I Don’t Want To Be a Victim

Awareness, Blame, Domestic Violence, feminism, fuck you, home, Humanist, Journal, Personal

An issue that poses itself after having been a “victim” of domestic violence is that if it happens to someone more than once, which is statistically quite likely, people can assume that you’re not very credible or don’t know what abuse is, or simply favor playing the victim.

I want to state, for the record, that I have never wanted to be a victim.

I want to be happy, healthy, and safe.

You’d think that if a kid came to you and said they were being bullied on the playground, you’d listen.

And if that same kid came back and said another kid was bullying them, you might think (unless you’re a piece of shit) that there’s an issue with bullying at this kids school.

Well my playground is home, and my bullies happen to be the men my mom bring into my life. They are people that I share a bathroom with, that sleep not even seven feet away from me, they are people who I am not related to by blood or marriage – and who do not pursue any kid of healthy relationship with me. He’s here to fuck my mom and use her for weed money.

But these same people, or Person really, feels entitled to discipline me in his own fashion.

He disciplines me in ways that the scientific method has not proven effective in any conclusive way that promotes one’s mental health.

He uses fear tactics – physical threats, screaming, breaking things to invoke fear. He has never beat me, but has grabbed me while angry. Which brings me to my next point, my mom had a rule that she taught my sister and I when we were younger – to never lay a finger on someone when you were angry.

There were no exceptions.

Laying a finger on someone when you were mad, or worse yet, physically hurting them when you were angry, never led to anything positive.

I have listened to her, I haven’t hit anyone or gotten in fights. But when it comes to this man, who I will not call her boyfriend, because at this point he is an abuser – when it comes to him, these same rules that she has set for us do not apply to him.

He can grab my wrists when angry, he can scream at the top of his lungs and point a finger in my face, he can bruise my little sister’s back for bringing milk upstairs – he can cause damage to our belongings by throwing them and damage to my mother’s daughters by physically hitting us and using what is clearly verbal abuse.

When I brought my opinions to my mom, carefully laid out, I stated that I simply couldn’t see how she can ignore the signs of abuse, to which she responded that she couldn’t possibly see how I did.

Two days ago, I posted this image on facebook:

Spanking.jpg

And I will admit, 1) it’s obviously incredibly biased, and 2) it is the kind of post that when I see someone who I disagree with posting it, I roll my eyes and internally scream something along the lines of “MY GOD YOU NEED SCIENCE” – but it said what I was thinking. So I posted it.

The topic reminded me of how my dad would whip me with a belt and leave bruises on my ass. It reminds me of when he would hit me so hard repeatedly that I would be sore for days.

I consider that abuse – even though it wasn’t the only abusive thing he did to me or my family. I feel the need to say that. I feel the need to qualify my abuse. To make it seem serious, because not nearly enough people see abuse as it is.

But even though I didn’t post this with the man my mom brought into my home in mind, he commented on it taking a defense.

He knows very well how guilty he is. He knows what he has done is wrong.

Yet he had the audacity to tell my oldest sister that she was projecting her anger on to him, being childish, and playing the victim.

My mom jumped to his aide as well, and used the same example she has every time we’ve argued about spanking – about the kid who runs into the street and puts them-self in danger.

Which apparently merits hitting your child. Because, hey! They survived! Let’s give them a beating so they wish they hadn’t!

But honestly, let’s break this down.

So it’s okay to discipline your child with a firm spanking, when they are putting them-self or others in danger. Alright, I can acknowledge that this isn’t devoid of logic. No one wants their kid to cause harm – but what about those other times this form of discipline has been exerted? And what is there to be said about using this method regularly? Because if the purpose truly is to strike fear and create a memory about what not to do, then this should not be overused. That is simply psychology – if physical discipline is used repeatedly and often, the child will grow to not fear or learn from the experience (I’ll likely write another post about whether or not it is ethical to use fear tactics while raising a person, because I don’t exactly agree with that).

The aforementioned milk incident, when my young sister brought a cup of milk upstairs? (which had a lid on it, I might mention. It was a sippy cup) Did that require a spanking? How about the time she was crying in the corner because she was exhausted, as four year old’s get, and he aggressively made his way down the stairs to spank her repeatedly (not even aiming at her hind anymore, but instead hitting any surface of her body which was available) and leaving bruises on her back, and welts where his hand had been? Sure. It shut her up. Sure, she isn’t crying and he was able to go back to his room and smoke some pot and go back to his jobless life of mooching off my mom’s income, like he has been doing for the last two and a half years.

Did the milk merit a beating of such caliber? Did the sad toddler in the corner, who felt isolated and unwanted, who expressed this through tears, did she deserve to be beat? Was that a worthy enough cause for him? Is that justifiable?

If it is, shame on him.

This child has gone through enough, she has to visit her depressed father every other weekend who doesn’t even properly bathe her. She has to watch him be an emotional mess – he cries in front of her.

There’s a fine line between discipline and abuse, but to me, violence will always be violent. Hitting will always be hitting. I don’t care if it’s on my ass or across my face, this is my body, my autonomy, my life and mental health you had in your hands and you fucking obliterated it.

To caregivers, parents, or siblings out there – it is your responsibility that these young people are okay. You are responsible for the mental health of these people. You are responsible for their well-being. Their perspective on life. You are everything they have. You are their consistency, their world. Make their world as great as you can, give them every possible opportunity you can. Their worlds depend on you.

I am not a victim of my circumstances. I am not Bryan’s victim, or my dad’s. I am no one’s victim, no one’s abuse toy, I am an independent individual who doesn’t rely on an abuser to give herself an identity. I am not your victim. My sister is not your victim. We are fucking strong, we hate you and your actions with a writhing passion, and I don’t care what delusions my mom has about you and what you have done, but I am no fool. I see your bullshit. I see your phony grandeur. You are nothing more than a sack of flesh who abuses children who are not even your own. You left your daughter in Australia and had to take a moment to remember her name, you use my mother for pot money and haven’t even applied for a job since moving here, you sit in your chair that my mom bought for you, smoke weed that she bought for you, you sit under a roof she pays for, use a computer she funded, and internet which she bought for you.

Get a life. Stop abusing those who are bridled into living in close proximity to you. You are a fucking loser.

Dear Dad

Athiesm, Blame, Church, dancing, Family, fathers, feminism, fuck you, god, Humanist, Journal, Love, Perfect

Dear dad,
I want you to know that I love you. I haven’t been able to say that in an incredibly long time. I haven’t been able to admit to myself in years that I love you.

I want you to know that you have hurt me – that I suffer on a daily basis because of your reckless actions.

I want you to know that because of your abusive actions, I was forced to become an adult at 13.

I want you to know that I hurt every time I see a picture or a mention of you on social media, because I have desperately tried to cut you out of my life.

I want you to know that because you weren’t there for me as a little girl, I tried to find love in a ruthless world. In a world where finding love is genuinely difficult – where I am taught to not love myself. In a world where having you by my side would have solved a lot of problems. I wanted you there.

I want you to know that I want you to love me more desperately than I’ve ever wanted anything else.

I want you to know that I don’t expect you to come back into my life, that I don’t expect anything from you, that this has made me bitter, hurt, and angry.

Which is why I hate to say I love you. Why it is bitter for me to say I love you. Why I roll my eyes at myself and am left in confusion when I say I love you, because I shouldn’t.

You abused me.
You don’t pay for child support.
You ignore my text messages.
You controlled me.
You manipulated my perception of myself.
You hurt me beyond all means.
You were not there for me.
You never made the effort to reenter my life.

I have every reason to hate you.
But I don’t.

I should.
But I don’t.

I want to hate you,
But I can’t.

Despite all you have done to me, I regret to inform you that I love you. I know that this doesn’t change our relationship – that it will continue as per the legal documents instruct; That we will see each other on the holidays listed, that I will no longer be on your insurance at 26, that you won’t be responsible for my child support after 18, and so forth.

But by this point, I should be used to not having you in my life. Or not having your “financial support”, which you have only given me once. I should understand that you only have me in your life when it’s convenient for you, when it looks good to that girl you wanna date, or when it helps you get custody of my little sister in court.

I understand that the extent of your love for me ended when you found out I was an atheist, that I wasn’t going to stand for you trying to convert me back to Christianity. You never tried to talk to me after that last weekend.

Remind me again why I should love you?

At The End of The Day

Blame, Domestic Violence, Family, fathers, feminism, forgotten, fuck you, Future, home, Hope, Humanist, Journal, no trust, Personal

Who does Bryan think he is? To come downstairs and start raising his voice at me in my house, on the one day I have off from school and other activities.

Sure, our house wasn’t clean, but I was going to clean it. I made a To Do list and cleaning the whole house was on there..

But instead of rationally discussing the fact that there was a dirty pan on the stove and the floor could stand to be swept, he yelled at me. He threw something across the room and saying “go ahead and run away” as I packed up my things so I could do my homework in peace.

On that note, I shouldn’t have to fucking worry about being able to do my homework on a saturday when it’s just me there with my moms boyfriend. I shouldn’t have to think twice about having to come home when it will just be him and I there. He can’t control his temper, he has anger outbursts. He spanks kendra out of anger when Riley and I have expressed our discomfort with it, when we have talked to our mom and told her how we feel.

I shouldn’t have to feel like my mom won’t listen to me because she will automatically take sides with Bryan. She doesn’t hear what I have to say, or she does but she doesn’t care that her boyfriend makes my life uncomfortable. That he makes me uncomfortable in my own home.

I am valid in feeling like my mother’s boyfriend should not raise his voice at me when I am alone with him. I am valid in feeling that my mom does not care about my emotions when she sides with him. Just because my mom does not agree with me, just because my mom does not hear me, just because my mom is choosing to stay with a man who has hurt all of her children, does not make my opinions, feelings, or ideas invalid.

At the end of the day, I am just a sixteen year old who wants her mother to care about her.

At the end of the day, I am just a sixteen year old who could really use a parent with good judgement.

At the end of the day, I just want to feel like someone has my best interest at heart.

My Perfect Partner

Athiest, beautiful, Beauty, bisexual, Domestic Violence, equality, Family, feminism, Future, Hope, Humanist, Jealousy, Journal, Love, Loving Life, Memories, Partner, Peace, Perfect, Personal, Religion, Small Things, Smiling

My perfect partner.. They would be assertive, taller than me, about a year older than me, pretty fit or small, kiss really well, their occupation would be in a field of science, they would be a mathematical person with soft emotions, we would share the same taste in music and humor, they would be atheist or buddhist. Preferably would have brown or dark hair, would wear leather shoes (probably oxfords or sandals). They would play chess, read for leisure, cook occasionally. High libido, masculine but not necessarily male. They would love theatre like Shakespeare and have wanderlust. They would aspire to know everything they could, never stop learning. They would love foggy weather, as well as the rainy days. They would share my nerdy side, loving Lord of the Rings and Sherlock as much as me. They would understand that I have many emotional issues, including but not limited to PTSD, depression, anxiety, and binge eating. They would understand that sometimes I really just need to be left alone or have things that are just mine and don’t share. They would let me go through everything I need to – like dying/cutting my hair, losing or gaining weight, that sometimes I get jealous and I can’t help it. They wouldn’t mind me spam texting them when I feel like it, that I can over analyze things because of my past. They wouldn’t mind that I can overreact to things, that sometimes I need weeks or months to just cry. Sometimes I can’t sleep. They would understand that I have a really difficult time loving people, that I have a really difficult time trusting something that isn’t fantasy or an animal. They would understand that I am a person who fluctuates in everything: emotions, weight, ideas. I’m constantly changing and don’t like settling. They would understand that I have a very hard time trusting men specifically, that I have a lot of triggers, that when I love I love fully and will commit like nothing else in the entire world because they are mine and they understand me. They would need to be passionate and caring, interesting but not a douche, kind but not delusionally so. They would never leave me. They would be really sexual, enjoy the mystery of large cities and live in one with me. Their last name wouldn’t start with an S because I don’t want my initials to be ASS (which sucks because I have a tendency to attract and be attracted to people with surnames that begin with S). They would be down for adventure at any hour. They wouldn’t let me get stuck in my ruts where I forget what I love..

Most importantly, I want to be attracted to them in the way that I fall in love instantly. The kind that makes me crazy, the kind that I can’t sleep over. Where I yearn to know everything about them and once I know that, I want to learn more.

They would be feminist, an ally or part of the LGBTQ community, they wouldn’t support anything anti-LGBT, they would understand the importance of spreading the knowledge of domestic violence. They would love me as much as I love them and I wouldn’t doubt it. They would like small dogs and cats, enjoy poetry and a cup of tea. They would own professional clothing – as a male they would wear a navy suit, as a woman a pencil skirt and blazer.. They would hold my hand when we were shopping, they would hug me often.. I would never doubt them.

This person makes me believe in love. They make me warm and happy inside.

Happy Father’s Day: Whores and Addiction

dads, Domestic Violence, Family, fathers, fuck you, Journal, Memories, no trust, Personal, sexual harassment

This Father’s Day I will quietly, but unashamedly, denounce Father’s Day because my father was no father to me.

For years, I would listen to the sound of his voice echo throughout our house as my family would try to sleep. His drunken, loud, angry voice yelling at my mom about things she could not control. The same man who threw my sweet, innocent puppy into our concrete patio,breaking some of her ribs…

ronpup

(This could be her as a puppy, the resemblance is uncanny)

The man who slept with prostitutes when working out of town – and didn’t tell my mom before sleeping with her again. Who drank profusely and stared at his twelve year-old daughters breasts that puberty had spit upon her chest. He wasn’t a graceful man, he wasn’t a nice man, he wasn’t even kind. As the naive and uneducated kid that I was, I loved him. He made my life. I was Daddy’s Girl.

As much as I wish I could still accept him, I know things that tore apart any love or sentiment I had for him. He did things that can’t be reversed with an apology, or with a fatherly kiss on the forehead. Even those kisses he planted on my forehead when he left for work have been tarnished because of reckless actions he didn’t have to take. He let his addiction come before his family, he let his love for whores come before his daughters, he let his lust for breasts taint the way I will see him for the rest of my life.

We lived in fear of what he would do next and we sure made hell seem happy – in our nicely furnished home, with our name brand clothing and smiles plastered to our faces. Mom gently reminding us “Don’t air your dirty laundry“, because she knew exactly what would happen if people found out what happened behind our closed doors.  We did such a good job hiding it, when we finally came out and proclaimed the truth, no one believed us.

So, no. I am not celebrating father’s day. I understand that some people have nice fathers, however foreign that may seem to me right now. Some people love their dads, they might even have good relationships with them.. But to me, father’s day may as well be what Hanukkah is to an Atheist: absolutely meaningless.

No One Believes Us

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Hope, Journal, Memories, Personal, Poetry

The monster who crept the hallways at midnight,

in a drunken state, blood red eyes, putrid breath.

He raised his hand, I covered my head.

Silent tears were wept as I heard footsteps come down the hall,

Nervous energy, a dark cloud crept over our home.

terrified children, ignorant children,

but we were scared and battered, thinking no one cared.

How does he still control me? I thought we got away years ago. But I can still feel his hand, right before it hit my cheek.

People, they don’t believe us.

They think I tell lies.

He got to them first,

got them on his side,

charming them with his new haircut, clean shaved,

Telling them he’d changed.

Now no one believes us.

Sent us to therapy, said that’d be enough.

but I lay awake at night, hyperventilating, tears streaming down my face,

just because I thought I heard something coming down the hallway.

No one believes us,

To them it’s just about the money

The lawyers bills and court documents,

it’s just a case.

Children and custody,

Splitting the furnishings.

But at one point it was about a scared little girl,

crying in her room.

It was about the family who had a monster, just behind the front door.

October: Domestic Violence Awareness Month

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Humanist, Love, Peace

My story is a pretty interesting one, at least from my own perspective.

I lived a republican/christian/country life for thirteen years, almost fourteen, and I was very strong in those beliefs. I loved my father, he was my inspiration in life. He was a hard worker, he was an elder in my church. Yeah, he drank, he wasn’t a perfect man, but as I said so many times then “no one is really perfect”.

So I lived that life, believing what I was told.

It was spoon fed to me like medicine each night before bed.

They didn’t let me believe anything, but I never tried to because I felt like I was doing what was right.

All this was the case up until October 22nd, 2013.

I woke up that day from hibernation. I became me that day.

And I can never go back.

That was the day my mom pulled me aside and told me she was gonna get me out of there. She was going to set me free.

This may not make sense to you, my dear Reader, because I have yet to really talk about this. But being that it’s October, I feel it’s appropriate now.

I remember this day in 2007, it was summer, and I was living in a trailer as my parents started their business. If you’ve ever been in one, you’ll know that they have little storage, so everything we owned was boxed up, including my toys. But I decided to play with my toys that day, and I kind of wish I didn’t now because it’s scarred me. My parents had a small spat that day. My dad picked up the box, and he hurled it at my mom. Right in front of my sister and I. In that little trailer.

I will never forget that.

So many other things happened, I know they did, but I have blocked them out. I have forgotten, because dealing with that knowledge is too hard for a young girl.

Maybe one day I’ll let myself remember again.

But that day is not today.

Today, I am strong and I go on with my day, I remember to love with my hands and not hurt with them. I remember that words can bruise, and sticks and stone break bones and words fucking hurt too.

I am a survivor of Domestic Violence, and I want to raise awareness about it, because I had no idea what it was before my mom told me when we left my dad.

October 31st is more than just halloween to me, it’s the day I was liberated. It was the day I was set free from my dad, the last day he had to hurt me. He hasn’t since.

I am free from his cruel words and hands.

I am me.

I am a Women’s rights activist.

I am a Feminist.

I am a lover of people.

I am an Secular Humanist.

I am a peaceful person.

I love, but I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me.

Our First Life Update

Journal, Personal

As I am still learning how to use WordPress, I want to submerge myself into it’s entirety and just get right down to who I am. With my last blog, I danced around subjects and I say “No More!”. I am going to brief you, my dear reader, on who I am as a person.

  • I am a Secular Humanist, new to my ways, but not to the thoughts.
  • I am a Feminist, and those of you who disagree with that choice of mine, you can meander away just as you came in.
  • I was verbally abused as a child and will frequently talk about it’s impact on my life and also reflect on the things that happened to me.
  • I am an emotional and blatant personality. I don’t say things to please others, only to get it out (at least on here). If you disagree with my views or ideas, you can either politely leave or prepare yourself for a nice heated debate. I fight for my beliefs when I feel it is called for.

Today:

Today was a long and emotional day for me, though it was also a positive one. I got to see my mom and we went shopping together, I would like to express my deep love for her and all she’s done for my sister and I.

She left my father almost two years ago, and with no college education, she went from cleaning houses to being a manager in five months. She moved to a city where she had no contacts, and started anew. After being physically and verbally abused by her ex-husband, she decided to make her life worth living and get out of the mess that had been her life for seventeen years.

My mother is a saint and I love her for being as strong as she is.

Sometimes I feel like living here is holding me back, like I could live a million different places and have a better future. But, like I told my mom earlier today, I’m like a rubber band, and this place keeps pulling me back tighter and tighter, but when I’m ready to go, I’m gonna fly off higher and go farther than I am expecting even now. So, I let myself get pulled back, let myself get uncomfortable with the towns small minds and views, but when it comes time for release, I won’t be held back by anything.