubbed it all over my face and forced me to wear it out in public.

I was never allowed to go to the doctor by myself (he had to be able to give false reasons for my bruises and scars) and especially when I was pregnant. While the doctor was giving me a pelvic exam, Bill would watch my face and make sure I wasn’t enjoying it.

When I finally got the nerve to leave my abusive ex-husband, one of the many questions I kept asking myself was, “Why did I submit to so much abuse?”  I couldn’t help but wonder why I didn’t walk away from it the first time he slapped me across the face, dragged me by my hair to the bedroom and raped me.  Why didn’t I call the police and why didn’t I run away?  Why did I take it, day after day, year after year?

Dr. Heyward Ewart author of “Am I Bad?” explained it so well for me:

“All people cross the line from childhood to adulthood with a secondhand opinion of who they are. Without any questioning, we take as truth whatever our parents and other influentials have said about us during our childhood, whether these messages are communicated verbally, physically, or silently.”

As I started to re-visit my childhood and my past, I was able to take a long, hard look at the child I used to be—the little girl who still lives inside of me.  I began to know what she thought, what she saw, what she heard. By seeing those things, I was able to understand her decisions to submit to abuse rather than stand against it.

When I was a child, I learned the rule, “Speak when spoken to.”  In other words, shut up unless you have broken a bone or are bleeding to death. My parents entertained friends and relatives all the time. There were always adults in our house. When the adults were gathered around the kitchen table, I was sent outside to play.  They were always talking about adult stuff so I was not allowed to hear such things. The rule was,  “Stay outside until we call for you. Don’t talk to us unless we talk to you.”

Interrupting the adults with, “So-and-so called me a bad name” was not allowed and I was told, “Stop acting like a baby”. “I fell off my bicycle and scratched my knee” would only receive a glance at the scrape and told, “Stop crying over such a small cut and tough it out.” I got a harsh stare from my dad and warned I’d better have a good reason for coming into the house. I never really knew what a “good reason” was and what would “allow” me the right to speak, so I submitted to the rule and remained the good little girl.

When my uncle started to molest me, when I went inside the house to use the restroom, I didn’t speak. The fear of being told that I wasn’t important enough to break the rule and the fear of rejection and not being believed, spoke louder than the abuse. I found a secluded spot outside, crawled into a ball and cried while I waited to be told I could come back into the house.

Another rule I learned was “Obey your mother and father.”  I knew that meant, “Do what I say or else”.  The “or else” meant beatings with a belt, a slap against the head or the most horrid of all, finding your own stick off the tree to be hit with.  I didn’t endure much physical punishment, but my brothers did. I saw the whippings because they were done in front of all of us, and I heard their stifled cries of pain because they were told, “You’d better not cry or I will give you something to cry about.”  Looking up at an adult with a weapon in his hand was a scary sight. I chose to be the good child and to obey my parents.

When I saw my dad molesting my sister, I obeyed him. He told me not to tell my mother so I did what he said. This was so traumatic for me that I dissociated it for twenty years. I always thought I hid within myself because I saw what he did, but it was being told to “obey” and the fear of not obeying that caused me to protect myself with dissociation.

I was also taught, “Respect your elders.”  But what happens when an adult doesn’t respect a child? My first day of kindergarten, the teacher was calling out our names and we were told to raise our hand and say, “Here!” The teacher called out the name Patricia.  I didn’t know my name was Patricia because I was always called Patty Jane.  She moved closer to my desk and kept calling out “Patricia” and I could tell she was getting louder and more irritated.  She stopped at my desk, grabbed my ear and pulled me out of my seat, demanding to know why I didn’t respond.  I was terrified, in shock and crying, explaining that my name is Patty Jane.  She slapped me in the face and told me to respect my elders and warned me that the next time she said my name, I’d better answer or else.

I was sent home with a note pinned on my dress.  I don’t know what the note said, but I remember trying to explain myself to my dad. I told him how my teacher pulled my ear, yanked me out of the chair and smacked me. He looked at my face, told me there were no marks, and that I needed to respect my elders and stop embarrassing my family. I got a smack to my butt and told to go outside and play.

As I grew older, there were many adults in my life who harmed me and molested me.  I was afraid to tell my parents. I was afraid to tell anyone.  I didn’t want to embarrass them. Would I be told again that I deserved the abuse and there was no excuse for not obeying my elders? I felt my pain would not be validated and I would be sent “outside” again.

By the time I was physically abused by my first husband, I’d already spent my entire childhood being a “good girl” following the rules of not resisting and not complaining.  I never knew how much pain I was suppose to endure because none of my pain was important enough for anyone to pay attention to.  What was the limit?

Bill’s rejection was just as painful as the fear of being rejected by my parents. The fear of embarrassing him in front of others, like family, friends or even the police, was a rule I had to obey.  Making him look bad in front of others meant I would be spanked, invalidated and abandoned.

Children learn from birth to cry and scream when they are hungry or in pain or fear. Healthy parents stop the crying by taking care of their child’s needs. I learned how to stop crying through fear and submission. My pain didn’t matter and I didn’t have a voice.

Teaching a child rules to live by should be for the child’s good, not just to make the child less of a hassle. The rules I learned taught me to be a submissive person—an adult with no personal boundaries, no limits to what people could do to me.  I was in fear of being rejected and not able to protect myself because I was an adult still thinking like the child I was.

I am not a piece of property.  I am a human being with feelings, emotions and thoughts. I feel pain and rejection and abandonment.  But, I didn’t believe this until after I started to see the reason I believed these lies.  I am no longer the submissive child/adult I used to be. Now I know I’m a valuable person, worthy of a life free of abuse. I’m able to recognize the false beliefs and lies from my childhood, live in the truth of who I was meant to be.

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Now that you’ve heard my experience and thoughts about this, I’d love to hear yours. Please comment below and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments so you can continue to participate in the discussion. If you would like to protect your privacy, you don’t have to use your real name. Email addresses are never made public.

Related Posts:
Domestic Violence: The Signs I Missed
Power Trip: How To Journey From Overpowered to Empowered
Standing Up For Myself: Re-claiming My Self-Worth
Perpetuating the Abusive Cycle

Patty Hite is a facilitator of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to have found the meaning of true love, a respectful relationship, and support with her late husband, Lonnie. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

When I started on my healing journey, I wanted someone to just give me the answers, show me the way and tell me what to do. I wanted to be taken care of because I didn’t have the confidence to take care of myself.

There wasn’t anyone to talk to or to show me how so I turned to books. There were only a few library books on abuse, and even fewer books about healing. Most of what I found were stories from survivors. In their stories, they wrote about what they did to heal.

Most of them went to therapists and I felt defeated because I couldn’t go to one. I came from a very small town and there were no therapists or counselors. Even if there had been, I wouldn’t have been able to afford it and I honestly don’t think I would have told anyone else about my abuse. I was afraid of a professional telling me I was crazy.

Some of the survivors from the books I read were facing their abusers. I wasn’t ready for that at such an early stage in my healing and I felt so weak.

I tried their ways and only found myself feeling more and more helpless and hopeless. My only recourse was to lay the thought of healing down—forget about it and try to continue living my life the way I always had. That didn’t help either because when those flashbacks came, I had no way of releasing the pain they left.

I had to find out what worked for me, but finding my own answers was one of the hardest things for me. I was always afraid I would mess up or do the wrong thing and then I expected punishment when I failed.

My childhood was ruled with a strict hand and we were treated like property. I learned by watching my brothers being punished, to obey without questioning. They were lined up and, depending on the crime, were beaten with a stick off the tree, a paddleboard or a leather belt. They weren’t allowed to cry or get angry. No emotions were allowed. To me, that was terrifying.

My adult life was controlled by more abuse so I was trained to just follow other people’s rules to try to survive. When I married my first husband, I learned the lessons even more. He used many tools to get his way. I learned about emotional abuse, sexual abuse, and physical abuse. He manipulated me with blame, shame and guilt and he forced me with his hand and other weapons. I was punished when I made a mistake, when I didn’t do things right, when I spoke out of turn, or when I showed emotions.

No matter what I did, I could never do it right. Abusers had to have control over me and in order to remain in control they had to belittle me and come against anything I said or anything I did.

By the time I wanted to heal from my abuse, I was used to complying. If someone told me to do it their way, right or wrong didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had to obey their rules.

I also knew that failure brought punishment and pain. Even though no one was going to beat me anymore, I was afraid of letting others down. If it was their way, they could determine if I was doing it right and punish me for not doing it right. I was going to pay a price for failing, no matter what I did.

Since I couldn’t tell at that time whether someone was helping me or abusing me, I felt it was important for my healing to not be around people who wanted to give me the answers. I could listen to other survivors, but I needed to find my own way. I needed the freedom to discover what was right for me and what worked for me. I needed to be able to make mistakes without retribution and fear of punishment.

I was set up to fail as long as I tried to heal someone else’s way but I found out that I have no problem with making mistakes or wrong choices when they are mine. I can usually pick myself right back up and look for Plan B or Plan C.

One day I had a flashback of me as a child sitting under a tree in our back yard. Anytime I felt sad that is where I would go to talk things out. I felt free to cry and get angry.

If that worked for me then, maybe it would work for me now? And that is what I did. My first step for healing was finding a secluded place and talking about how I felt. I love looking at the beauty of nature, so it was easy for me to sit under a tree and tell God how much I hurt, and face those areas of fear. I love to write so it became natural for me to write about my abuse. I love to take long baths with soft music and candles, so it was easy for me to do that when I was in a critical part of my healing. I realized that by doing things that brought me comfort and that I enjoyed, I was also nurturing myself, which made it easier to face the traumatic times in my life.

Before I started to combine my nurturing needs with my healing needs, I waited until I couldn’t take another breath before I would face that pain. Sometimes I would have anxiety attacks all day long. I couldn’t sleep. I’d crawl in a corner on the floor, feeling like every nerve in my body was coming through my finger tips. I’d dissociate and have so much rage before I would break down and face that pain.

Finding what works for me has been a lifesaver. I make the rules, I face it when I am ready and I do it my way. For me, nothing is better and more empowering than that.

Now that you’ve heard my experience and thoughts about this, I’d love to hear yours. Please comment below and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments so you can continue to partake in the discussion. If you would like to protect your privacy, you don’t have to use your real name. Email addresses are never made public.

Related Posts:
Healing From Sexual Abuse: Celebrating My Victories
Is Healing From Sexual Abuse Really Possible?
Is it Possible to Heal From Abuse Without Therapy?
Dealing With Triggers of Abuse

Patty Hite is a facilitator of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to have found the meaning of true love, a respectful relationship, and support with her late husband, Lonnie. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

Patty: Thirty years ago, when I started to heal from sexual, physical, and verbal abuse, there were no support groups for survivors. No one talked openly about abuse, especially not about sexual abuse. I tried to talk to my friends. Although they felt compassion for me, they thought the best solution was to forget about it and try to move on with my life.

I lived in a very small farming town of 750 people so seeing a therapist or doctor who understood the effects of abuse was not an option. The internet wasn’t available at that time, so my only “friends” were the ones who shared their stories in the library books I read. I remember how deeply their stories of abuse and their courage impacted my life. Reading about their abuse confirmed that I was not alone. As they shared their steps toward healing and talked about the masks they wore in order to survive, I cried and laughed, all at the same time. They felt the same way I did and they weren’t afraid to talk about it. I felt like someone finally understood.

I never felt that I needed therapy because all the answers were in these books. I learned very early in healing that I needed to do what was right for me. I can’t tell you how many books I’ve thrown across the room because they were too overwhelming and how many times I’ve had to take a break from everything. I couldn’t see myself on a schedule, especially not forced or coerced into healing on someone else’s schedule. I was used to doing what others told me to do so I needed to be in control of my own healing.

I’m not saying I think there’s anything wrong with therapy. I’m saying it was wrong for me. And that is important in healing—finding what is right and what is not, what works and what doesn’t. Doing it my way and on my schedule is what I’ve needed.

Christina: When I started to heal from sexual abuse, I never considered seeing a therapist. I was still married to my abusive husband and there was no way he would have agreed to pay for anything that wouldn’t serve him and his plans for me. Even if he would have agreed to pay for therapy, I didn’t think I was worth the money. I often had trouble justifying just paying for a haircut.

I don’t think money was the real issue, though. I’d had two very bad experiences with professionals. The first time was when I was in grade five and the school district psychologist pulled me out of class to find out what was wrong with me. I couldn’t tell her the things my dad was doing to me, so I struggled to give her some reason for whatever she thought was wrong. I told her I didn’t have any friends, which wasn’t true. Over the next several months, she worked with me on how to make friends. I had the feeling that she didn’t like me and that she was annoyed with me most of the time. I’m glad I didn’t tell her about my abuse because she never felt like a safe person anyway.

The second time I saw a counselor was when I had an affair. I went to a Christian counselor for a few weeks (my husband was all for getting me “help” this time) and the counselor determined that my problem was that I had a demon of seduction. That didn’t help me at all, but that concluded my “help”.

In addition to my unfruitful experiences with mental health professionals, I was suspicious of people who were “experts” or authority figures. Those are the people who hurt me in the first place and I saw them as sources of harm, not help.

Jennifer: The truth is I would have loved to go to therapy and talk to someone when I was younger, but I never really felt like getting help was an option. I went to a small high school with fewer than 100 students, so there was no counselor to talk to, and I never felt like I could go to my family. I was the support person in my home and my family made it quite clear they weren’t strong enough to be bothered with my problems.

I opened up to one friendly teacher, but I never felt like she had the time or ability to help me. I truly wanted to face my past but I didn’t know how to do that. Since I had so little support, I shoved everything back down inside me. It was too painful to want the help I couldn’t get.

Like you, Christina, I never felt like I had the money to invest in therapy as an adult. It wasn’t until I discovered the world of self-help that I started opening up about my abuse again and was finally able to start healing.

I started reading every book about sexual abuse I could find at the local used book store, I joined Facebook and connected with other abuse survivors. I cut contact from the abusive people in my life and the people I knew wouldn’t support my healing, and really started looking at how my abuse had affected my life.

Christina: Books have been my primary tool for healing, too. I felt safe being able to pick them up and put them down when I wanted to. I wasn’t afraid of the book judging me or interrupting me.

I used to need to control my interactions with people and my memories felt too raw to share until I sorted them all out. Books gave me clues about the things I needed to look at. Each time I figured out some issue and faced it privately, I felt less vulnerable sharing it with close friends. There’s something about processing it that makes it seem more manageable and less threatening.

Earlier in my healing, I don’t know if I would have ever have the guts to say aloud what happened to me, so talking with another person seemed out of the question. Now, even though I’m comfortable sharing things I haven’t dissected yet, I still process things on my own and then share them with people I trust. Many times while I’m sharing, more truths come out and I can face another layer or another aspect that I missed.

Jennifer: That’s what I do a lot too, Christina. I usually work through a memory on my own by writing it out and making any connections I can between my abuse and how it’s affected my current life. But then I’m usually so excited about my breakthroughs that I have to tell my friends, and while talking I’ll realize even more! It’s great to have healing buddies, but I have to do the work of healing myself. Nobody can do that for me.

Patty: I learned that I had to do the work myself too. There were two important things that I grabbed a hold of. One was that I had to get it out. Writing was an easy way for me to do that and I still do a lot of writing. When I revisit my abuse, writing helps me to see more details. When I’m sad, happy or angry, I can express it so much better on paper. I’ve written angry letters to my abusers (I didn’t mail them) and I’ve written compassionate letters to myself.

And the other one was instilling boundaries into my life. I had to stop any further abuse. I always thought it was my fault, but by learning about boundaries, I was able to learn how to trust my judgment of people and have the ability to walk away from bad situations. Trusting myself to make decisions about people helped me to listen to the warning signs of abuse. That was a weak area in my life and I know that had a lot to do with feeling like I was an easy mark for abusers.

Christina: Writing is one of the tools I use, too. It helps me to sort things out and to express them. I used to have trouble crying, but by writing the words, “I feel so hurt and alone”, I was still able to get it out in some way.

I process an abuse memory by examining the memory in detail. What was done to me? What was said? If there was more than one person involved, what did the other person’s reaction tell me? What messages did I come to believe from the actions and words? What did those things tell me about myself and about what I could expect from the world? How did I adapt to the lies I believed? What is the truth? How should I have been treated? (When I don’t know, I think about how I would expect another child to be treated). Seeing the truth is freeing and healing.

Jennifer: I don’t have to have other people to heal, but having people I trust has made a big difference for me. A huge part of my abuse was feeling unlovable. I’ve had to face the things that made me believe that, but having loving people around during my healing sure makes that easier.

Patty: I would have welcomed a support group like Overcoming Sexual Abuse. It’s like opening a book at the library, only the survivors here are able to answer me back. Having the ability to hear so many stories of hope and healing is very empowering to me. This is real life and these are real people and I feel honored to be a part of their lives.

Christina: I used to feel that all the growth I’ve accomplished through my healing was somehow less legitimate because I didn’t see a therapist. Through healing, I’m excited to wake up everyday, my relationships are healthy, I’m finally able to love myself and feel great about myself, but I discounted all of that since it wasn’t validated by a “professional”. As I compared my process to other survivors who had therapy, though, I didn’t see inferior results. I noticed that no matter with a therapist or without, no matter with a support group or without, no matter what tools we use or what help we get, it’s up to each survivor to do the work and that’s where the rewards of healing come from.

Abuse teaches us that we aren’t enough in ourselves so many survivors falsely assume that we can’t do it on our own. The truth is that most survivors of abuse are capable of a lot more than we give ourselves credit for.

There are plenty of people who benefit from therapy and those who might not ever have the courage to face the past without a therapist, so I’m thankful they have a place to go. But since that wasn’t an option for me, I’m thankful that I found my own way to heal.

Patty: Yes, I’m glad that I don’t have to depend on anyone else to heal. For me, it’s been a personal reward—my work, my changes, my accomplishments. I can do this!!!

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Related Posts:
Is Overcoming Sexual Abuse Really Possible?
My Healing Journey: Stumbling and Getting Back Up
My Support System is Led By Me
Stand-in or Star: Taking Center Stage in Your Healing
Microwave Healing: I Want to Feel Better NOW

Patty Hite is a facilitator of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years.  She dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to have found the meaning of true love, a respectful relationship, and support with her late husband, Lonnie. She’s blessed with four children and five grandchildren.

Jennifer Stuck is whole heartedly pursuing physical and emotional health and is determined to heal the wounds of her childhood sexual abuse. She loves to write, especially poetry. She has an open, accepting personality, and is always ready to crack a joke. She is currently studying for a career in Physical Therapy. When she isn’t in school Jennifer is at home spending time with her two beautiful daughters.

Christina Enevoldsen is cofounder of Overcoming Sexual Abuse, an online resource for male and female abuse survivors looking for practical answers and tools for healing. Christina’s passions are writing and speaking about her own journey of healing from abuse and inspiring people toward wholeness. She and her husband live in Los Angeles and share three children and four grandchildren.

The day we got married, Bill greeted me in our kitchen with a slap across the face that was so hard it knocked me to the floor. He grabbed my hair and dragged me into the bedroom where he raped me. Afterward, he told me that now I belonged to him and I would do what he said, when he said it, and how he said it.

When he finished, he told me to get a washcloth and wipe the blood off of him. My blood. He then told me to clean myself up, cover up my bruise and to stop crying. Like a robot, I did what he said. It wasn’t until I looked in the bathroom mirror that I could actually believe what he just did. The man I married, the man I loved, just raped me and beat the crap out of me.

I wish I could tell you that I fought him while he was raping me. But I didn’t. I often had fantasies of fighting back and he was the one on the floor with me standing over him and kicking the hell out of him. But that was only a fantasy. The truth is, I became totally helpless, submissive in fear. Instead of trying to figure out how to escape this torment, I convinced myself I needed to be a better wife.

I’ve often asked myself why I submitted to that abuse? Why didn’t I fight back? Why didn’t I walk away or go to the police? Physical and emotional abuse was the norm in my childhood home. My dad ruled the roost. Although I never saw him physically abuse my mother, he verbally and emotionally abused her. And she submitted. He would go to the bar, mess around with other women, and then come home and accuse my mom of having affairs. I heard him yelling at her in the middle of the night. The next morning, she would make him breakfast and he would treat her like a queen. My parents groomed me to submit.

I believed that a woman stands by her man, no matter what. My dad repeatedly raped my sister and I witnessed it. My mom stood by my dad and sent my sister away. I believed that family business—adultery, incest, and abuse—remain in the home. Cover up the bruises and put on a happy face and pretend that life is good and wonderful. I believed that asking for help was a sign of weakness and that crying, complaining and getting angry was not allowed. I knew that if I did any of those things, more punishment would follow.

By the time I became an adult, I knew my place in the world. I was to be the submissive wife and I would do anything and everything in order to please my husband.

This became the norm with Bill. At night, when the kids were asleep, he abused me in the most sadistic ways. He always found a reason to hurt me—if the mailman said “Hi” to me, if a button was missing on his shirt, if my mascara was smeared—any reason to let me know that I was a failure and I needed to be punished. I would make him breakfast the next morning wearing a smiling face for my kids. Bill would greet me with a morning kiss and tell the kids what a wonderful mother and woman I was—a copycat of my childhood. It was so familiar and I knew what to do and how to act.

I used to believe that there were no warnings that Bill was Satan in disguise. During the six months we dated, he seemed to be everything I could possibly want in a man. But the truth is, there were warning signs from the very beginning. The signs were everywhere, but at the time, I didn’t see them for what they were since they were familiar and normal.

I mistook attention, jealousy and possessiveness as signs of love. I had a distorted belief of what a husband, marriage and love should be. I was so caught up in the abusive world and the false beliefs that come from that world, that when abuse was going on around me, I ignored the signals that were as loud as a fog horn or as bright as a neon sign.

Before we ever started to date, Bill was grooming me. We worked together, (that is where we met) and in the lunchroom he would point out the failures of my friends—people I had grown up with and now worked with. As soon as they were out of earshot, he would tell me about their weaknesses. In front of them, he was charming. They were users or they were bad parents or they would always take advantage of me. I never saw these bad points in my friends, but after a while I was convinced. Bill was the only good, honest person in that whole company and I shouldn’t waste my time on such riff raff. He separated me from my friends.

It was the same with my family. They were too good for me. My brother had too much and flaunted it. My sister had too little and was trash. My mother was too close and wouldn’t let me grow up.

In truth, I became his property. It didn’t take long before I realized that I was not capable of making decisions about people and I couldn’t trust anyone but him. Not only did my body belong to him, but my mind and my soul had his name imprinted on them and I was nobody. I became no one. I no longer existed.

As I look back on those times, I could honestly say that his jealousy made me feel all warm inside. To me it meant that he loved me so much and was afraid to lose me. Separating me from my friends and family meant that he was watching out for me and wanted to spend every waking moment with me. I was his girl. I was special.

The rest of my marriage to him was abusive in every way. There were no more hidden signs. They were out in the open now. I knew I was going to be beaten before it even happened.

I started to have flashbacks of my childhood. I started to see the familiar patterns. The false beliefs that I learned so well started to reveal themselves. I knew inside that these lies were the beginning of finding the truth of what a normal, healthy life should be. The more I healed, the stronger I became. I started to realize that I did have a choice. I was able to decide what was right and what was wrong.

Hopelessness and helplessness was being replaced with hope and strength. I needed to get out of this hell. I was strong enough to make plans and I was strong enough to leave. It took me three years to plan my escape and it was my friends and family who helped me do it—the same ones I walked away from. They saw the signs from the beginning and were waiting for me to give them the sign. The sign that said, “It is time.” The sign that said, “Help Me!”

Now thirty years later, with healing from my abuse, I am able to discern the signs. The more I heal, the more signs I see:

1. Abusers are extremely possessive and jealous. Those are not emotions of love. They are efforts to control. An abuser will not share you with anyone. They have to own you.

2. Abusers separate you from family and friends. If they can keep you away from supportive people, then you won’t tell others. (Deep down I knew this was wrong. Walking away and hurting my family and friends, kept me in shame. This shame kept me from asking for help.)

3. Abusers have rigid expectations of relationships. There is no compromise. You will behave accordingly and agree to agree with him/her. (I dressed the way he wanted me to. I cooked the way he wanted me to. I spoke the way he wanted me to. I pretended my marriage was wonderful—the way HE wanted me to.)

4. Abusers blame the victim. “He wouldn’t get angry if only I would do what he wanted me to.” (I was convinced early on that I was to blame for his behavior. I would get him so angry, that he couldn’t control himself).

5. Abusers act like they have a double personality. They can be overly charming or exceptionally cruel, generous or selfish. (I never knew what personality he would be. I spend most of my time trying to see what “mood” he was in and then trying to change it. I knew before the abuse happened. It was like a fog was surrounding me. I would prepare myself emotionally for what would happen that night).

6. Abusers are con men or con women. In front of others, they are charming and convincing. Cool and collected. (This was so confusing for me, because he would be so happy while entertaining others, but the moment they left, I got blamed for their faults. If someone said something wrong, I heard about it all night. I wouldn’t dare make excuses for them or their behavior. I soon learned to try and not entertain. Stay away from other people all together.)

7. Abusers stop calling you by your name. By separating you from your name, you are no longer a person. You are a piece of property. (The last time he used my name was the day we were married. From that day on, I was addressed differently: “Get” (Get me something to drink.) “You” (You did this and You did that) “F*&^*ing” (F*&^*ing Whore, Bitch, Good for Nothing, Piece of Shit, Worthless Piece of Crap, etc)

When I separated myself from abuse, I had every right to not trust any man. But, throughout the years, I’ve learned that life isn’t about living in fear. My life started when I began to learn to trust myself. Now I trust myself to see the signs and to listen to their warning. I’m not afraid of being around people because I’m not afraid of being hurt. Now, I know I can walk away before the danger starts. Abuse isn’t love; love allows me to make choices and decide what is best for me and who is best for me. The more I heal, the more signs I see now and especially the ones that were there all along.

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Related Posts:
Power Play: How To Recognize an Abuser
The Fear of Being Re-victimized
Life-Saving Anger
The Myth of Unconditional Love
Dating After Sexual Abuse: Is This Love?

Patty Hite is a facilitator of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to have found the meaning of true love, a respectful relationship, and support with her late husband, Lonnie. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

Sometimes I feel like I am an advocate for anger. I don’t want others to think that I am an angry old woman, full of bitterness and mad at the world. That is not who I am.  But anger has been a life-saving force and I’m thankful for it. 

I spent half of my life being passive. I wondered why there was so much abuse in the world, but I didn’t have the energy or strength to do anything about it. I was sexually abused at a very young age and the older I got, the more I was physically and emotionally abused. There were times when I fought for my life and for my honor, but those times were few and far between. I beat the crap out of some boys who tried to touch my body and called me a bitch because I fought them off.  I chased one boy through the halls at my high school because he lied and said I performed oral sex on him. Once I caught up to him, he recanted and told everyone he lied. Yet, most of the time I cowered down and others abused me without a word or a fight.

By the time I married my abusive first husband, he played me like a puppet and I endured ten years of traumatizing abuse. From the very first smack and rape until I left him many years later, I never raised my voice except to beg for my life. Fighting back was not an option because I knew the punishment would be more than I could endure.

The first sign of anger was when my daughter told me that she was being sexually abused by him, and I plotted my escape. It was anger that motivated me. Since it was my mother’s house, he was forced to leave, but he broke in and stuck a knife to my throat and took my son out of my arms in the middle of the night.

I was devastated and felt like giving up, but anger rose up and I had enough strength to visit every lawyer in our small town and found one who gave me a discounted price to fight for full custody. My ex tormented me constantly with phone calls, threats and tried to run me off the road with his truck. I was afraid for my life and could feel myself wanting to give up the fight. It wasn’t until the day that my daughter came running in the house telling me that my ex tried to run her over in the front yard, that the rage I had been holding in finally took its place of honor.

The tire tracks covered the same place my daughter was playing. I saw him at the end of the road and heard him revving up his engine. I walked into the middle of the road and told myself, “Do or die, I will not live in this fear!” I stood there as he drove towards me. I refused to move and knew that I would rather die than to live like this. He steered away from me within inches of hitting me. It was over. I won. Anger gave me the strength, again.

He moved out of the state and I followed him for a year to try and get my son back. The only way I could track him was through the schools my son would attend. One year and four states later, my ex called and told me to pick up my son. Although I finally won, I know that it was anger that gave me the willpower to fight and to spend everyday, calling every school to track him down.

Years later, anger saved my five year old daughter from cancer. The doctors told me she would die. I remember the moment the doctor told me how severe her leukemia was and I felt a teardrop hit my folded hands. One tear. I was mentally back in my abusive relationship. Defeated and holding back my emotions. I wanted to die, I wanted to give up.  When he was done telling me the bad news, he lifted up my face with his hands and told me that he would never give up. He would do everything he could to keep her alive. His words were like a hammer and chisel. If this man, who is a stranger, will fight then I can too. That night, I re-visited my abuse and the feelings of defeat. I got mad that cancer would dare try to kill my child. I found the strength to fight.

Anger gave me strength to keep family and friends away who were themselves defeated and told me to “Let her go.” Anger gave me strength to run a night-duty doctor out of her room because he told me in front of her that I was in denial and that she was going to die. Anger made me alert to guard what medication was being given to her after a nurse gave her a pill that caused my daughter to hemorrhage in her eye and caused her blindness. Anger gave me the tenacity to fight against the insurance company because they were going to let her die instead of paying for a transplant.  I continued to fight through a bone marrow transplant and those ten years they say cancer can re-occur.

You bet I get angry. Anger is a force of energy for me. It keeps me alert and empowered to fight for myself and others. It’s like a shield that wards off those who try to put me down and it’s like a weapon when I need to conquer. It’s a part of me now and I know that I can call on it anytime I want it. It’s right there, just under the surface ready to be awakened when needed and to give me a helping hand.

Related Links:
The Truth About Blame
What About Forgiveness?
My Parents Are Dead (To Me)
A See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil Frame of Mind

Patty Hite is one of five facilitators of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to find true love with her husband of ­­­­five years. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Have you ever thought how ridiculous these three words are? “Forget About It!” I have been told to do this so many times over the years, especially about my abuse. I’ve spent so much time and energy trying to follow that suggestion and I have come to the conclusion that it is absolutely impossible to do.

How does one forget about it? It’s my past. It happened. I lived it. I felt it, I touched it, I smelled it. Tell me HOW am I supposed to forget it? Do I snap my fingers, click my heels three times, or pray that it leaves? Can I smash it with a hammer like an old computer hard drive or do I try to replace it with more happy memories? Can someone tell me where the delete button is, because I have tried everything possible to remove my memories of abuse and it hasn’t worked.

Forget about it? As a young child, I witnessed my dad raping my sister, and that was the beginning of my efforts to forget about it. My mind locked that away along with memories of my own sexual abuse and I did forget about it until many years later.

But those memories came back like a flood and from that moment on, my life changed. Those experiences are locked in, never to leave. Sure, I wish it never happened. But it did. There is no doubt about that. My memories don’t lie. No one planted them in my head. I didn’t read it from a book. It happened.

Even after my mind unlocked those memories, I spent many more years trying to forget. I stuffed it in the back of my mind and did everything to try and keep it there. I started doing drugs at a very young age, and then I tried alcohol. Yeah, I became someone else during those times. I didn’t think about the abuse I saw and experienced. I could actually go a few days in between the hurt and pain that would try to sneak up on me with flashbacks and triggers. The more they surfaced, the more drugs I did.

Drugs were getting harder to find and I was getting scared because of the chemicals in those drugs. So I would forget about it by going to my happy place. I would zone out mentally from my surroundings and my past. Although my body performed as though I was present, my mind was not there. I could communicate with others only to walk away and not remember the conversation. There was no fear of what happened, no fear of what may happen, nor fear when something bad did happen.

Clinging to abusive men and abusive friendships was a way of forgetting about it too. Fighting each day for my life and learning how to walk on eggshells, living with extensive drama helped to mask the past pain. Except then, I had more traumatic memories of abuse piled upon my childhood memories. Forget about it? That only caused more pain.

So, here I am. Fifty-nine years old with the memories of my childhood and adult abuse. They aren’t going anywhere. I can continue to spend more wasted time on trying to forget about them, or I can face them. Relive them. Instead of trying to push them aside, I can look at them with my adult eyes.

So I’ve pulled those memories out to the forefront and dusted off the cobwebs. The pain has been unbearable at times. There have been times I couldn’t breath and I cried for days. But I faced it.

It wasn’t so much the physical pain of the abuse—it was pain of my broken heart that hurt so much. It was the pain of knowing that my dad had gone from father to predator. The pain of remembering the uncle I loved and cherished had crossed the line from hugging to fondling me. Understanding that the men I loved and trusted didn’t love me. Yes, there is pain in remembering my abuse. But there is much, much more pain in trying to forget about it.

Revisiting my memories of abuse and my dysfunctional upbringing is like finding a box in the corner of my closet. I don’t know what is in there, but I get so excited when I open it. Each time I revisit my memories, a new awakening happens. It’s facing facts and it’s facing truth. I’m able to find my hidden emotions that I pushed aside. The smells and things I saw during my abuse no longer torment me. I can actually walk into a room and smell his cologne and not have a panic attack. Wallpaper with little flowers doesn’t make me dizzy, and hearing kissing sounds don’t cause me to throw up anymore.

Each time I revisit those memories, I release more pain and reveal a part of me that was hidden. I am in those memories I tried so hard to forget. Pieces of me. Whether it be an emotion or something I touched, or smelled, or even a thought. Me. To forget about IT, means forgetting about ME. I’m remembering and healing and rescuing myself from the past. I’m my whole self in the present. Forget about it? NEVER!!!

Patty Hite is one of five facilitators of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to find true love with her husband of ­­­­five years. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

I recently moved from Florida to Ohio. My husband and I thought it would be a great move. I was raised in Ohio, so I was ready and willing to move back. He is ill and wanted me to be around my family.

It was a hard move. The dream that it would be “greener on the other side of the fence” turned out to be untrue. We drove through snow and ice in a convoy of two U-Haul trucks. We arrived to find that the home we rented has a landlord from hell. Everyday has been a struggle to get things fixed. The weather is too drastic for my husband. We realized that we need to go back home—home to Florida.

The thought of going through another move caused many coping mechanisms to surface. I had to choose to succumb to them or to overcome them. Fear was rising within me—fear of having no control over the situation.

I’ve been healing from my abuse long enough to know what I need to do in order to feel empowered again, but the truth is, I didn’t want to deal with healing. I’ve already dealt with my past—the dysfunction of my family, the sexual abuse of my sister and me, the physical abuse from my ex-husband and the sexual abuse of my children by their father. I don’t have flashbacks, triggers or nightmares. Anxiety attacks are taken care of, behavior and boundaries are renewed and I love who I am. The past doesn’t hurt anymore. I can talk about it without pain and sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else.

But sometimes the patterns from the past, the old behaviors, try to invade my thoughts and try to rule and control my emotions. I am aware of them, I know what needs to be done and I know how to control them. But sometimes, I just don’t want to.

The first thing to surface was the desire to dissociate. I’ve dealt with this, especially over this past year. I know when I am being wooed to escape and I have learned to overcome it. This past week, it came in like a flood and all I needed to do was open the gates. Part of me knew that if I gave in, I could escape, but the other part of me knew that it would become my “sick” friend again. I knew that if I invited it in, it would fight to stay. Dissociation is like getting drunk. It feels good at the moment because it offers temporary relief, but I have to face the real world when I wake up.

Then I had thoughts of “Woe is me!” “This isn’t fair!” “No one understands what I have to go through in order to make this move!” “No one cares!“ I didn’t give any thought to what this is doing to my husband. He is the ill one, yet I wanted to be ill. I wanted all the attention and I wanted everyone to feel sorry for me. I hung onto that for a few days and made life impossible for everyone around me. There was nothing they could do to make me feel better and I rejected every great idea they had. “It’s not going to work.” “There is no way to make this happen.”

Isolation was another thing trying to woo me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to be left alone to wallow in my self pity. When anyone talked to me, I pretended like I didn’t hear them or my answers were so sharp they cut like a knife. I imagined putting on my coat and boots and walking until I got lost. Then everyone would wonder where I was or else they wouldn’t care and be glad I was gone. Would anyone even miss me? I was becoming a stranger to them. They didn’t know who this crazy woman was anymore. Dang. I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I hate being isolated. Not only do I stay away, my family stays away. I put up my walls that they won’t cross. Then they feel unwanted and unloved. I understand this pattern since it was a close friend of mine. I always wondered why I wasn’t invited places and why people didn’t want to be around me. I stayed away from them, then they stayed away from me. Then I’d get angry because they stayed away.

After a few days of feeling weak and wanting to crawl into bed and not get up, I faced ME. Every one of these were patterns from my past. I went back to that time and remembered how badly I wanted to run.

I was an escape addict. It started with the first time I dissociated during my abuse and it grew from there. As a child, I was only allowed to be a victim in my own world. I couldn’t physically escape, but I could escape in my mind. I escaped from my abuse and the misery of it.

But I didn’t stop dissociating when I grew up. There were times in my life when I wanted or needed someone else to take over. If I escaped, maybe things would be better in the morning or maybe someone else would take care of it. I wanted to be rescued like I never was during my childhood.

I have always been the one to take care of things. Every man I was with passed the buck. Any turmoil was left in my hands. So I handled it, but I found ways of escaping in my mind for a while. I wanted to be a victim so someone else would take over. I wanted a chance to be the carefree child I never was allowed to be.

As the youngest of nine kids, I didn’t get much attention as a child. But I’d get one-on-one time with my mom when I was sick. As I got older, it became a way of escape from stress. When I got older and in high school, I was so afraid to stand in front of the class and read. I could literally make myself ill so I didn’t have to go to school. It was almost like willing myself and it happened. My body always followed my emotions. If I got depressed or scared enough, my body would break down. I would be nauseous and run a fever and have body aches. It would last for days. If I gave it an inch, it always took a mile.

When we lived in Florida, being outside and walking to the lake where we live was a way for me to nurture myself. It brought calmness to me so I could think and relax and make plans. But here, I couldn’t do that. It has been miserable outside since day one. There are other things I do, but spending time outside is my solitude. I plan on doing a lot more of this when we get to Florida. I don’t want it to be a way of escape, but a way of life.

I wasn’t taken care of as a child and my coping methods were the best I could do then. But keeping them around kept me from taking care of myself now. I can’t undo the past, but I can give myself the care I never got as a child. Doing that helps me face my adult responsibilities.

So, here I am now. I took the time to face them all and I am glad I did. I feel strong again and I’m ready to make the plans to move again. I’m actually looking forward to it. I know I can do it.

My mind is clear and focused. I am actively involved with the thoughts and ideas of my family. My husband feels secure and safe again, knowing that we are a team. I am back. I’m laughing and hugging and kissing and holding. I am ME again. I found my “moving” notebook (I threw it behind the television in a fit of anger and self pity.) I crossed out “Ohio – Here We Come” and replaced it with “Florida – Homeward Bound.”

Patty Hite is one of five facilitators of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to find true love with her husband of ­­­­five years. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Living in a dysfunctional home, I was taught by example how to deny and ignore the things around me. No one spoke about the fights and arguments that went on and I learned to not speak about them too. My mom did everything to protect us kids from the many women my dad had affairs with. But she couldn’t protect us from the fights and arguments that went on in the middle of the night. I heard my mom tell my dad to lower his voice so he wouldn’t wake us up. But that didn’t stop him from abusing her with his harsh words. There were many nights I would wake up crying and holding my little hands over my ears so I wouldn’t hear the fighting.

I understand the heart of my mother. She wanted to protect her children, but it was confusing to me as I became an adult. My dad got drunk, slept with friends and relatives of my mom’s. She would catch him and then he would abuse her. A child knows. I knew my dad was doing wrong because I could hear the excuses he gave her. She thought she was protecting her children by protecting him. She wanted us kids to respect him and honor him. She sacrificed her self-respect in order for him to be respected. She took last place in the home and it showed as we became adults. Although I know my brothers loved my mother, their time was spent with my dad. It was sickening to me because they made him the martyr. They idolized him and would do anything and everything to stand in the same room with him. They tried to out-do each other to get a word of praise from him, and there were times that I wondered if they asked him for permission to use the restroom. They heard no evil. I did.

Shortly before my mother died we talked about her life. I wanted to know if she was happy with the outcome. I wanted to know if she did everything she wanted to do. Her response to me was, “I should have never left your father.” It floored me. She was eighty years old and still loved this man. But more than that, she thought her life would have been more complete if she would have stayed with him. He molested her daughter, had affairs with her relatives and friends. He abused her verbally and degraded her.

She still spoke highly of my father after all these years and continued to live in a fantasy world with him as her king. I started to remind her of all that he did to her, and she reminded me that he was my father and I shouldn’t judge him by how he treated her. I was really confused because I questioned my loyalty to her and my sister. Why shouldn’t I be angry and upset at the way she was treated? Why should I honor a man who molested my sister? Why shouldn’t his actions have a reflection on my decisions concerning him? She couldn’t and wouldn’t hear me any longer. She spoke no evil. I Do!

I married a man who physically abused me and it was very important for me to protect my kids from seeing and hearing it. I knew I was going to be beaten so I would make my way to the bedroom. I did everything to muffle my cries of pain and caught myself many times, telling him that the kids would hear. He didn’t care what they heard or saw, and made a spectacle of my abuse in front of them. Of course it was to gain fear and control over them and me. It was so traumatic that I found out later that my children dissociated most of those times and only remembered a few of them.

I became a pro at covering up my bruises and started each day in the kitchen, acting like nothing happened the night before. I spoke well of my husband to my children and used words like “Respect your Father” and “Mommy made Daddy mad” and “Daddy loves you so much.” I contradicted everything they heard and saw of the abuse. I know now that I painted a false picture to them. I tried to convince them that they didn’t really see what they thought they saw and that the bruises I tried to cover up weren’t really there. I’m sorry that they saw evil.

When abuse reigns in a home it covers every aspect of that home. The walls are never thick enough to muffle out the yelling and crying and there’s not enough makeup to cover up the scars. I know now that there is no excuse for abuse. It doesn’t matter what I was shown as a child, and it doesn’t matter how much I tried to hide it, abuse should never have been allowed in my mother’s life, my life, nor my children’s lives.

I used to ask myself what I could have done differently to cover it up more—to protect my children better than my mother protected me. The only way I could have done better was to stop it from happening at all. I set my children up for abuse and years of emotional torment, the same way I was set up. It’s taken me many years to come to the realization that I am a product of my mom. My abuse, though more physical than hers, was a copycat by the actions I did to cover it up and protect the abuser. I WAS a product of my mom, but NOW I’m a product of my healing. I see abuse for what it is, I hear and recognize the truth now and I use my voice to expose and resist it.

Related Links:
The Truth About Blame
My Parents Are Dead (To Me)
What About Forgiveness?
Life-Saving Anger

Patty Hite is one of five facilitators of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to find true love with her husband of ­­­­five years. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Last night I received a phone call from the leasing agent in Ohio who told us that we’re approved to lease her house. As much as I love the beaches and sunny days of Florida, this just never felt like home. My husband made Florida home but I have always felt like this was a temporary visit. So Ohio, here we come.

Ohio was my childhood home. I was born and raised there. Ohio is the place I was sexually abused and where I caught my dad in bed with my sister.

I have very few good memories in my life—especially from my childhood. I remember every act of abuse I suffered throughout my life. I can tell you how I felt, what I was doing, what my abuser did, but I can’t remember many good times. It was so traumatic for me to see my dad in bed with my sister that I succumbed to dissociation frequently. I can’t help but think that I escaped to my happy place—a dissociated place in my mind—most of my life.

My children remind me of times in their lives and I can’t remember them. I’ve looked at photo albums and I can tell you what picture is on what page, but I can’t remember what was happening or where we were when those pictures were taken. I remember being in the hospital when they were born, happy times, but few adventures during their young lives.

I’ve lived a stressful adult life and I’ve found that stress was a trigger to depart from my surroundings. When I was overwhelmed by neglect from my husband, stressed over lack of finances, or worried about cooking a good meal, I escaped. It was second nature to me. Trying to decide what to buy at the store or getting to the gas station before I ran out of gas triggered me into dissociation. I realized a few years ago that I was in a dissociated state of mind more than I was out of it. It hurts to know that because of that, I forgot the good times—precious times that I should have had, especially concerning my children’s early years.

The last time I was in Ohio was about eight years ago. Going there brought back little girl Patty. I drove by the home where we lived when my mom discovered my dad was having sex with my sister. I felt sad when I saw the two story house—no great, overwhelming feelings—just sadness. I drove by my grade school and saw the playground. It was the after-school hang-out and where they held daily activities for the neighborhood kids during the summer. Memories came flooding back of learning to play chess and four square bounce, and of the swings and the field where I played kick ball.

One day, I saw a sign that pointed to a park. The name wasn’t familiar, but I wanted a break from driving and thought I would take some time and walk around. There was a path that led to a small bridge that crossed over a little creek. I stood in the middle of that bridge and saw a small but beautiful waterfall. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming feeling that I had been there before and tears started rolling down my cheeks. Before long, I was crying uncontrollably and had to find a bench to sit on.

After a few minutes an older woman sat beside me and asked if I was okay. I told her that these were tears of joy and that I had been searching for something good from my childhood and I finally found it. She patted my shoulder and left, but I sat there for hours as the memories of my childhood came flooding back. Good memories. Happy and joyful memories. This park and the bridge and the waterfall was my happy place. This was the place I went in my mind when I was being beaten and raped by my ex-husband. This was my safe place. This was my escape. Welcome home, Patty Jane.

I asked my sister, who lives in Ohio, about that park. She told me we used to take a bus there. Mom would bring food and we’d spend the whole day. It was before I saw my dad with my sister. Things changed in the house after that. Mom started to work and couldn’t spend much time with us. Their marriage was strained. I think I started dissociating then and it became an everyday thing for me.

Finding that happy place and realizing it was a real place from my childhood was wonderful and traumatic at the same time. I always pictured it as a focus point when I was being abused, but to realize that it was a real place—wow! But to know that I couldn’t consciously remember such a happy, real life place was sad. I had thought it was a fantasy. I had no idea it was a real place. Just thought it was my imagination.

I have spent most of my life searching for my abused childhood, recapturing the memories of my sexual and physical abuse and reliving the false memories that were instilled in my head. But I want to remember the good times.

I need to find the little girl who soaked in the mist that sprang up from the waterfall. I need to find the little girl who learned to play chess and felt the breeze in her hair while on the swings at the school playground. I need to find the memories of holding my children in my arms and I need to experience the good times that they tell me about.

When I discovered the “real” happy place at that park, it was the beginning of a balance in my soul. It was no longer one-sided. Yes, the memories of my abuse outweigh the good memories, but it was a start.

Before healing, everything is unbalanced—our emotions, our relationships, our memories, giving and taking, asking and helping, our boundaries and limits. The more we heal, the more we become balanced. I think it is just as important to remember the good times in our lives, even as few as we may have, as it is to remember the bad times. If we focus only on the bad times, I think our views can become dark. We see enemies everywhere we look, and we expect bad times to overtake us, even if we are having good times. Balance. I think that is where I am headed. I feel it the more I find anything good about my past and remember it. It’s like the pieces are coming together.

Patty Hite is one of five facilitators of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to find true love with her husband of ­­­­five years. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

I remember quite a few years ago, I was watching Oprah while she was telling her story about her childhood sexual abuse. She had come back from visiting her family and stated how she sat at the same table with her abuser, talking to him over their meal. Her guest asked her why she had done that. Why did she converse with her abuser as though nothing had happened? Oprah was stunned when the guest asked her that and I realized at that moment that I was too.

I waited for her answer but she couldn’t give him one. He told her that she had the right to refuse to sit with her abuser and that the reason she didn’t was because she didn’t value herself. I was stunned. It never dawned on me or obviously to Oprah either, that we had a right to stay away from our abusers. We could put our foot down and make a statement that we refuse to be a part of their lives.

With this epiphany, I couldn’t help but reflect on my life and the many times I continued hugging, having conversations with and sharing a meal with some of my abusers, as well as the abuser who molested my sister. It seemed like a natural thing to do. There was never any doubt that I shouldn’t treat them any differently than I always had. I wasn’t even angry with them. My uncle, who molested me many times, would hold me on his lap while conversing with the other adults, and I sat there laughing at his jokes.

Even after I remembered my sister’s abuse by my dad, and my dad blaming her for it, I continued to have a relationship with him. I wanted him to love me, to hug me. I wanted him to accept me and would even go as far to stand toe to toe with anyone who would dare have a harsh word about him. I continued to respect him as my dad and as a man. I knew what he did, I saw what he did, yet, I continued the same relationship with him.

Many years later, after seeing the effects the abuse had on my sister, I started to question my relationship with my dad. I saw pain and hurt in my sister. She never sought healing and spent her life being promiscuous, fearful, erratic, and as an alcoholic. She started to announce her anger at our mother because our mother had allowed her to be sent away while my dad remained in the home. Even though she had every right to be angry at my mom, I asked her why she wasn’t angry at my dad, since he was the one who abused her. She did everything to get close to my dad. When they were in the same room, you could feel this “thing” between them and there were rumors that they were still having sex. It became very confusing to me.

I didn’t understand the emotional ties that bind a daughter and her father, even after the father becomes the predator. But I did understand the effects that sexual abuse and false beliefs have. I understood my sisters “acting out” behaviors and I understood the fears and the pain that she tried to hide behind the alcohol and sleepless nights. But I didn’t understand her loyalty to him and why she wanted to be near him.

It wasn’t until I saw Oprah that day that I found myself doing the same thing that my sister had done. I wanted my dad’s love and affection. Not only I, but all my siblings. We would tap dance for him if he asked us to. It was then that I started to get angry. I felt like such a fool. I knew my thoughts of disgust for him were becoming real. I wondered how he could live with himself and sleep at night. I wondered if he had sexual thoughts about me like he did my sister. I questioned the times he gave me a hug and wondered if he was fantasizing about raping me. There was no end to the daytime nightmares that infiltrated my thoughts. I could not stop thinking about how my dad had betrayed me by being a molester.

I knew that the only way I could ease my pain was to speak about his molestations. I talked to my siblings about him and all but one wanted me to keep quiet. They honored him and respected him and did everything to remind me of what a wonderful dad we all had. No matter how much I talked about it with them, they would not take up the offense of my sister. All they saw was the after-effects of her sexual abuse. To them she was to blame and she deserved to be abused because she asked for it. I realized now that the more I tried to change their opinion of my dad, the more it caused them to focus on the infidelities of my sister. She died a few years ago and hearing my siblings bad mouth her was more traumatic to me than my justifications of having them fight for her cause. I may have lost the battle, but I didn’t lose the war.

It doesn’t matter who believes me, and it doesn’t matter if others still support the abusers. I can’t change their opinions nor can I make them fight my cause. All I can do is tell them the truth and hopefully they will guard their children and grandchildren from him. What does matter is that I know the truth and I do not have to sit at the same table nor talk to the abuser. I don’t have to tap dance or honor or be loyal any longer. I am free to talk about it and I am allowed to get angry over it. Thank you Oprah for that show so long ago.

Related Posts:
What If My Family Rejects Me? Part 1
What If My Family Rejects Me? Part 2
What If My Family Rejects Me? Part 3
My Parents Are Dead (To Me)

Patty Hite is one of five facilitators of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to find true love with her husband of ­­­­five years. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

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