Abuse is Abuse!

I went to see a play today that was written by a dear friend.  It was part of the projects of Heartfelt Voices United and their mission is "To encourage and support survivors of sexual assault, domestic violence, and child abuse." 

The abuse I suffered as a child wasn't sexual.  It was emotional and physical.  My mother had a broom closet full of yard sticks that had been broken across the backs of my legs.  There was no way to avoid the beatings, I had no idea of what would set her off.  There were no rules, just constant tension and terror.  I have absolutely no memory of any reason why I was beaten, just of the look on her face as she swung the yard sticks and the feeling of hopelessness.

I used to beg to be able to go to boarding school.  The one time the cheap-ass bitch coughed up money for me to go to camp I was surprised that other girls were homesick.  Camp was heaven!  No one there was screaming at me or chasing me through the house to hit me with a yard stick.  I was half tempted to hide in a tent instead of boarding the bus home.

I think that the lack of maternal love was the reason that I made bad choices.  Attached myself to  "friends" in high school who only invited me places when they needed a car and a driver.  Was a bit loose (okay, more than a bit) with the body because I craved affection and I thought that sex would be a way to get it.  It wasn't.

The saddest part is that my mother not only won't apologize, she denies that any of this ever happened.  She contends that she was a good mother.  She escorted me into a lifetime of bad choices because I sought the love I never got from her. 

The main point of the play was that you need to talk, you need to tell your stories.  Until you tell the story you will not be free from the abuse prison.  This is just a part of my story, but it's a start.