'Twas the Week Before Christmas (Poem)

'Twas the week before Christmas and all through my mind
All the mem'ries were stirring -- and not the good kind.

In the depths of my soul, tucked away with great care,
I had stashed them inside in hopes they'd stay there.

The fear I once felt as I lay in my bed,
No longer locked away, it now torments me instead.

My children, in their bedrooms, are sleeping down the hall,
But no matter how I try, I simply cannot sleep at all.

For yet in my mind there arises such terror
I cringe from the pain as if I'm still there.

Away to the past, I am there in a minute.
Rip open my seams, and I'm thrown right back in it.

The blackness of night on my quivering breasts
Searing fire in my loins, but he won't let me rest.

Then what through my tear-stained eyes do I see
But that sorry little shadow of what used to be me.

With those dark, sunken circles beneath both my eyes,
As my silent, lifeless body mutely screams my desperate cries.

More fiercely than torture, his curses they came,
As he hollered and bellowed and called me by name:

"You stupid cunt! Fucking whore! Worthless bitch! Lazy!
You're the world's worst Mom! Lousy slut! Stupid -- and Crazy!"

From the top of my head to the tip of my toe
He degraded, berated, and hated me so.

As grass in the summer heat withers away,
I felt myself shrinking with each thing he'd say.

So up til I left him I dared not complain.
No matter the confusion, no matter the pain.

And then, in an instant, I felt the hot flash,
The snap and the slap of his whip on my ass.

As I gasped for each breath and tried hard not to cry
He threw my body down and spread my legs wide

His bundle of manhood, he flung in my face.
Then he choked me and stroked me in every deep place.

He ripped off my clothes, shoved his hand in my box,
Without waiting for moisture, he just rammed in his cock.

His eyes -- full of evil! His sack full of cum!
I just laid there and prayed there that soon he'd be done.

The sweat on his body tasted like salt,
If I gagged or threw up it was always my fault.

His erratic thrusting made the rhythm hard to follow,
The noxious slime he spewed was impossible to swallow.

I hated his boobs and his sagging beer gut,
That shook when he fucked me and ravaged my butt.

He was more twisted than anyone else,
And I shudder remembering, in spite of myself.

"Go upstairs, NOW!" still echoes in my head,
Those words of his I quickly learned to dread.

His approach, rarely gentle, he'd go straight for my twat
And do what he liked to me, no matter how I fought.

Laughing, he'd say, "You like it like that, don't you!
When I cum in your mouth, you'll swallow it, won't you!"

He'd jump to his feet, and leave me there, flattened,
Then go have a smoke as if nothing had happened.

And I'd hear him proclaim as he staggered down the hall,
You're a half-decent fuck, but you're no fun at all!"

Clearly, I Remember (song)

(Lyrics from the song "Just a Little Bit" performed by Maria Mena)

Just a little bit stronger
Just a little bit wiser
Just a little less needy
And maybe I'd get there
Just a little bit pretty
Just a little more aware
Just a little bit thinner
And maybe I'd get there

Clearly, clearly I remember
Hiking up my skirt
And asking for your time
Clearly, clearly I remember
Nervous if ever confronted
And questioning myself

Oh perhaps, perhaps if I got better
Perhaps if I challenged myself
Perhaps if I was...
Just a little bit stronger
Just a little bit wiser
Just a little less needy
And maybe I'd get there
Just a little bit pretty
Just a little more aware
Just a little bit thinner
And maybe I'd get there

Clearly, clearly I remember
Pulling up my shirt
And staring blank ahead
Clearly, clearly I remember
Days of useless crying
And almost feeling dead

Oh perhaps, perhaps if  I was smaller
Perhaps I could control myself
Perhaps if  I was...
Just a little bit stronger
Just a little bit wiser
Just a little less needy
And maybe I'd get there
Just a little bit pretty
Just a little more aware
Just a little bit thinner
And maybe I'd get there . . .

Fragile but Free (song)

(Lyrics from the song "Fragile" performed by Maria Mena)

I've been walking around all day,
Thinking.
I think I have a problem --
I think I think too much.
I've been taught to hold back my tears,
And avoid them.
But you make pain into something I could touch.

I've been walking around all day,
Laughing.
I think I'd be better off without you here.
And I bet you're sweet and hard to get over.
So I'll cry and people will stop and stare.
Now that's okay.
Let them stop and stare.

Cause I am fragile.
I am hopeless.
I'm not perfect.
But I am free.

I've been walking around all day,
Waiting.
And waiting is all I seem to do.
Cause I never get it unless I'm fed it.
But this time I'll just have to.
Yeah, this time I'll just have to.

And I'm fragile.
I am hopeless.
I'm not perfect.
But I am free.

Say you're not around,
Am I finished?
If you're not around, that's too bad.
Hope youre safe and sound, not alone now.
Cause you know I believe in you.

I'm still fragile,
I'm still hopeless,
I'm not perfect,
But I am free.

I Feel Like a Shadow (song)

(Lyrics from the song "Shadow" performed by Maria Mena)

I wish you'd see it in my face
But I'm caught up in those long lost days
And how can I even make you see
When I don't even know me
Following my footsteps home
This time I'm walking all alone
Trying hard to be someone I don't even know

I feel like a shadow
Walking behind who you think I am
Just like my shadow
Wanting to see the sun again
I'm your shadow
And I'm lost
Just like my shadow

Thought I'd like me bright and new
But my candle burned out long before you
Now I'm the one whose got to pay
I'm finding me a better day
Following my footsteps home
This time I'm walking all alone
Trying hard to be someone I don't even know

I feel like a shadow
Walking behind who you think I am
Just like my shadow
Wanting to see the sun again
I'm your shadow
And I'm lost
Just like my shadow

Sunlight is my life
I can hardly comprehend
Sunlight is my life
I cannot understand

I feel like a shadow
Walking behind who you think I am
Just like my shadow
Wanting to see the sun again
I'm your shadow
And I'm lost
Just like my shadow

Thank You for Asking (song)

(Lyrics from the song "A Few Small Bruises" performed by Maria Mena)

Out here on the ledge,
I'm not far away from stepping off.
I've finally picked out my cloud --
It's the one over there,
Surrounded by all that air.
You reached out your hand
And said, "I understand,
So why not come down?"

Well, except for a few small bruises, cuts, and scars
Well I'm fine.
Oh, except for a few small bruises,cuts, and scars
Well I'm fine.
Thank you for asking!

I'm so glad we had this moment here.
I know they think I'm crazy,
But everything I am is everything I was taught to be.
And you reached out your hand,
And said, "I understand,
So why not come down?"

Oh, except for a few small bruises, cuts, and scars
Well I'm fine.
Oh, except for a few small bruises, cuts, and scars
Well I'm fine.

Oh, and as you read my words out loud,
Make me sound genius,
Make me sound special,
And maybe I'll come down . . .

Well, except for a few small bruises, cuts, and scars
Well I'm fine.
Well, except for a few small bruises,cuts,and scars
Well I'm fine.

Oh, and as you read my words out loud,
Make me sound genius,
Make me sound special,
And maybe I'll come down . . .

Beauty From Pain (song)

(Lyrics to the Song by Superchick)

The lights go out all around me

One last candle to keep out the night

And then the darkness surrounds me

I know I’m alive but I feel like I’ve died

And all that’s left is to accept that its over

My dreams ran like sand through the face that I made

I try to keep warm but I just grow colder

I feel like I’m slipping away

After all this has passed,

I still will remain.

After I’ve cried my last,

There’ll be beauty from pain.

Though it won’t be today,

Someday I’ll hope again,

And there’ll be beauty from pain

You will bring beauty from my pain

My whole world is the pain inside me

The best I can do is just get through the day

One life before is only a memory

I wonder why God lets me walk through this place

And though I can’t understand why this happened

I know that I will when I look back some day

And see how you’ve brought beauty from ashes

And made me as gold purified through these flames

After all this has passed,

I still will remain

After I’ve cried my last,

There’ll be beauty from pain

Though it won’t be today,

Someday I’ll hope again

And there’ll be beauty from pain

You will bring beauty from my pain

Here I am at the end of me

Trying to hold onto what I can’t see

I forgot how to hold on
This night's been so long

I cling to Your promise, there will be a dawn . . .

Frustration (acrostic poem)

Fighting an unseen foe,
Racing time, when you cannot outrun it.
Using what's left of your sanity,
Still losing all touch with humanity.
Trying to masquerade in a world where
Really, you do not belong.
Always banging your head on the wall,
Til life holds no meaning at all.
Inside, a war silently rages.
Outside, you paste on a smile.
Never reveal how you feel, for even awhile.

Flashback Bonus Award (poem)

Explore, you say . . .
I must walk down the old paths
Before I can conquer the new.
Experience, you say . . .
I must process the pain
And wade through the muck
That is me.

Peel off the bandages, you say . . .
I must open yesterday's wounds
Before they can heal.
Expose my soul, you say . . .
Don't be afraid to let it bleed --
It might be just what I need,
So don't be afraid to feel.

Face my fears, you say . . .
I must open every door
Before I can be whole.
Gather up the memories
That I swept under the bed.
Tear down the cobwebs
That are clogging up my head --
It's time for Spring cleaning
In my soul.

Blinding light
Searing pain
Images of perverse terror
Crushing my chest
As if I'm really there.

My heart races
Like a runaway train,
As I clench my teeth
Again and again,
Trying to rid my throat
Of the taste of fear.

Sweat runs in rivulets
Down the small of my back
As I brace myself
For the next attack --
It always gets worse
Before it gets better,
So you say . . .

The room starts to swim
As the lights go dim,
And unspeakable horrors
Swirl before my eyes . . .
It is really no surprise.

After all, I knew it was there,
I just didn't know exactly what
Or how, or when --
Wasn't it bad enough
That I had to go through it
Then?

No, for I am a winner,
And behind door number two
Is my prize --
I get to relive it
All over again.

Your Story Matters (short article)

"There is no greater agony

than bearing an untold story inside you."
-- Maya Angelou

I don't know if I completely agree with that statement. There's a certain safety in holding your story, untold, inside you. You know it is there. No one can see it. No one can question it. It is yours and yours alone.

There are equal, or perhaps even GREATER agonies, I believe, than bearing an untold story inside you.

What if you finally find the courage to tell your story, but don't have the words to tell it?

What if you find the words to tell it, but have no one to tell it to?

What if you find someone to tell your story to, but your story is so different from THEIR story that they simply cannot comprehend it?

What if they can understand your story, but by the time you tell it, it doesn't really matter anymore?

The power doesn't come from finding the words to tell your story. The relief doesn't come from finding someone to tell your story to. The peace doesn't come from from having someone else understand your story. The freedom doesn't come from discovering that your story matters.

The power, the freedom, the relief, and the peace come from accepting your story just as it as and embracing it simply because it is YOURS.

It's not all that important that you have the words to tell it. It's not the end of the world if you cannot find anyone to tell it to. It's not even crucial that you find the right way to tell it. It is only icing on the cake if it is understood, and an added bonus if anyone but you feels that it actually matters.

The thing to remember is that it is YOUR STORY.
It is who you are, where you've been, and where you are going.

If you cannot find the words, draw a picture or play a song. If you cannot find anyone to tell it to, TELL YOURSELF so that you do not forget who you are. If you can't find the right way to tell it, tell it the wrong way. If nobody understands, tell it again.

And when you finally realize that you ARE your story, and your story is YOU, and that you're absolutely okay with that . . . that's when you'll know that YOUR STORY MATTERS.

Again (free writing)

2 am and I can't sleep. Awoken by a yet another nightmare. Again. When will this end?

I hate what he's done to me. I'm supposed to finally be 'free' ... and yet he's still stealing my sleep ... still terrorizing me in the middle of the night.

I wish I could just get him OUT of my head. I don't want to see him in my nightmares anymore. I don't want to feel him groping me anymore. I don't want to remember him hurting me anymore. Worst of all is reliving it and feeling like I'm there again.

Why? How could he do that to me? How could he say that he loved me? And how could I have believed that he did?

I just want to scream at him:

"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! Get off me! Leave me the hell alone! Go away! Stop it -- you big, fat, gross, sick, twisted, psychotic son of a bitch! Get away from me!"

But it wouldn't have done any good then, and it wouldn't do a bit of good now.

So I'll make myself a cup of tea, pull out my Bible and read through the Psalms again for the umpteenth time ... And thank the Lord that I got 3 hours of sleep. Better than nothing I guess. But this is the second night in a row on less than 4 hours of sleep and I'm quickly becoming a zombie.

I was a good wife. I was a quiet wife. I was a submissive, obedient wife. Night after night I would lie in bed and dread the sound of his foosteps on the stairs.  Would tonight be a night when he was tender? Or would tonight be a night he was in the mood to torture?  I never knew. 

I can't believe the hold that the fear still has on me.  Even now, I still wake up in the middle of the night sometimes feeling like he's sitting on my chest, choking the life out of me. 

BASTARD!

When will this nightmare end?  How long will it be until I feel like "me" again? 

And, perhaps the most confusing question of all -- WHO AM I?

For so long HE dictated what I did, felt, said . . . and if I don't even know who I am, then how on earth will I know when I'm "me" again?

It's All OVER (article)

Today a half dozen or so other domestic abuse survivors and I spent the better part of the afternoon waiting in a stuffy room down at the local county housing authority to get on the waiting list for section 8 housing. After the first 2 hours of squirming in our uncomfortable metal chairs and staring hesitantly at one another across the table, one of us finally broke the ice and we began chatting and sharing “war stories.”

One lady began by saying that she had come to the shelter after her husband had put her in the hospital with contusions so bad that she couldn't open her eyes because of the swelling. “I told the doctor that I didn’t want to call the police. I was afraid it would be worse when I got home. But he said that if I didn’t call the police that DYFS would take my children away from me.” The next spoke of being beaten with a folding chair until she passed out. Her son had tried to intervene and sustained injuries as well. “But I never called the police,” she said, “When I came to, he cursed at me because I hadn’t finished the laundry. It was back to life as usual. That was a few years ago. I only finally came to the shelter because my boys were starting to treat me just like their father. I didn't want them to grow up to be like him.”

We all just sat, listened, and nodded as the familiarity of our experience sunk in. None of it was surprising or shocking to us. It was simply our reality.

Hearing of the various physical injuries and trips to the emergency room, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. “It was different for me,” I slowly began, “My husband didn’t really hit me too much. Sometimes I wished he would. I think I even told him a few times to just hit me and get it over with – that that would hurt less than what he was doing to me. Honestly, there was no NEED for him to hit me anyway – he just told me what to do and I did it.” I explained that I had learned early on in our relationship that resisting him didn’t do a bit of good anyhow. Over the years, he’d gained complete control over every part of me to the point where I no longer really had thoughts or feelings of my own. Eventually, I felt like a robot. I don’t even know exactly how or when it happened -- it just did. He used food, sex, money, sleep, use of ‘his’ car, and sometimes even our children alternatively as either ‘rewards’ or ‘punishment.’ "I didn’t have the same injuries that you had,” I mumbled, “he didn't break my bones ... he broke my spirit.”

For a minute or two, we were all silent. A few of the women that I hadn’t even met before today reached over and squeezed my hand, tears filling their eyes. Whispers of “Me too” and “Yo tambien” drifted through the stale, heavy air.

Somehow we drifted onto the uncomfortable topic of our mates' aberrant sexuality. One woman began by nonchalantly mentioning one of the times her husband made her HELP him proposition some people on the internet. He'd told several complete strangers (both men and women) on an internet dating site the EXACT location (address, hotel room number, etc.) where they'd be staying on their upcoming vacation and asked for their assistance in 'surprising his wife with a unique sexual experience' (I can't bring myself to use the actual words). He had told them that "she may not be a willing participant, but we'll MAKE her willing. She's learned to pretty much do whatever I tell her to do." She commented on how proud her husband had been of the fact that he had broken her spirit, but that he said it wasn't nearly as "fun" for him now that she "doesn't fight it anymore” so he was looking to "spice things up again."

Stifled giggles from the peanut gallery. “I think they ALL want a threesome, don’t they?”

Our laughter caught in our throats, though, when she told of the terror of waiting throughout the whole vacation, never knowing when the knock on the motel door might come, signalling that her husband’s “surprise” had arrived. She started to tell us about what had happened next, but broke down into silent tears and hid her face in her hands.

One of the other gals tried to comfort her and chimed in naively, in broken English, "But you have the PROOFS don't you, you have the way of showing what he spoke them on the internet. You could print it out, could you not? Surely the judge listens to this kind of proofs."

Speaking from personal experience, I just wanted to scream at her --

"It doesn’t matter! It NEVER matters!" 

Sure, she might have the printouts of his online messages somewhere, but even if she COULD remember where she put them, there's no way she can prove he wrote them.

"But don't you have the photographs of your hurtings by him? Or don't you have those of the medical records from your goings to the hospital?"

“I have a few pictures,” she tried to explain through her tears, “but most of them are too personal and I’d be too embarrassed and ashamed to show them to anybody. And besides, in the eyes of the law, they're completely worthless because there's no way of proving the photographs are of me unless they show my face, a tattoo, or a birthmark or something like that. The legal advocate at the shelter said that EVEN IF the photos clearly show that it was me, there’s no way of proving WHEN or HOW it happened or that he did it to me. He could claim that it was an accident, that I did it to myself, or that someone else had done it to me. The advocate said that in order for pictures to do any good, the incident would have to have been documented in some other way by somebody else. And supposedly EVEN IF I could prove that my husband had done it, that in order for him to be convicted, a lawyer would have to prove INTENT, which I guess is virtually impossible to do.”

As I glanced around the table, I saw tears in almost everyone’s eyes. We didn’t bother trying to wipe them away -- more were likely to follow. The agony of not being taken seriously by the legal system is something that we are slowly learning to accept . . . but it still doesn’t lessen the pain. The only way any of us have been able to get even a small amount of justice is if we have been “lucky” enough to have secondary corroboration from a police officer or a health professional either during or immediately following an 'incident' (because, incredibly, OUR WORDS MEAN NOTHING).

As we went around the table, we all agreed that we almost NEVER went to the doctor for treatment anyway -- unless we could explain our injury in some other way.

One lady had gone for treatment of a broken finger and told the doctor that she had "accidentally slammed it in the car door." How, pray tell, do you slam your OWN finger in a car door? Her doctor sent her for an X-ray, confirmed that it was broken, and never questioned her explanation.

Another told her doctor that she had a miscarriage because she accidentally fell down the stairs. “That was partly true," she said, "I just left out the part where my husband drug me by my hair and then PUSHED me down the stairs."

Yet another told her chiropractor she had dislocated her shoulder "moving furniture." She didn't bother to clarify that she had been hastily moving a dresser full of clothes in front of her bedroom door in a desperate attempt to keep her raging husband from storming in with a butcher knife to rape her.

Most of us agreed that our doctors usually didn't question us about our injuries unless our faces were involved. And even then, it seems that there's a prevailing acceptance of some sort of "Don't ask, Don't tell" policy. And as to the sexual abuse and associated injuries, we admitted that we were too ashamed to even acknowledge them to ourselves much less seek medical attention for them. It was easier to sit in a bathtub of ice-cold water and wait for the pain to lessen, the swelling to go down, or the bleeding to stop than to be poked, prodded, and examined intimately by a health professional. It was our own private pain . . . . . and most of us preferred to keep it that way.

We laughed as we compared the efficacy of some of our 'home remedies' . . . Which is better for a bruised and battered perineum -- a bag of frozen vegetables or a topical analgesic? A tampon works alright for anal tears and associated bleeding . . . "But only the slim ones, and only if you absolutely can't stop the bleeding any other way. ‘Cause it hurts like hell to yank the damn thing out again."

“An ice pack is too cold, but if you wrap it in a pillowcase it’s not too bad.”

“That’s a good idea – I never thought to try that.”

"Whatever you do, DON’T spray Bactine on it!"

We all chuckled knowingly. You would have thought we were a bunch of "normal" suburban housewives exchanging cookie recipes. The simple fact was that we all knew the desperation of trying to deal with our injuries and deaden the pain with whatever we happened to have had around the house. And we were all equally aware of the shame that had kept us from ever seeking medical attention.

Besides, what would we have told a doctor anyway? My husband rapes me? That seemed like an impossible statement. We didn't know WHAT to call it. Rape is something that happens in a dark alley, isn't it? Certainly not in your own home, with your children playing in the next room or sleeping down the hall.

In my case, my conservative religious upbringing had led me to believe that my body was not my own -- that it "belonged" to my husband. And whatever he chose to do to it or with it was completely up to him. I was to "submit and obey," regardless of how, where, or when. I was not alone in this crippling belief. "I didn't know that I had a right to ever refuse anything he asked me to do," one woman agreed, "and if I resisted, he just accused me of sleeping with someone else or said he'd get it somewhere else."

We all nodded. We all knew. We all understood. "We were just pieces of meat to them, nothing more," was the general consensus.

"Free whores."  More shy giggles.

"He even told me I was WORSE than a whore because they know their place and don’t complain," one woman offered.

We had all been there, heard that.

"I told him if that was the case to go find himself one and leave me alone!"

More nods and nervous smiles. At some point, we had all wished they would find someone else (and many of us still do). We agreed that they would almost certainly do the same things to their new partner that they had done to us -- and that then MAYBE someone would believe us and understand what we had gone through...

As we went around the table, the 7 or 8 of us sitting there sharing our experiences, I realized that we were/are ALL, to some degree or another, at the mercy of an uninformed/misinformed society and justice system that just DON'T GET IT!  There's more to abuse than broken bones and bruises . . . and there are some injuries that a woman will NEVER disclose if she can avoid it.

What breaks my heart is that virtually ALL of us could relate to one another's experiences -- and I know there are countless THOUSANDS of women out there who are still suffering. Alone. Many of them, like us, wondering if what they are experiencing is "normal."

We all tried to laugh about it, and several of us said things like: "I thought that happened to everybody. I didn't know any different. I couldn't understand why other couples seemed so happy. I thought maybe I was supposed to enjoy it -- he said other women like it like that."

You can't imagine how confusing it is to be told that something that is agonizing painful is supposed to be enjoyable. You have no idea how impossible it is to stifle a scream, swallow your own vomit, and pretend to orgasm.

Almost as randomly as that part of the conversation had begun, it ended. We were all suddenly and painfully aware that what we were talking about was socially "taboo" to discuss. The reality is, though, that rape was an almost daily CERTAINTY for many of us. There was something cathartic about realizing that we weren't alone. Something that no 'professional' could possibly have done in such a short time had been accomplished. In just a half an hour or so, a group of women felt a little less alone . . . a little less confused . . . a little less broken . . .

And just like that, we moved on to other things . . .

What is on every mother's mind most of the time? Not surprisingly, the biggest concern for all of us is our children. We cannot understand how on earth Child Protective Services can say that our husbands are dangerous to US, that it's not safe or healthy for our children to LIVE with these men, and that we will be at risk of LOSING CUSTODY OF OUR CHILDREN if we ever go back to them -- but then judges can look the other way and say, "but they're HIS children, and he has a RIGHT to see them. You cannot keep them from him. I see no reason why he can't have visitation. After all, he's never seriously hurt his children physically."

Even in the cases where there had been DOCUMENTED instances of their father nearly KILLING their mother, in EACH AND EVERY CASE, he had been awarded visitation -- and in many cases (eventually) UNSUPERVISED !

SOMEBODY TELL ME HOW THIS IS POSSIBLE!

And when we try to protect our children by attempting to distance them from a potentially dangerous situation, the court views our attitude as "uncooperative" and accuses us of "parental alienation."

WHAT MOTHER WOULDN'T BE UNCOOPERATIVE IF SOMEBODY TRIED TO FORCE HER TO SEND HER PRECIOUS CHILDREN INTO A POTENTIALLY ABUSIVE SITUATION?

WHAT MOTHER WOULDN'T WANT TO ALIENATE HER CHILDREN FROM A FATHER WHO HAS, OVER AND OVER AGAIN, PROVEN HIMSELF TO BE MENTALLY UNSTABLE, MANIPULATIVE, ABUSIVE, AND PREDATORY?

The "funny" thing is, we lamented, that through all of this we're not supposed to "let it get to us." We're supposed to remain calm, cool, and collected. We're not supposed to suffer from any anxiety or emotional upheaval. Heaven forbid we get discouraged or frustrated.

It's NO WONDER so many women go back to their abusers -- THE TREATMENT WE GET FROM THE LEGAL SYSTEM AND SOCIETY AT LARGE IS ALMOST AS BAD AS THE TRAUMA WE ENDURED IN OUR ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIPS!

To constantly have your credibility assaulted, your sanity questioned, your motives examined, your parenting skills assessed, your finances gone over with a fine-toothed comb, your family distanced, your friends isolated (if you're lucky enough to still have any), your character assassinated, your self-sufficiency hindered, your morale decimated, your dignity ignored, your privacy invaded, your hopes dashed, your emotions ridiculed, your terror misunderstood, your pain minimized . . . all of this and more leads many women like us to feel like our lives are OVER!

For most of us, it's just exactly that . . . OVER . . .

• Our needs are OVERlooked
• Our schedules are OVERcrowded
• Our bodies are OVERworked
• Our spirits are OVERwhelmed
• Our minds are OVERloaded
• Our children are OVERactive
• Our bills are OVERabundant
• Our situations are OVERanalyzed
• Our decisions are OVERruled
• Our budgets are OVERextended
• Our priorities are OVERlapping
• Our children are OVERcompensating
• Our partners are OVERacting (They know how to pour on the charm when they need to.)
• Our legal system is often OVERawed by our husbands' performances (He seems like such a “nice guy.”)
• Our supposed "rights" are often OVERemphasized (in theory, but not in practice), and, in many instances,
• Our service organizations are OVERloaded

OVERALL, once we finally manage to leave the men who have hurt us so deeply and thoroughly, in many ways our lives are essentially OVER . . .

But then again . . . there's another way of looking at things. While it is true that in some respects our lives may SEEM to be over:

• Our helplessness has been largely OVERgeneralized
• Our newfound strength is OVERflowing
• Our situation's prevalence is too OVERwhelming to be ignored much longer
• Our voices are finally being OVERheard
• Our justice is long OVERdue, and, most importantly,
• Our challenges are OVERcomable!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I would like to point out that the statements I've made about the legal system and society in general being largely unsympathetic toward victims of domestic violence and marital rape are not representative of my feelings toward every person or agency. I have encountered many caring and dedicated people who are not only aware of the problems that survivors face, but are also personally involved in finding solutions. To those amazing individuals (both professionals and volunteers) who have given freely of their time, expertise, friendship, and financial resources to help us HELP OURSELVES build a new life:

You have my undying gratitude! Countless women and children owe their very LIVES to your tireless efforts. You heard our cries for help, and YOU are providing us with real solutions to the real problems that we face. Without you, my children and I wouldn't be where we are now -- in a safe place with hope for a better future. You ARE making a difference!

Never Right Again (free writing)

I am so confused. I hear people's stories about how they have suffered at the hands of their abusers and each one is heartbreaking. They talk about being beaten, broken, and brutalized by their boyfriends or husbands. I have seen their scars. They talk about their black eyes and broken bones . . . and I feel jealous. My abuser rarely left marks on me . . . oh, to be sure, he LEFT HIS MARK . . . but usually not in any visible way.

Why were they lucky enough to have been beaten to a pulp? Why were they fortunate enough to have had their faces marred? Why were they allowed to have PROOF of their abuse? Why couldn't I have had that?

I know that it probably sounds twisted for me to say that, but I feel so empty. He left some physical scars, but most of my wounds are in my soul, where nobody can see . . .

The one thing that I thought was my own -- my body, my sexuality . . . this he took from me. Whenever he wanted, however he wanted, and for however long he wanted . . . I was just a piece of meat to him. A free whore. As his wife, I had no right to say no.

He owned me.

I can't even begin to describe the incredible physical pain . . . for those of you who have given birth to children without any anesthesia, you can maybe relate. Rape is inhumane. It is not only the sex -- it's about domination, control, and humiliation. I don't understand how he could do it do me over and over again and NOT CARE that he was hurting me. He simply DID NOT CARE. to the contrary, he seemed to ENJOY hurting me, and would say things like, "oh yeah, that's the way you like it, isn't it?" or "hurts good, don't it?" It still doesn't make any sense to me.

Over the years, I was reduced to nothing . . . a lump of flesh that did his bidding. Night after night I would lie in my bed and wait for his footsteps. There was no point in trying to go to sleep until I had "done my duty." It was worse to fall asleep only to be awakened later. I don't know how many times I woke up with his dick in my face, with his hand on my throat, or with his hands pawing roughly between my legs or groping madly at my boobs. The sheer terror still grips me sometimes at night, and I wake in a cold sweat expecting to see him hovering over me, waving his dick in the air, and saying:

"WAKE THE FUCK UP, BITCH -- I'M HORNY!"

He has never shown a bit of remorse. In fact, he denies that it even happened.  And now his feeble attempts to reconcile "because I've been going to AA and I'm sober now" just DISGUST me. As if somehow I CARE that he's not drinking now.  As if somehow the drinking "made him do it" . . .  what about all the times he was stone cold sober? 

I don't CARE if he's sober now. I don't care if he's in counseling. I don't care how much he SAYS he loves me. He doesn't know the meaning of the word LOVE.

How could you claim to love someone and then hold them down and fuck them up the ass, even though you could see they were bleeding and in excruciating pain? How could you claim to love someone and force them to suck your dick til they throw up from gagging on it? How could you claim to love someone and then whip them until their ass is raw? That's not love . . . I don't know what the hell it is . . .

Is he psychotic? Is he crazy? Is he just plain evil? What made him like this?

And, the buring question that I still can't find an answer to:

What is wrong with ME?

How could I ever would have been attracted to someone like that? Why didn't I SEE the warning signs? Why didn't a RUN SCREAMING the first time he raped me? Why did I believe that somehow it was "okay" . . . or think that he would change?  How could I have valued myself so little that I would let him treat me like that? How many years of his torture did it take before I quit crying out . . . before I quit fighting him . . . before I quit feeling it at all . . . before I ceased even being a person?

I don't even remember.

And now . . . now that I'm supposed to be "free" . . . now that I'm away from him and trying to start over again . . . why do I still feel trapped by the memories? Why can't I break free?

I DON'T WANT TO FEEL LIKE THIS ANYMORE!

I'm so tired of hurting. I'm so tired of trying to explain to people why I left without being able to TELL THEM why. How do you tell your family that your husband is a sadistic monster that raped you whenever he felt like it?

There are no weekly "study groups" at church for discussing THAT!

Marital rape is just something you DON'T TALK ABOUT with anyone . . . EVER! Even now, the only person I've been able to talk to about this stuff is my therapist. And there are STILL some things I'm not even comfortable discussing with HER . . . things that I don't even have words for . . . things that I don't even want to think about much less talk about.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Up until about a week ago, I didn't even feel angry. I just felt such incredible pain and sorrow . . . I feel like I've LOST 14-15 years of my life that I will never get back. But now . . . now that his family is pushing me to try to think about "working it out" I feel so much rage and anger and I don't know what to do with it. For so many years I never allowed myself to be angry because if I showed even the slightest emotion, whether it be sadness or anger or whatever, my "punishment" from him was that much worse. I simply learned to "turn off" my feelings. 

But now I know that I NEED TO process this stuff and let myself FEEL IT. But I don't even know what I'm supposed to feel. Is it "right" to feel angry? What am I supposed to do with this pain? How do I make it go away?

Right now I just want to make him suffer. I'd like to see HIM writhing in agony with a beer bottle shoved up HIS ass and tell HIM to

"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND QUIT CRYING LIKE A FUCKING BABY!"

Is it wrong for me to want him to suffer? Is it wrong for me to want him to feel my pain, to know what he did to me, how badly he hurt me? I just get so angry when he won't even ADMIT TO ME the things he did. Was he so drunk that he doesn't REMEMBER? Did he blackout? I tell myself that, because that's easier for me to swallow than the idea that he's just so heartless and cruel that he doesn't give a damn.  But what about the times he wasn't drinking at all . . . I can't deal with that . . . with knowing that the same person who could call me his "honey bunny" could do that to me . . . I just can't wrap my mind around it. 

Ironically, his family thinks that I'm the one who's being a heartless bitch for not forgiving him and being willing to at least go for counseling. What good would it do for us to go for counseling?

I HATE HIM!

And no amount of counseling is going to change that. I went through 14+ years of LIVING HELL with this man (and I use the term man very loosely) . . . 14+ years of unspeakable torment and pain. And now I'm just supposed to "forgive and forget?"

I DON'T THINK SO!

I'm just not READY to forgive . . . and I don't think I'll EVER be able to forget . . . so many times I lie awake at night and WISH THAT I COULD FORGET. Oh, how I wish I could FORGET!

What I wouldn't give to feel "normal" . . . to feel like a human being . . . to feel ANYTHING at all besides terror and confusion.

I don't even have a CLUE what "normal" is supposed to feel like anymore. I wish somebody would tell me how I'm supposed to feel and what I'm supposed to do now. I feel so very lost and alone.

What is love? Does it even exist? Or is everybody out there just acting out a "fairytale charade" to make people like me wish for something that can never happen?

I see families . . . husbands and wives . . . children . . . and they look so HAPPY.

What did I EVER DO that was so wrong that I didn't deserve that? Why couldn't I have had that?

Didn't I deserve happiness?

I hate myself for letting him do those things to me. I hate him for taking everything from me. He took my dignity. He took my life. He took my soul. And then he LAUGHED at me, spit in my face, and called me his "BITCH."

That's all I ever was . . . just his fucking BITCH.

Maybe that's all I will ever be . . . because right now I don't feel like I'll ever be right again.

No Matter What Happens (poem)

(I wrote this with the intention of setting it to music . . . someday; it's based on Psalm 34)

Wave upon wave
Crash over me,
Drowning my soul
In a sorrowful sea.

Discouragement darkens
The depths of my heart.
Doubt's piercing arrows
Tear my spirit apart.

Yet still in the shadows
Of grief, great and grim,
I'll surrender my questions
And keep trusting Him.

No matter the thunder,
No matter the rain,
No matter the trial,
No matter the pain,
No matter the heartache,
I'll still bless His name.
No matter what happens,
I will praise Him just the same.

His strength will uphold me
His angels will guide me
I won't fear, I won't falter,
For He walks beside me.

His blood has redeemed me.
His grace will endure.
His love never faileth,
Of this I am sure.

Whether my path leads
Through valley or hill,
I'll rest in His promise,
And praise His name still.

No matter the thunder,
No matter the rain,
No matter the trial,
No matter the pain,
No matter the heartache,
I'll still bless His name.
No matter what happens,
I will praise Him just the same.

What am I supposed to do now? (poem)

Here I stand, bruised and jaded,
At the end of the old path,
And the beginning of the new.
The old scars have mostly faded,
But loneliness, with each breath,
Chills my whole being, through and through.

Has time gone and left me here,
To face this nothing alone,
Without a blueprint or a plan?
Who will calm the choking fear,
Resurrect my heart of stone,
And help my poor soul understand?

So many blessings I see;
Only gratitude, I know,
Should overflow my dark heart;
But the memories chase me,
And refuse to let me go;
Each image still tears me apart.

I try to focus on praise,
Count the blessings God's given,
And hope for a future that's bright.
I try to forget those days,
Tell myself I've forgiven,
But I cannot, try as I might.

How can I learn to balance
The newfound joys of today
With yesterday's searing sorrow?
Do I have the right to dance?
If I cry, is that okay?
Will the answers come tomorrow?

Does anyone understand
The hours gone, the sleep I've missed
Deciding what I need to do?
None of this was ever planned,
Stories never end like this
When you read of dreams coming true.

It is all too wonderful
And too horrible at once --
The snapshots that show where I've been.
You cannot know how awful
It is to wander for months
In search of who and what I am.

What happens if all I find,
When I look into myself,
Is a shadow ... nothing at all?
What if, deep within my mind,
I find tears and nothing else,
Is it alright to let them fall?

How long is it right to mourn
For things that I couldn't change,
For dreams I scarcely even knew,
For sons that were never born,
And years I can't rearrange,
No matter how I might want to?

What if I get lost in sad,
Once I find out where it is,
After looking for all these years?
What if I can't find the glad,
When I think of all I've missed,
What if I drown in my own tears?

Life is too short for moping;
God is too good to ignore.
I'll survive, though I don't know how.
I'll breathe, move, and keep hoping
Someday I'll understand more.

But what am I supposed to do now?

Sheer Frustration (poem)

Lying here staring at nothing;
Am I afraid to sleep,
Or is it the waking I fear?
This journey I've begun
Is one that I know I must take,
But where do I go from here?

Do I start with what is the freshest
And work my way back
Through the pain?
Or do I start at the beginning,
Wherever THAT is,
And find my way back here again?

Why does my memory betray me,
Why has it locked things inside?
Telling me this is 'normal'
Doesn't help the agony subside.

I stumble through the maze of yesterday,
But still have to deal with
The here and the now.
I am the mother, the sole caretaker,
And I have to hold it all together
Somehow.

"Mommy, I peed my pants,"
"Mommy I skinned my knee,"
Or "Mommy, what if, instead of getting better,
Things get worse?"
These are things I can't ignore.

But what in the world
Am I supposed to do
When a flashback hits
And I crumble to bits
Shaking in a fetal position on the floor?

I try to grab my soul
By the scruff of the neck
And yank myself back
To the present.
"This is a process," they say,
It gets easier with time."
Yeah, well, so far it hasn't.

Why can't I command
My mind to be still?
Why can't I shut off
The memories at will?

Telling me that thousands of others
With PTSD feel the same
Doesn't help me all that much,
But hey, at least now I have a name
For the terror that bombards me
With very little warning
When I struggle through the night
And force myself to face the morning.

When will I feel human again?
When will I feel SOME emotion?
I'm completely numb,
Lost and alone;
Drowning in an ocean
Of splinters and fragments of things.

I'm carried along by the rushing tide
Of disconnected fear.
My body responds of its own accord
As though I am actually there;
The pain is so clear ...
How I dread what each memory brings.

I cry out, "Dear God, was it not enough
That I went through it then?
Why must you torture me further
By making me feel it again?"
It's like playing some cruel matching game;
Which image goes with which sensation?
When did this or that happen,
I'm exhausted from the sheer frustration.

How is it that I have been reduced
To this pathetic, cowering mess?
I'm tempted to stuff it all
Back where it was before,
But I know it must eventually be addressed.

"It takes courage to heal,
It takes time to process pain."
Well-intentioned professional opinions,
All sound pretty much the same.
I'm fresh out of courage,
And I don't have much time.
Remember, I'm the "stable" parent,
And I MUST stay in my 'right mind.'

I need to get on with my life.
I'm sick of all this digging and poking.
Whatever is there won't go anywhere,
I've had just about enough -- and I'm not joking!

Isn't there a pill somewhere
That will make it all go away?
I know, wishful thinking I suppose,
But it was worth a shot anyway.

I know that God is with me;
I've seen Him answer prayer.
I don't doubt His presence --
I'm so thankful that He's there ...

But that being said,
He can't reach out and hold me
He can't stop me from shaking
Or remind me or scold me
For forgetting to eat
Or looking right through
Half the people I meet.

Do my eyes look as vacant
And lost as I feel?
Please, God, say that I'm not
"Losing it" for real.

The funny thing is,
I know I'm 'just fine.'
My faculties are there;
I'm in my 'right mind.'

Which actually sometimes
Only makes it feel worse;
The clarity of thought
Is in some ways a curse.

Not that I'd ever consider it,
But I understand why some do drugs
When the pain becomes unbearable
And it's WEEKS between hugs.

What's hardest sometimes is wondering
If the people who seem to really care
Actually do, or if it's 'just their job,'
I guess I shouldn't go there.

But it's hard not to second-guess
People's motives for doing and saying
The things that they do
When you've been told many times
"You're not worth a prayer,
so stop praying."

Well, I hate to ruin your day,
But praying's the one thing
I'm not giving up on ...
Call me stubborn,
Call me stupid,
But it's what I was brought up on.

It may seem illogical
It may seem irrational
It may seem implausible
It may seem inconceivable.
But I know a great God
Who does mighty things
When His people come before Him
And humbly bow in prayer.

So, bring on the nightmares,
The flashbacks and such ...
Now that I think about it,
They don't scare me quite as much,
For I know my Savior's there.

He is with me in the darkness,
He understands like no one else;
He knows what it means to suffer
Since He went through hell himself.

He will calm my wounded spirit;
He will walk me through each day.
He'll remind me that together
We can take whatever comes our way.

And miracle of miracles,
My eyes are getting heavy ...
So what am I waiting for?
Let's get some sleep already!

How Long? (poem)

How long will I be his puppet,
Pulled this way and that
By the strings on my heart?
How long must I march onward,
Like a stoic wooden soldier,
Before my soul falls apart?

How long must I pray for relief
From the incessant attacks
That he hurls through the phone?
How long can I hold onto hope
That justice will come in the end
And not leave me fighting alone?

How long must I try to explain
Why I stayed in the arms
Of Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde?
How long must I hold back the tears
And the myriad of emotions
That refuse to be denied?

How long must I smile at the world
And pretend that I'm fine
With reliving yesterday's pain?
How long must I try to forget
What has been in the past without fear
Of repeating the same thing again?

How long must I search through this maze
Of legal constraints and injustice
That deny me the right to be free?
How long must I choke on the fear
That still lurks in the shadows
Refusing to just let me be?

How long must I struggle to find my way
On a path with no definite end;
Virtually alone, through every twist and turn?
How many times will I try and fail,
And wish I could scream "It's not fair!"
Before I eventually learn?

How long will I insist on blaming myself
For not leaving when I had the chance,
Before my children had to live it?
How long will I question the life that I chose
And my pathetic lack of strength,
Before I can finally forgive it?

How long till I can cry when I hurt,
Without worrying how it will look,
Or who it will upset?
How long till I can remember the past
Without beating myself with a whip
Of shame, remorse, and regret?

How long till I can trust again
Without waiting for the hurt,
And knowing it will come?
How long till I can hear his voice
Without cringing in terror
And wanting to turn and run?

How long till my faith in humanity
Is restored to what it once was,
Before I gave up on all good?
How long till I sleep through the night
Without waking and shaking in fright,
And wake rested as everyone should?

How long must I feel like a burden
When I speak of my sorrow and pain
To those who are cursed to be near me?
How long must I guess if they're wishing
They could just walk away and ignore me
Whenever they happen to hear me?

How long till I can make it through a day
Without wishing I could curl up and cry
And make the whole world go away?
How long till I can make some sense
Of the feelings I feel, the ones that I can't,
And the things there are no words to say?

For You, I Will (poem)

(to my daughter)

I cannot bear the thought
Of baring all
I'll stumble and I'll falter,
Then I'll fall
I cannot find the words
To tell my pain
I shudder when I think
Of going there again

But for you, I will.

I cannot find a soul
That knows the way
I cannot stretch the funds
Another day
I cannot beg for help
And swallow pride
I cannot let them see
The scars inside

But for you, I will.

I cannot prove the sum
Of what has been.
I can't remember
Just exactly when.
I cannot face the words
"No one would stay.
If it were true
You would have gone away."

But for you, I will.

I cannot play
If I don't know the rules
I cannot win
If I don't have the tools.
I cannot trust my life
To someone else.
I cannot take a risk
And trust myself.

But for you, I will.

I cannot stand this pain
Another day.
I cannot make the madness
Go away.
I cannot fill out one more
Stupid form.
I cannot wake up
One more early morn.

But for you, I will.

I cannot reach beyond
The world I know.
I cannot step in faith
And just let go
I cannot trust
That it will be okay
I cannot hope
There'll be a brighter day

But for you, I will.

When is it my turn? (poem)

Watching my children

Playing tag

And running free

No longer captive,

They have let go of fear;

They can play happily.

When is it my turn?

When will I feel free?

Contagious giggles

As they swing

Through the air

They forget the pain

So quickly

And move on without a care

When is it my turn?

When do I get to play?

They see new faces

They make new friends

And they start a game

Never asking "Can I trust you?"

"Is this safe?"

Just, "What's your name?"

When is it my turn?

When will I trust a friend?

Stubborn stomping

Screaming, shouting,

"It's all your fault. It's not fair.

I don't want a bath.

I don't wanna go to bed.

And I HATE YOU, so THERE!"

When is it my turn?

When do I get to scream at the world?

At night when shadows hover

They find refuge

In mother's warm embrace;

A prayer for their fears,

A tissue for their tears,

And a kiss upon each face.

When is it my turn?

When will I be comforted?

Tiny toes tucked snugly

Beneath wayward blankets

A teddy bear clutched to the chest

No more nightmares,

No more monsters,

All is peaceful as they rest.

When is it my turn?

When will I sleep without waking in terror?

Now the thunder rolls

And rages through

The inky dark of night

As the sky pours out

Its woeful tears

To dampen all in sight.

When is it my turn?

When do I get to be angry?

When do I get to cry?

In the morning

Off to school they'll go

To learn and understand

All their questions

Will be answered

If they only raise their hand.

When is it my turn?

When will I get answers?

Wings of Prayer (poem)

Lord, I give you my burdens.
Carry them far from me
On wings of prayer.
You are a mighty God,
Far stronger than I,
And this is more than I can bear.

Yet I will praise you;
I will continue to trust
That you have a purpose and a plan.
Even in the midst of agony,
My soul will find rest
In the palm of your hand.

Teach me to wait for you patiently,
To trust you completely,
To share you unashamedly,
And to serve you wholeheartedly.
Even in my darkest hour,
May the light of your presence
Shine in my eyes.

Give me a smile
When all I can find are tears.
Give me a song
When all I can feel are fears.
Give me a heart filled with love
When I want to hate.

Pull out by the root
Any stubborn bitterness
Lurking in my soul.
Lord, heal me,
Cleanse me,
Renew me,
And make me whole.

Tired (sonnet)

If you're thirsty, water's the greatest thing.
If you're hungry, it's sustenance you need. 
But how do you know what will finally bring
The salve for all your inner wounds that bleed?
If you're cold, it's best to don a jacket.
If you're too warm, then remove a layer. 
But how do you squelch an inner racket
That doesn't seem to respond to prayer?
If you're lost, you can ask for direction.
If you're broke, you can solicit some help.
But how do you fight desire for perfection?
How do you deal with all the boxes on the shelf?
Feels like I pay for love that should be free.
I'm tired of selling myself endlessly.