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Rest in peace

July 8, 2011 By ANONYMOUS 4 Comments

Dear Dad,

I hope that you are finally at peace. It has been 40 years since you took a shotgun, placed it between your legs and pulled the trigger with your toes.

I can’t say that I was bereaved. I didn’t feel much of anything except great relief that you would no longer be there to torment me. I was glad that you were dead. I found in you nothing that was redeemable. You were the terror in my life. You were the fear I lived with every single day.

Now, that 40 years have passed, I have come to the place where I am seeing for the first time some of the good things you gave to me. There are some good memories that I can grab on to and dream that you loved me.

I remember the swing set that you built for me and my sister. It was a masterpiece. There is a picture of me pushing “B” on the swing and there was delight in both of our faces.

I remember a trip that you took to Wyoming to hunt for deer. You brought me a beautiful necklace and to this day I can still see the image within it.

I remember the tee-pee you created and had mother sew for us. It was made from old car seat covers. We had fun playing in it and pretending that we were Native American princesses.

I remember the one and only birthday card you ever sent to me and you signed it “Love Dad.” You must have loved me! I never knew.

So, dad, I do hope that you have found peace because I have finally found the peace that I’ve been searching for.

 

Filed Under: Childhood, Family Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

This is how I feel

June 13, 2011 By ANONYMOUS 4 Comments

I try to dress nicely, I put make-up on and I smile. But, behind all that on the inside I feel broken. I feel pain. I feel incomplete. I don’t feel happy. I pretend to be happy. I’m not even sure if I know or if I have ever been truly happy. I don’t even know if I would know what happiness felt like. Sometimes I’m so sick because I drank too much or I took too many pills. Sometimes I just don’t want to wake up. I sometimes fantasize about being hit by bus, falling in front of a train or being run off the road by a truck. I think about your shot guns. I think about doing drugs. I think about driving away and never coming back. I think about taking a plane to Europe and moving into some remote area where no one knows my name or face.

I’ve tried to create the life I wanted, but I’ve never been truly happy. I feel trapped. I feel like my life is a lie. Maybe that’s why I have debt collectors because the life I fantasized about and created I never really had. Now it feels like my life collapsed. I sometimes feel as though I hate everything and everyone. I’m secretly envious of other people that are happy. I sometimes feel like God is playing a bad joke on me. I don’t want to be here, I don’t feel like I belong. God won’t let me have a baby. Maybe because I’m not worthy. Maybe because I have nothing to offer. I feel invisible. I feel like no one hears me. No one sees me. I’m tired. I just want to be okay.

Filed Under: Childhood Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Grandpa’s farm

June 3, 2011 By ANONYMOUS 3 Comments

My fondest memories from my childhood are the times my family and I went to Grandpa’s farm. It was so quiet there and we could smell the wheat growing and smell the hay in the barn. We got to watch as my grandpa milked ol’ Bessie. He used to squirt the farm cats with the fresh warm milk. As kids we enjoyed a freedom that we never had at home. Our dad kept tight reigns on us all the time and we didn’t have the luxury of just running around and playing freely. But, at Grandpa’s, we had all the freedom we needed.

We haunted the woods behind the house and walked through weeds and cactus. We found a spring of wonderful cold water to refresh us during the hot summer days. The water was clear and clean and we could actually drink it. Try to find that kind of water today. Further on we came upon the old cow pond. Oh, the fun we could have there. Believe it or not (and it sounds yucky now) we would swim in that dirty old pond and pretend that it was our own swimming pool.  It was another wonder of being on the farm. We never thought of not being able to run all over the place and discovering the special places that were offered to us. We never worried about getting lost. We were free.

There was a river at the end of the fields of wheat my grandpa had. We loved going there although we could never go into the water for fear of drowning. On occasion my folks, Grandpa and us kids would go down to the river and have a weenie roast and other delightful foods. It was such a celebration.Those happy memories. I just wish we could go back there again and roam the acres that were so familiar to us.

Unfortunately, Grandpa is gone and so is the farm. But, I can always travel there within my memories.

Filed Under: Childhood, Family Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Memories; are they real?

May 2, 2011 By ANONYMOUS 10 Comments

The other night I was visiting with a friend and we began to share our own personal stories. Come to find out, both of us had been sexually abused as children. She remembered all of her abuse, but my memories are only brief pictures that jump into my head! We could genuinely feel and understand each other’s pain.

That evening when I went to bed, I suddenly saw a picture of my dad taking me to bed with him. I hadn’t remembered it, but my mother had written about it and I knew that it had happened. He was drunk as usual and I must have pissed him off for some reason or any reason at all. It didn’t matter to him. Then, as I was remembering, I began to experience physical pain in the region where he was touching me. It hurt and I cringed. I thought I would throw up! I just kept telling myself that I didn’t want to deal with it right then. I was tired and wanted to get some sleep.

A number of years ago there was a lot written about childhood sexual abuse and that, for many, they had no cognizant memory of it and then, out of the blue, they felt and saw something that became a repressed memory. There were a lot of people, professional people, who said that these so-called memories were fignments of imagination and were not to be taken seriously. Others said, “Believe the children.” The author, Helen Bass, wrote a wonderful book entitled The Courage to Heal. It became my bible. I finally could understand some of my reactions, feelings, my sense of always being on alert to any danger. I didn’t want to believe that I was abused by my father. Even though he was a drunk, I didn’t think that he would do that to me. However, I finally realized that yes, indeed it did happen. I used Helen’s book to help me heal and understand the decimation of my childhood and being a “survivor.”

Many people were put into a perplexing situation. Were they really abused? Was it just a figment of their imagination? How could he or she ever know for sure? I have been asking these questions ever since the memories came to me. After all I have gone through, I still wonder. I still feel haunted by the many “blank” times in my life where there is no memory. Fortunately I found a wonderful therapist and we began to work on these memories. She guided me through all of it and because of the type of work she does, I’ve healed many of those memories.

When abuse happens and you are too young to verbalize it, it is hard to accept that the abuse really happened. I was told by my therapist that our minds protect us from those memories until we are able to deal with them. Statistics show that one out of three girls and one out of four boys have been sexually abused during their lifetime.

So, my quesiton is still … is this last memory real or did I just imagine it? How will I ever know for sure? Will you?

 

photo: Google Images

Filed Under: Bedroom stories, Childhood, Dilemma, Shh. Secrets. Tagged With: , , ,

When all you have is a hammer

April 25, 2011 By ANONYMOUS 3 Comments

Ever wonder why you turned out the way you did?  As it’s not really my way to be too introspective, I didn’t spend too much time on it.  Lately, though, I’ve begun wondering about what makes me, well, me.  Here’s what got the whole ball rolling.

I’ve a friend who recently figured out that her mother is suffering from a Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).  Well, her mom doesn’t suffer, but everybody else around her sure does.  I have found books, and support groups, and lots of help for my friend, and at last she seems to be finding some peace.

But now I’ve begun wondering about my own childhood.  There’s an old saying about how when the only tool you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail.  And with over 1.5 million Americans diagnosed with NPD, there are a lot of nails wandering around loose.   Example: imagine a seven-year-old child whose mom is trying to type a college term paper.  The slightest noise would set off screaming and throwing, so everybody tip-toed until she was done.  Even at seven, I knew better than to make noise, so I went into my room, closed the door, and played quietly.  After a time, I began to sing quietly to myself, as seven-year-old children will.  After a minute or two, the typewriter stopped.  My first inkling something might be wrong was when the bedroom door slammed open.  Through the portal stormed a demon I had trouble recognizing as my own mother, trailing a thin leather belt from one claw.  She dragged me to my feet by my hair, and screaming something about how she needed silence for her work, she proceeded to lash me from ankles to shoulders with the belt.  Everywhere it bit, I bled.

I cannot tell you how long it went on.   The demon finally tossed me in a corner and left.  I didn’t dare so much as whimper, lest the demon return and start in again.  After a few moments, the typewriter again began its uneven beat, as if nothing at all had happened.  After a few minutes, I managed to crawl to the bathroom to tend my wounds. My father came in about then, and helped me with the ones I couldn’t reach.  He kept telling me to be quiet so my mother wouldn’t come in and “”finish the job.”"

To this day, people accuse me of a certain level of exaggeration about this incident.  That’s when I lift my shirt and show them the marks.  Some of them did not heal perfectly, and jokes about old girlfriends or the time I wrestled the tiger don’t erase the truth. Others say she was probably in a “”black rage,”" and didn’t know what she was doing.  Sorry, but in one of those blind rages, you pick up and use any convenient object.  That belt was chosen specifically because it would cut and bloody me.  That damage was intentional as hell.  In this day and age, she would have been thrown in jail, and her children removed to foster care.  In that day and age, they gave her a teaching credential and allowed her to inhabit a classroom for 30 years.

Good Old Days?  Perhaps not.  Of course, helping my friend find answers to her personal demons has given me a new tool for my own “toolbox.”  I’m beginning to think mom’s pathological behaviors, psychotic breaks, and screaming rages are proof of an undiagnosed NPD.  Yep, Mom’s a nail.  She’s why I defend the helpless, and fight for those who can’t.  Thanks, Mom, for everything.

 

photo courtesy of Google Images

Filed Under: Childhood, Confession, Family Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Letter to a Friend

March 25, 2011 By ANONYMOUS 6 Comments

imageDear Little One,

I know that you are only 4, and it may be hard for you to understand this. But try to listen with your heart – it is a beautiful heart, full of love, intelligence, and wonderful mischief. It is a heart a bit wiser than your few years, and it will serve you well when you need it most – even when it is breaking. Listen to me, now:

What happened to you is not your fault.

Wait, let’s define this, instead of putting it delicately: You were MOLESTED. And it was scary. And it was painful. And it was very, very WRONG. Your young, vulnerable, INNOCENT body was violated by a person who was perfectly capable of knowing better.

And it wasn’t your fault.

It had nothing to do with the fact that you were out in the front yard, running through the sprinklers in your brand new bathing suit. A 4 year old body is not a sexual body, and no one has the right to see it as such.

You were NOT too trusting of him. He took advantage of the fact that you were, at 4 years old, conditioned to obeying those that were older than you.

You were scared when he touched you in your private parts. He hurt you, I know, when he told you to spread your legs as far as you could and tried to put himself inside you. But the fact that you didn’t leave is not your fault. The fact is, little one, that you could not leave. He wouldn’t let you, remember? He was bigger, heavier, stronger, older. And he was on top. And he had no right to be there. He had no right to hurt you. He had no right to touch you. He was (is) a sick – no, not just sick, a BAD individual that should have known better, and should have been punished.

Mom says that you are mis-remembering, that he was not as old as you say. That doesn’t matter. He was old enough to know better. He behaved in a reprehensible manner, and you were NOT, in ANY WAY, to blame.

You were not a bad girl, little one. You were a little girl in a bad situation. A 4 year old has very little control over her life. She has parents, teachers, and elders constantly telling her what to do. To you, (let’s say his name, it will be alright – hold my hand) Steve was one of those elders. But he was an elder who took advantage of a child’s innocence, and that makes him sick, corrupt, and evil. It does NOT make you "bad" or "stupid" or "too trusting." What it made you was a scared little girl that was taken advantage of, and that is never, EVER acceptable.

Little me, I know you hurt and feel shame. But I want you to be ashamed of HIM, not yourself. I want you to forgive yourself. I need you to heal.

Little me, your heart is so full of love and wonder, your spirit is sweet and strong. Please forgive me for being angry with you. I know now that I was wrong.

Little me, I love you. Please love yourself.

Love,
Big Me

From the Editor: So many Smartly Anonymous posts make me want to reach out and hug the writer. But as you know- these are all submitted truly anonymous, it is impossible to do so. So I want to leave a note here for this author. I am sorry this happened. And I appreciate you sharing this all with the world. Be well.

For anyone who might need it….the Childhood Abuse Hotline 1-800-4-A-CHILD.

Filed Under: Body, Childhood, Shh. Secrets.

Crazy Heart.

February 23, 2011 By ANONYMOUS 6 Comments

image"Is that apple juice?"

"It sure is."

"DAD. It’s whiskey! GROSS."

At the time, I thought it was a funny joke, our own personal little game. I only took the sip the very first time I asked the question, but I continued to pretend. My dad would sit by the television at night, sipping on his "apple juice," and I would feign ignorance of what was in the tiny little glass. It was like our own private routine that my dad found so endearing, so loving. At that age, I figured everyone’s dad drank "apple juice" at night. Once I realized that not all dads would drink at night, a little piece of my childhood died.

I watched the movie Crazy Heart today, and I cried. From the very beginning of the film when Jeff Bridges was drinking profusely, his life continuing to spiral out of control, I cried.

Yes, I admit, Jeff Bridges was brilliant in the movie. I was 100% convinced he was a deteriorating alcoholic. His portrayal was spot on. But it wasn’t Jeff Bridges’ gut-wrenching performance that made me weep. I cried because I believed it was my dad up there. I was almost sure that a scene would happen when Buddy would walk up to him and ask, "Bad, is that apple juice?" that Bad would laugh his smoker laugh and say, "It sure is."

That scene didn’t happen. I cried as Bad ate his take-out steak with a plastic fork and his pocket knife, something I could picture my own dad doing. The loneliness of Bad’s life choices struck a painful, solemn chord in my heart. I thought of my dad. While he has never been alone, having a string of marriages and nearly always having a girlfriend when he wasn’t married, I always in my heart believed him to be lonely. I think from a young age, I saw how his drinking isolated him.

In return, I isolated myself. I remember telling him how I wished he would quit smoking, how I wished he wouldn’t drink so much. Once I realized that my desire to have my dad around for a long life wasn’t as important as his need to drink and smoke, I pulled away.

My dad doesn’t ask me that question anymore. His drink of choice tends to be cheap beer. Lots and lots of cheap beer. "Barley pop" as Bad called it in the movie. I know not to answer the phone after 7:00 p.m. on the weeknights. If I want to communicate with my dad, I call him around 10:30 a.m. on the weekends. At this time, I am sure that he has had his coffee, the appropriate dosage of aspirin, and likely not quite popped open his first can of the day.

I love my dad so much. My whole heart aches for when he was a young, vibrant man, thrilled to explore the world underwater or trying to travel to Vietnam to take photographs. He had passions. He wanted to do things. Sadly, he wanted to drink more than all of these exciting passions he held inside.

My dad is just like Bad. My father. My daddy. The one I love so much. The one that used to think that my ignorance was darling.

I am no longer ignorant. So, after seeing Crazy Heart, I weep. For my dad. For guys like my dad. And for their daughters and sons, who might cry just a little bit harder when they see Jeff Bridges on the screen.

I never drink apple juice.

Filed Under: Childhood, Confession

You never really forget.

December 22, 2010 By ANONYMOUS 5 Comments

imageMy best friend from high school wasn’t able to make it to our 25th class reunion a few months back. We were gabbing on the phone one day, and I tried to fill her in on all the juicy details…who’s looking good, who’s not, weight loss/gains, divorces, marriages, etc.

I told her how one former "It Girl" seems to have lost "it" somewhere along the way. This girl was wanted by boys, envied by girls. Good grades, good hair, good life. But no one ever went to her house when we were young. Her dad was rumored to be very mean, very strict, her mom to be a little nutty. Sometime between then and now she has tripped up, made some bad choices and has ended up in a place far different than anyone could have predicted. Let me clarify that I’m not dissing her. She’s a nice woman, and she’s trying hard to get things back on track. It’s just surprising when someone seems to have had everything and doesn’t live up to everyone’s expectations.

Then we discussed how maybe her home life was not so good. Maybe there was a reason no one went to her house. And then we felt ashamed for even talking about it. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors? Maybe she’s been trying to escape the demons of her childhood for these past 25 years…maybe she just gave up. Doesn’t matter. It’s not our business, not anyone’s business.

And then my friend said: "I still think it’s amazing that you grew up so normal." I laughed, thinking that she was referencing my parent’s divorce or my sketchy teens. "Really" she continued, "I still remember some of the stuff that happened to you and to this day it makes me sad." Now I was intrigued. What in the world was she talking about? Sure, I had a stepdad who wasn’t exactly Mr. Rogers, but I was a smart mouthed kid. I talked back, rolled my eyes. But all I could recall was some yelling, a couple of shoves and slaps. A coffee mug thrown at my head. That’s all.

My friend went on. "I will never forget that time you and I were watching t.v. and your stepdad came in, threw you down on the floor and started kicking you. I mean, kicking the shit out of you. I can still see you scrambling on the floor, trying to get away. Trying to get to your room." At this point it was as if she was reading a passage from a book. This wasn’t me, this hadn’t happened. I stopped her, and said, "No way. I totally don’t remember this happening. Are you kidding?". She said, "Seriously? I can still see you crawling away. It happened a few times while I was there. I still remember just standing there, thinking how surreal it was. I never told anyone, no one. Not even my parents. We were 13, I had no idea how to process it."

And then I started remembering. I remembered the pain. I remembered the shame, the embarrassment. I remembered the rage.

My dreams were filled with horror that night. Horror and fear and a sadness so big and huge and black that I woke up in tears several times. I saw my mom standing there, watching, doing nothing. I saw his eyes, so filled with hate that I thought he would kill me. I remembered huddling on the floor, next to my bed, my Laura Ashley comforter wrapped around me as I rocked and sobbed. "Go apologize to her" I heard my mom say, and he would come into my room. Face still red and beaded with sweat, big meaty hands still clenched into doughy fists. "I’m sorry" he’d say. "I’m sorry."

"I’m sorry."

You know what?

Me too.

Note from Smartly Editors:

Just in case, the Child Abuse Hotline/Website.

It is anonymous too. HERE.

Filed Under: Childhood, Confession, Shh. Secrets.

What makes the difference?

December 21, 2010 By ANONYMOUS 7 Comments

imageThere are a few people this world, my world specifically, would be better without:  my still-abusing-and-deceiving-others ex-husband, the guy I know who killed his wife and got away with it, every single child molester who ever lived, etc.  I’m sure we all know a few people we would like to eliminate. 

And then, after I think these thoughts and fantasize about their reality, I do the ridiculous, and wonder what their lives as children must have been like.  In a few cases, I already know the answer…"not good" does not suffice.  For a few minutes I can even muster tears for these once-abused children..but I still cannot justify the actions of those who are now adults and make others’ lives a living hell. After all, practically everyone I know has a few horror stories to tell, and they seem to manage just fine dealing with their own issues in humane ways.

So what makes the difference between someone who hurts, abuses, manipulates, rapes, molests, steals, and someone who doesn’t?  And why oh why can’t I be the kind of Batmanesque vigilante who could rid the world of a handful of these despicable beasts?  If only I didn’t have a conscience…and my own sordid stories.

Submitted by Conveniently Anonymous

Filed Under: Childhood, Rant