An Alternate Reality

I don’t know if I’ll post this. I don’t even know if I’ll finish writing this. Every time I talk about this, it becomes more a part of my present, and less a part of my past, so I’m almost afraid that by the time I finish this it will consume me. The fear I mean. The feeling of brokenness, of being damaged, of it being my fault, and worst of all the hopelessness. I’m smart, I’m pretty, I have good friends, there’s no reason for me to feel this way. I hate myself for it. So many people have it so much worse than I do.

            I always thought it was normal, the way my dad acted. He would go into blind rages over small things, but I just thought all men did that. He would throw things. Break things. Scream at me. Belittle me. But I don’t remember much. He would start screaming, and the next thing I know my mom would be stroking my hair and I’d be in bed, crying, or in a closet, or a corner rocking and back and forth. He never sexually abused me (though a babysitter did, once when I was 6). He didn’t really physically abuse me either. He hit me a few times, but I wouldn’t classify it as abuse. But he did threaten me physically. And he was physical. One of my most vivid memories as a child was my mother and I huddled together in the corner of her room as my father screamed outside the door and then proceeded to break the door down. He did this twice on two separate occasions. I vividly remember him throwing a giant glass jar full of some type of nuts or whatever at my mother out of anger. As recently as this past summer he was screaming at me because I got into a fender bender, and grabbed my arm, so I ran down the street and hid in my neighbors garage until he left. Or the time he kicked in our cabinets. Or screamed at me bloody murder, again until I blacked out, because the crabs somehow got let out of the crab traps. He always apologized. Always. But he’d do it again. And again and again. It happened as often as every day, and sometimes as far apart as a week. But every time I thought he was going to stop, it would happen again. Or he would threaten me, and use my fear of him against me. Threaten to give away my horse. To not let me go to college. To leave and go back to Iraq. To divorce my mom. And on and on and on. When I was younger I thought my parents splitting up would be the end of the world. Now I wish she would have left him when I was much younger.

I don’t hate my Dad. I hope no one gets that idea. And he’s not a bad person. Just not a great father. I don’t know why he does this. I know he’s sick. I know his dad did it to him. I just wish he loved me, my mom, and my brothers enough to get help. But he won’t. And I thought it was normal. The only relationship I’ve ever been exposed to is my parents. A relationship full of domestic violence and manipulation. I can’t fathom a healthy, functional relationship, because they don’t exist in my reality. Men have only ever hurt me. I never had a real father daughter relationship. But men scare me. Every man I ever spend time with I fight fear. And if they explode, yell, curse, anything at me? I freak out. To this day.

My biggest fear is that I’m damaged. I don’t tell people. I feel like no one will care. That I’m damaged. That I’ll never forget or move on. I feel paralyzed sometimes. And sometimes I want to deny it. Pretend my childhood was the same as all of my friends. Very few of my friends know about this. I don’t want them to think of me different. To judge me. But I’m scared. And I’m watching my 16 year old brother turn into my father in front of my eyes. I had to call the cops just a few weeks ago when he got so angry he almost hit me, but instead punched through a window and sliced his hand. He has the same rages. They’re few and far between, but I’m so scared. I’ve become afraid of him. He exploded on me verbally recently, and I blacked out. My little brother caused me to have the same fear response as my abusive father. I moved halfway across the country when I was 18 to get away from my father. And now here’s my baby brother, who I’ve always tried to protect the best I could, causing me to end up on the floor sobbing in the bathroom. I honestly thought he was father, my mom had to keep telling me he wasn’t my father.

Everyone says I’m such a strong person. Says I’m so smart, so driven, so blessed. And I know I’m blessed. I know God has given me so many good things. But I would give all the material things back if I could only have a real father. The one that my friends talked about. Who would hug them when their boyfriend broke their heart. Who would wait up for them when they’re on a date in high school, and threaten to kill anyone who hurt them. Who would do everything in their power to protect their little girl. Who would stay up and watch movies on the couch. Who would do anything to keep her safe. And I think he would for the most part. I think he tried to keep me safe from everything, but he just wasn’t willing to protect me from the thing that was hurting me the most - himself. And I sit here bawling my eyes out as I write this, I don’t want to post this. I don’t want anyone to know how pathetic and weak and damaged I am. How broken I am. How hopeless and worthless I feel. But it took me almost 20 years to realize that how I grew up wasn’t normal. That I was victimized by my father. And that I witnessed a marriage full of domestic abuse. And that none of that is normal. That none of that is okay. So if any of you know someone going through this, or if you yourself is going through this, just know you’re not alone. No one should have to go through abuse.

There is so much more I want to say. There is so much more I need to say. But right now I can’t. I hate talking about this at all. So forgive me, but I am trying.

xoxo - J