Climbing Out: A Story of Abuse and Healing

    I have set the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will rest secure.

–Psalm 161:8-9

 

I am a survivor of both sexual abuse and domestic violence. I’m now 63, and my pain and innermost, darkest secrets have festered inside of me for far too long. It’s time for them to come out, and hopefully, I will be able to help at least one of you find some peace. I have–almost.

I was molested twice as a child, then raped twice–then raped again by my third husband, then repeatedly raped again by an ex-boyfriend who beat, choked, strangled, smothered, slapped, and punched me daily for five grueling months. I had more black eyes and split lips than a street fighter. He made me a prisoner in my own home, and cut me off from my friends and the outside world because he was afraid that I or someone else would report him.

He enjoyed flinging insults at me, bullying me, throwing me into walls and breaking my furniture with my body. The final blow came the night he shoved my face down in the couch cushion breaking my glasses to smithereens, and held the biggest knife I owned at the back of my neck screaming over and over, “I’m gonna cut your f____ing head off!”

I finally escaped from him that night when he passed out drunk, and I had him arrested. He told the arresting officer that the threat was a joke. I wasn’t laughing. After spending three months in jail, he started harassing me, stalking me, and threatening me. I eventually moved to another state, found a measure of peace, and re-claimed my life–yet again.

I was 10 when I was first molested by a neighbor hired to babysit me. He touched me in my sacred places and made me touch his. He made me feel filthily uncomfortable and the nightmare lasted for a few agonizing weeks.

My mother didn’t want to hear about the violations and wouldn’t do anything to make him stop.

The second time, I was 12, and the assault involved another neighbor. My mother didn’t want to hear about that either.

Both of my molesters were suppose to be watching over me and protecting me. Studies show that most sexual assaults are committed by someone the victim knows.

I thought the abuse was my fault–that I had done something wrong to provoke or deserve it. And my mother made me feel as though I had. If I tried to talk to her, she’d say, “Well, you asked for it!”

My spirit was broken.

I felt dirty, ashamed, and unworthy. I concluded that this treatment was just a part of life. Mom’s reaction confirmed my suspicion, which makes me wonder if she had been an abuse victim herself. I didn’t understand that we were both wrong about the acts forced on me.

I had a lot of living to do before I figured out that sexual abuse is neither normal nor OK.

As I grew older, I trusted no one and felt worthless–like rotten potatoes. Hope faded and I became a very depressed and depressing person. I was withdrawn, distraught, introspective, and suicidal. In my teens, I would spend two or three days at a time alone in bed, crying uncontrollably. I wouldn’t eat, comb my hair, or join my family in any activities.

There was simply no joy in my life.

I hadn’t recovered from the earlier molestations yet when I was raped at 16 by the boyfriend I had at the time. He stole my virginity and my desire to be sexy.

Again, my mother didn’t want to hear about it. I had been viciously violated again and had no one to comfort me.

I was raped the second time by a stranger when I was 21. He was black and I am white. I was in a desperate situation and I accepted a ride from the wrong person. He was a predator who destroyed my color blindness.

As the attack began, I jerked a folding knife from a handy spot in my purse, and pointed it in his direction while yelling “leave me alone.” I’ve never been very strong, and he easily grabbed the knife out of my hand. He pressed the knife against my neck and threatened to slit my throat if I didn’t do what he wanted.

I was in fear for my life, so I did.

He forced himself on me for hours at a house somewhere in the country, and then dragged me to the shower. He turned the cold water on while subduing me, tossed me in, and then left. I was abandoned in a strange place–dazed, shocked, devastated, and bewildered.

When I reported the incident to the police, I was treated like a prostitute–as if I asked for it. I don’t believe the police ever looked for my attacker.

That occurred in 1970 when help for sexual assault victims and empathetic ears were virtually non-existent. For years, I chastised myself for “letting” him rape me.

Three months later, I found out I was pregnant. I loathed the baby inside me and wanted nothing to do with him or her. The pregnancy had been forced upon me and this was in 1971 when having a mixed-race child was very much taboo. To make matters even worse, my stepfather was a violent racist who gave me a lot of grief for being pregnant with a black baby.

The pregnancy was too much for me to bear. I was being bombarded on every side and the whole world seemed against me. I had a mental breakdown and my doctor performed a Cesarean abortion when I was five months pregnant.

Abortions were not an accepted alternative, so my mother didn’t visit me in the hospital.

I was burdened with guilt and shame for giving up the baby. But I knew that God still loved me because I am one of His own beloved children. He’d forgiven me, and I needed to forgive me if I was going to find peace.

But self-forgiveness was not easy. I fell into a deep pit of self-pity, anxiety, and paranoia. I tried to escape reality by drinking and smoking copious amounts of marijuana to dull the pain. I kept a journal and my tears drenched the pages. I felt like a slave to torment.

No one wanted to listen to me. No one wanted to comfort me. No one wanted to help me deal with my devastation. So I held it inside–and I almost exploded.

As a way to escape the pain, I went on the run. I changed my address over and over and over–106 times covering nine different states so far. I could never really get comfortable and when the slightest thing set me off, I felt an urge to move.

While on the move, I married four times and divorced four times. I had more boyfriends than I can count on my fingers and my toes. I was engaged more times than Liz Taylor, but I was never happy or satisfied, and I had a warped view of sex. I sabotaged my relationships–especially the one I wanted the most.

I finally found the love of my life, and then I pushed him away.

I wanted a man in my life, but men terrified me because I knew that they were capable of hurting me. I was drastically confused. After I walked away from my true love, I neglected my appearance and my hygiene, and consciously tried to make myself unattractive. My self-esteem had been ripped from me.

I grew increasingly suicidal. On July 4, 2002, I almost succeeded in ending my life when I took a goodly amount of Tylenol combined with a large portion of Advil. As I woke up gagging on thick, black charcoal, the attending physician in the emergency room asked me, “So you want to kill yourself do you?”

Of course I did.

Besides living through never-ending emotional torture, I was suffering from constant, unrelenting physical pain brought on by more than a dozen degenerative ailments such as osteoarthritis and scoliosis. I simply existed in a living hell.

I was angry with God and I asked Him repeatedly, “Why didn’t You help me?” I couldn’t understand why a loving God allowed me to go through so much torment. Then I read something that gave me a different perspective–I should be asking Him how he wants me to react to my trials, instead of asking why He allowed this to happen. Did He really want me to mope and sit around bawling and feeling sorry for myself?

I discerned that He was making me strong and giving me character through all these trials, and I started appreciating what a special gift my life is. But I still needed help to ease all the hurt–someone who would listen for a change.

I’ve heard it said that God helps those who help themselves, and I found an excellent Christian therapist who specialized in counseling abuse victims. Since I was affected by both sexual abuse and domestic violence, MacKenzie had her hands full with me, but the two of us sorted it out.

“Mac” guided me to realize that abusers are predators who prey on the weak and overtake the strong. She convinced me that I hadn’t “let” my abuse happen and stressed that it was not my fault. My abusers were adults and the shame is their cross to bear.

She comforted me and listened to me. She taught me that I had to find a way on my own to soothe my pain.

When she quoted a promise from the Bible that reads, “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy” (Psalm 126:5), I immediately felt a wave of calm engulf me. I’d “walked on eggshells” for most of my life–always afraid to take the next step. I suddenly felt confidence in my stride.

I also took comfort in my faith. I was taught the grace of Jesus when I was young and He would again become my ally. I latched onto Him like barnacles cling to a ship. I figured, “Well, He saved me once, maybe He’ll save me again!”

He did. He took me by the hand and lifted me out of my pit of despair.

And then I got mad.

I decided not to allow myself to be a slave to bad memories again and I vowed to force myself to heal. I had to put forth the effort and I had to do the work but I was tired of being miserable.

That determination sent me running to an abused women’s shelter in Tennessee after being sexually threatened by my daughter’s boyfriend. In a shelter group, we discussed how to make the right choices and I realized that far too many of the choices I’d made were nothing but wrong for me.

I desperately needed my “picker” fixed.

I had made questionable choices for most of my life and had paid dearly for some of those decisions–like taking the ride with that stranger. I was mostly attracted to “bad boys” and that’s what they usually turned out to be. I promised myself that I would start weighing my options a little more closely and I started making better, clearer resolutions based on what I have learned to combat abusive relationships.

If you are going through abuse, don’t risk further injury by confronting your abuser. First and foremost, report your abuser to law enforcement authorities, even if the abuser is a parent. Remember that NO ONE has the right to abuse you. Always have an escape plan so that you can safely get up, get out, and get help.

Once out of an abusive situation, don’t let despair fester like a boil inside you until you’re ready to burst. You need to rid yourself of emotional pain, and there are plenty of resources you can count on for help in taking your emotional life back.

There are also a number of things you can do for yourself to ease the misery. These things helped me. I hope that they will help you too:

• Call a trusted friend or family member when you are feeling frightened, overwhelmed, or alone. 
• Make positive goals for yourself, work on them feverishly and praise yourself when you achieve them.
• Get involved in something– anything– as proof to yourself that the abuser didn’t steal your will to live. Take up playing the guitar, playing golf, playing ping pong–whatever keeps your mind occupied and shows the world your tenacity.
• Take care of yourself. Get plenty of sleep, keep up your hygiene and grooming ritual, eat healthy foods, and re-establish a normal routine as soon as possible.
• Listen to your favorite music and write out your feelings in your journal.

Throw yourself into church activities. Have some fun, go on church outings, or volunteer.

Above all, don’t give up hope. Recovery is a slow process. You’ll never be OK with what happened, but you’ll grow stronger for having survived the experience. My hope is that you will find a way to heal yourself and step toward achieving a prosperous and happy life.  Please, be safe.

Here are a few numbers you can call to reach caring people who can provide information that will allow you to take back control of your life (used with permission):

 

National Domestic Violence Hotline  1-800-799-7233

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline    1-800-273-8255

Gift from Within (Survivors of Trauma and Victimization) 1-207-236-8858        

www.giftfromwithin.org

National Child Abuse Hotline    1-800-422-4453

www.childhelp.org

National Teen Dating Abuse Helpline    1-886-331-9474

www.loveisrespect.org

or text “love is” to 77054

 

Copyright 2013. Margarett Meyers

All rights reserved

 

 

 

The Indoor Blizzard

It was Mother’s Day 1986 and snowing and blowing profusely.  It had been at least ten years since I’d lived in the snow and I had no idea of what I was in for.  But the memory of that day will remain with me for the rest of my life.

My third husband, Jason,  and I were still acclimatizing to living almost 7,000 feet up the side of Wineglass Mountain overlooking Livingston, Montana–what would be our first location on the mountain where we would stay for a month and a half.  Livingston was only about three miles down from us “as the crow flies,” but it took us about an hour to navigate the winding and treacherous dirt mountain road some ten miles and 3,300 feet down to the paved  road leading to town.

We were currently living between a small 7′ x 8′ overhead camper that fit on the back of our small Toyota pickup a 20′ utility trailer–our “covered wagon.”  We had converted the utility trailer by using four lengths of one inch conduit fashioned into A-shaped frames and attached with heavy-duty brackets to the inside of the trailer.  The frame was then covered with a 40′ x 50′ heavy green coated canvas tarp and secured all around and to the camper with what seemed like miles of rope and bungee cords.  The tarp also covered about four feet of the top of the back-end of the camper.

In the approximately four feet of space and bare earth between the camper and the trailer sat a sheep herder’s stove that provided both heat for each unit, and a surface on which to cook or keep a pot of water hot for cooking, cleaning up, and such.  I was in charge of gathering wood to feed the stove.  In addition to the sheep herder’s stove, the camper was equipped with a four burner propane stove and an oven that we’d use occasionally when we had money for propane–which was rarely.

Our life was tough, but I loved it.  But one thing we didn’t realize before we moved to Livingston was that it was one of the windiest areas in Montana.

I was adjusting to having no phone, electricity, running water, and plumbing–and the life of a mountain woman 6,800 feet up a mountain on the edge of a national wilderness.  I also was getting use to staying home alone quite a lot of the time with bear, elk, bald eagles, deer, moose, rattlesnakes, and “rock chucks” as my nearest neighbors.  I was home alone a lot–many times until way after dark–while Jason was in town scraping up work or scouting for supplies and water.

And, naturally, this day, I was home alone.

It was snowing heavily and the winds were unusually forceful.  Visibility was zero and it was downright bitter cold.  We had no clue that Livingston’s gusts alone can get to around 80 miles per hour or more when we moved there.  The winds got so strong that they had moved a 14′ x 70′ mobile home on wheels over four feet while it was sitting down in the flats.  Many times, I felt like the camper and trailer were going to go rolling down the mountainside.  The winds came over and down the ridge above me, whistling and shaking the camper–with me in it!

I didn’t like that much!

Our pets and I were sitting inside the camper with the door shut and one burner of our stove in the camper on for warmth.  The sheep herder’s stove had the day off for some reason, so I had our cat and three large dogs inside the camper with me.  Normally, the dogs stayed in the trailer, guarding our 13 inch black and white TV, our clothes–neatly hung from the conduit–our waster jugs, a 5-gallon bucket with a toilet seat on top, our supplies, and most of our few earthly possessions.

I suddenly had to go out to the “bucket” and made my way through the sleeping animals to the door.  When I opened the camper door and looked across at the inside of the trailer, I was absolutely stupefied!  All I could see was white covering EVERYTHING!  I simply could not believe my eyeballs.

Our TV, clothes, and everything else inside the trailer was covered in about one foot of snow.  The snow had blown in through a 1/4 inch gap between the tarp and the back of the camper and into the trailer.  I took our broom and swept off the snow as best I could and lit a fire in the sheep herder’s stove to “thaw” our belongings.

By the time Jason got home, the snow and wind had died down, and the sun blazed brightly over the Montana landscape.  Things were pretty much back to normal–or as normal as they could be–and the snow in the trailer was gone.  When I recanted my story, I’m really not sure that Jason believed me, but my proof was in the wet clothes.

I may be the only person on earth who really knows what happened that Mother’s Day in 1986 on the side of Wineglass Mountain, but I’m certain I’ll never forget it!