Preface to My Memoir "Shards of Glass"

PREFACE This project all started when THE question was asked by a dear friend of mine … Were you ever Raped? My snap, knee jerk reply was “NO ‘Just’ molested.” Like THAT was OK? We later joked about the denial. My response seemed ‘funny’. While I have shared with my close friends snap shots of my past, and certain stories or memories that had come to mind, none had directly asked me that question before. I remember driving home from her house, which was a good hour and a half drive. My mind raced into the wee hours of the night. The person who asked me that was once a dear friend. On the night of that infamous question, I had paid her a surprise visit with a Christmas gift for her children. I had not been actively in her life, as a close friend, for over three years. My friend and I met through work, and formed a deep friendship that later crumbled; compliments of my childhood, my suppressed emotions, ingrained and insane coping skills. Three years later, almost to the day, and after dedicated prayers to the Lord for reconciliation, we reconnected and our friendship was restored! The Lord does answer prayers, so be careful what you pray for. “I was only praying for reconciliation in our friendship, not to write a damn book!” Based upon memories and dreams I have had over the years, I found myself answering the question, via text, that had been asked in our conversation a few weeks before. Her reaction was not what I had hoped for; it scared her away once again. It was not what I shared that pushed her back; it was because she felt so badly about it. When she pulled away again though, I was left with one of my most dreaded emotions, REJECTION. I felt she had abandoned me because of what I had shared and that she thought I was some weird, messed up person. I was angry because I finally thought I had shared the right memories and had been rejected for it. I had kept quiet about my memories for years — not wanting to remember, forcing the images back down deep within and only recalling “Snap Shots”. The next few weeks were some of my darkest. I was already months into being unemployed, feeling desperate and with no direction. I was on my knees praying to God for deliverance, direction, strength, peace, reconciliation with friends, basically for everything and anything. I spent those weeks doing some heavy soul searching and being as honest with myself as I have ever been. God was there in the midst, as my previous employer was fighting me on unemployment. I had no money, saw no future, and had no friends in arms reach. A desperate state of being I’ll tell you. God answered yet again… I received my unemployment and they paid me retroactively, which relieved a lot of stress. I did not know at the time that God was also about to answer a few other requests and send me on a journey of blind faith. During that time the Lord showed me more love and peace than I had ever known! Three days later, I went to a baby shower close to where Marivel lived, so I decided that I was going to try one last time with my friend. I wanted to tell her that I was not the same person she knew a few years earlier. I remember pulling up to her house and just sitting in the driveway and praying. When I walked up to her door, I prayed,“Lord please prepare her heart for what I have to say”. When she opened the door I was shaking, I was so nervous. Needless to say, we picked back up where we left off, three years prior. We laughed, cried and drank a glass of wine. She wanted to know more about my past so I told her story after story of the horrific pain and anguish I went through. I shared with her everything I could remember at the time. She was deeply moved and said to me, “you need to write a book”. I told her my story is like so many others, it’s not that different. She then said something that changed my whole perspective. She said, “I have never known anyone with a story like yours. I have never had anyone share what you have shared with me. You read about similar struggles or see movies about them but seldom to you personally know someone or are friends with someone with this kind of story.” She was not the first person who ever suggested to me that I should write a book but she will be the last! I have known for years that the story of my childhood needed to be used somehow to help others. I have felt something in my spirit that said I needed to write a book. When those thoughts would come to the forefront, I would just dismiss them and go back on about my life. When Marivel said it that night, after three years of no friendship and hardly any contact, it struck a nerve so deep. I know it was the Lord’s gentle nudge and a confirmation to what I already knew in my heart I had to do. After that conversation, I knew completely how the Lord had used her in my life. I was encouraged, on January 28, 2013 to officially post on my Facebook page. “I am going to write a book! Detailing things from my traumatic childhood! After years of knowing I should do this, and after the wise words of a dear friend and much prayer, I will start this journey and trust that God will use it for HIS purpose and the healing of others!” This book is a journey into my world. Through the terrified eyes of a child, I will share the pain and torment inflicted on my family and me; by my father... Nobody was left unscathed. My research for this book comes from the countless books I have read on the subject, endless counseling sessions and through my best recollections of childhood. The events that happened in my childhood coupled with the tragedy upon tragedies that my family experienced has made me an expert on my pain and the struggles that I have carried for forty four years of my life. After leaving my friend’s house that night, I wished I would have told her the truth right then, but I was scared to give life to my memories. Speaking them or writing them makes it real! Was what I shared with her really the truth or my vibrant imagination? I started to try to remember and recount if my father had ever raped me. I know I was molested; severely abused physically and mentally tormented. Some of these memories, I know without any doubt happened. Those memories are so vivid I feel like I am right there and it is happening all over again. I can see the images; I recognize the surroundings and hear the words, and feel the physical pain. There are some thoughts that only come in snapshots or flashbacks. I recall all of my dreams. They are graphic and have lots of detail. Those dreams wake me up from a deep sleep and in a cold sweat. When I awake, I am overwhelmed with relief when I realize it was only in my dreams and not actually happening again. When I dream those dreams, it helps me put the pieces of the puzzle together. Even as I write these words though, I am still unsure. I hope that through the course of this journey I will find that the account I gave her was what actually happened. Better still would be that my father will eventually admit to all that he did, and that in doing so fill in the empty gaps that self-preservation just will not allow me to remember completely. But that one question, “Were you raped” still resounds in my thoughts and has sent my memories into overdrive. I am so frustrated because I know what I know, but at the same time, I do not know. I think it happened, have the images that prove it did, but I do not have the 100% cognitive recollection to substantiate it. “Was I just dreaming it, or did it really happen?” I trust Marivel was right, and that this is something people will identify with; be moved by, touched and healed through reading. I do not write this to hurt my father, to disgrace his name, out of anger or to get back at him. I have sincerely made my peace and have forgiven him for the past because I have come to realize that he too, was a victim of generational abuse, and his actions were a direct reaction to things he experienced himself as a child. That does not dismiss what he did and how he emotionally, physically and permanently altered the childhoods of four little children. “I do not write this for fame or fortune. I write this to be obedient to the Lord and what I know to be His inner voice in my spirit. I write this because as I was figuring out who I was and why I acted, felt and thought the way I did, it was so comforting and reassuring to read my struggles in someone else’s book and know that I am not ALONE. That yes, others out there have experienced the same or very similar experiences and have overcome all the illness that comes with being an adult survivor of experiencing spousal, sexual, physical and emotional abuse. I write this to be a legacy as I have no kids of my own nor do I think I will ever. I write this to finally share that inner horror that I have been held a prisoner in for so very long. I write this to end the cycle in our family of abuse and destructiveness. I write this for my healing and to have no secrets anymore! I write this to be used by someone else to experience freedom and peace. This book is not a self-help book with intellectual facts and studies on the effects of child abuse. I am not a professional writer nor do I claim to be an expert on abuse, stolen innocence, fear or trauma. This is simply a memoir of my childhood and most importantly my PAST, what I endured, how I tried to cope, how I failed but most importantly that I survived and how the Lord is continuing to heal me day by day. The day this is published will be the day my life is once again, forever altered!”

"Objects of His Affection" Excerpt from Book on Instruments used to abuse me

I once read in an online article somewhere that one single act of physical; emotional or sexual abuse on a child is enough to cause long term trauma and do permanent psychological damage. I experienced fourteen years of sustainable long term abuse from the hands; closed fists; foot; boot; stick; belt; broom; truck; gun or chunk of wood by my father. Basically anything that was readily available and at an arms distance was fair game. There is significant physical harm in the use of objects because the abuser is unaware of the force of the blow they are inflicting, as with the case of my father, the abuse can last for longer sustainable periods of time because the impact is not hurting the attacker! I had many non-accidental injuries growing up, and I often wonder why nobody ever noticed or spoke out about them. Back then there were no such things as battered women’s shelters or child protection services in our area. Domestic battering; physical, emotional and sexual abuse were taboo subjects rarely talked about. My extended family knew, his relatives and friends of mine, but nobody ever spoke out or tried to help in any way. His own parents knew! My Grandparents! When I would say to them that “Dad” was hurting us they would dismiss what I said, making some sort of excuse and brushing it off! Everyone held their peace back then. My fathers preferred method was his fists, I would often receive blow after blow and remember covering up my face with my hands as often as I could. He also loved to walk by when I was at the kitchen table either eating or doing homework and out of the blue, slap me so hard in the head or back that the force would knock me off the chair falling on to the floor. While I am lying on the ground I asked him once, “Why did you hit me? What did I do?” His reply was, “This is for all the things I didn’t catch you doing.” He had this belt that was all leather and thick. It was forty inches long, three inches wide and a quarter inch thick, it was brown and those little times that it was not in use, he rolled it up and placed it in an easy accessible location. Needless to say, when I was lucky enough just to be hit with the belt, it would leave large, deep welt marks that hurt like hell and would sting so bad that you almost passed out from the pain. After the beating it was almost impossible to try falling asleep with those welts stinging. It was impossible to take a shower for obvious reasons, when that water hit the freshly inflicted wounds it stung and when you used soap and water it was a double shot of pain and agony all over again. Not only with the initial beating did you feel the effects but days afterwards until the welts became less fresh and your every movement did not aggravate them. Imagine going to school and having to run around in gym class where your t-shirt is constantly rubbing on them or when you are playing dodge ball and another opponent hits you in the back, which is where he usually liked to whip me. The sting and constant reminder of the pain lingered long after the final assault. He also used the broom quite a bit and would not hit me with the bristle side because that would not hurt or torture me enough; it always had to be with the wooden handle side! One of his favorite games to play came when he was chasing me throughout the house. I would run down the hall as fast as I could hearing him right behind me, I would then go into my Parents bed room and slide underneath their bed. It was an antique bed with a clearance from the floor of a foot and a half. I know this fact because once I measured it to assure myself that as I got older and bigger that I would still have this option for escape. They had a king size bed so it was hard to grab me from either side once underneath and I would constantly roll from side to side away from his grasps. He would try on the ground but only his arms would fit through the opening as he was a fairly big man. He could never reach me completely so he would grab the broom or that damn belt and sling it under the bed trying to hit me. I believe this was when I developed my agility and coordination for sports because you were constantly moving from side to side to avoid contact. Those times when it became horrifying were when he would lie on top of the bed where I could not see him and then have to guess from which direction he was going to attack me from. He usually gave up and got tired because he could never get to me. That bed, Praise the Lord, was really heavy and I remember only once where he tried to picked it up from the foot to reach me, but he had to use both hands so when he did that he could only kick me. The time that he lifted the bed after being kicked in the head I ran out from under it and darted for that damn door making my escape out into the corn field. That day he was especially pissed at me for something and chased me out that door. I was a fast kid and I would fly out that door jumping off the porch and would run towards the road because it was downhill and I could run faster. If I could out run him and outlast him he usually gave up. That day he was relentless and fast on tail, cussing and screaming and I could hear his footsteps just a few strides back. This scenario happened so often in my childhood for any reason at any time of the day or night and during any kind of weather. There were only a few times that he actually caught me because I would trip and fall. That day, I tripped! This was one of the more vivid memories because he was psychotic by then with his failed attempts to get to me from underneath the bed that he just unleashed. Kicking, punching, slapping over and over; repeated blow after another until I could not move and he became too tired. After he was done this particular time I just laid there and cried and cried wishing I were dead. I could hardly move and I was exhausted from his game. That game I lost terribly that particular day. I eventually, after many years of getting hit by it, got up the nerve to get rid of the belt. I remember taking it and throwing it out somewhere by the road far away never to be found again and it was no longer in the house. My father once accused Marie and I for taking the belt and we each got a beating for that, but I know the object that day was not going to be by the big brown belt. Another object he used to inflict permanent emotional distress and absolute panic was his shot gun. When my Mother, Marie or I darted for that door and started running, sometimes the asshole was lazy and did not give chase. He would just grab the shotgun which was usually loaded by the front door and start shooting towards us. Of course your back was turned in the other direction so you only knew that you were the object of target practice when you heard the shots! I believe that is by far one of my most personal horrifying situations that I experienced as a child. A gut wrenching fear of utter helplessness and sense of death! There is no greater source for anxiety then having a gun pointed at you as he did to my mother on several occasion and me witnessing it or when you are running for your life with your back turned and hearing bullets whizzing past your ears and hitting those objects that you’re passing by. Later after he calmed down he would always say, “I wasn’t really trying to hit you, I was just shooting in your general direction.” Like that made I or anyone else feel any better about the whole fucking situation. Last but not least was his frigging truck. When the gun was not loaded and he did not feel like chasing after us because we had a substantial lead, he would just jump in his truck and try to run us down, revving his engine and only a few feet away from you! I cannot recall the countless times I would be down town and he would try to catch me and I would start running up the hill towards the house and he would be revving that damn engine again. He was only about 3 feet away from you, close enough where I could see the headlights out of the corner of my eye. I knew I could not slip or fall then, If I did he would not have the reaction time to slam on the brakes and I always feared he would run me over forcing me to run as fast I could out of fear and pure adrenaline after being utterly exhausted. I would dart left and then right, up embankments and through bushes and brush and he would be right behind me never taking me out of his sights. It was a mile run all uphill and by the time I reached a place where I could safely get out of his path where the truck could not go I would be hyper-ventilating, fall to the ground and lay there on the verge of passing out from sheer panic and exhaustion until I got my breath! A lot of these occurrences happened when he had been drinking or was drunk and in one of lunatic moods where he had no perception as to how close he was or how fast he was pushing you to run and I no reaction time if I had slipped and fallen. As I laid on the ground, I would be relieved that I had survived another one of his games, but I would cry out of panic and fear, and be so very alone, helpless to change my life. These are the games I played with my Father while growing up. “Wanna play?”