#savingme – Shame, shame

This is the hardest post I’ve made so far.

Shame is a hard topic for me. I hate parts of myself and I am working on healing them, but honestly it has not been easy for me.

I spent years feeling ashamed and alone. I had this idea in my head that if I let anyone get close, they would inevitably hurt me. I fought against myself. I would run away from relationships or I would let someone in and then push them away.

I started to add more Shame on top of the shame I already had. I started drinking to numb the pain, and all that did was cause more pain. I was stuck in a vicious cycle.

It wasn’t until a counselor told me that I had it all wrong, did I really start to understand the root of my fears. He taught me about transferred emotions. An idea that was foreign to me.

TRANSFERRED EMOTIONS

He explained that when we are young, under the age of 10 or so we don’t understand what shame is. Yes we know the difference between right and wrong. We can feel bad about something and scared of being punished, but at that age, shame is something we can only feel if it is transferred to us by someone else’s actions.

This is not to say you can’t have emotions transferred to you as an adult, you certainly can and it happens all the time.

For me it was the daily abuse, and eventually sexual abuse (at the age of 7),that I suffered from. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I truly understood what happened. I felt dirty and unclean.

I kept asking myself questions:

Why did this happen to me?

Was I a bad kid?

Did I even deserve to live?

The last thought plagued my mind for almost 15 years and still surfaces now and then.

NOT YOUR FAULT

I don’t know if I’ll ever be fully healed, but at least I am trying. One thing I have figured out, is that I am not to blame for my abuse. There was nothing I could have done to change what happened, it wasn’t my fault.

I did make some choices that I am not proud of, and while I probably made some of these choices because of my trauma, they were still my decisions.

I am making amends with my choices in the best way I can, by being a better person. I have been sober for years and while there have been some slip ups, I have never stopped trying to be a better person.

I hope this helps other people who have gone through, or are going through similar situations. While writing this is harder than I thought it would be, it definitely makes me feel better than I thought it would.

So, if anyone out here has been through verbal, mental, physical or sexual abuse, it’s not your fault.

People make choices and no one has the right to abuse you, and you don’t have the right to transfer that emotion on to another, just because you were abused.

Abuse is never an option and you deserve better.

Blog: https://oneregulardad.home.blog/

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here. 

#savingme- How Do I Escape?

“Hey, kid! Get me some water!”

A surly, old man shouts from his table. I fill a jug and hurry to serve him before Father gives me the stink eye. I haven’t been performing well lately. Not in school. Not here, in the restaurant. Father owns a small restaurant and earns just enough to provide for the family and to quench his thirst for alcohol. Mom manages the restaurant most of the time because of Father’s incessant hangovers.

Someone shakes my arm and pulls me out of my reverie. Father. He looks at me with eyes full of angst and a wildness that comes from inebriation. I have good reasons to be afraid of him but I try to hide the dread whenever I can. I lower my head and walk to the nearest table, throw away the mushy leftovers from the plates and wipe the table. From table to table, I serve the food and clear the old plates, adding them to the pile I’ll have to wash later. Maybe, Mom will offer to help.

I wish I could get out of here.

I’m cleaning another table when Father calls at the top of his voice,”Patrice, come here!” My pulse quickens and I scurry towards him, legs shaking. What did I do now?

“What. Is. This?” Father asks with an eerie calmness which masks the wrath behind each word. I look up to see what he is pointing at: a greasy table with an oily plate on it and a couple waiting to sit there. I clean the table as swiftly as I can and apologize to the customers for the delay. They sit down, grunting and begin to skim through the menu. My eyes slowly creep up to see my fathers’ and his look of resentment says it all.

He’ll deal with me later. Later when he is drunk and when his anger gets the better of him. He’ll probably hit me and then I’ll cry myself to sleepIt has happened twice this week.

The sun is emitting its last rays and fear grips me as the evening wears on. My hands tremble when I serve the dishes.

I don’t want the day to end. I don’t want the day to end.

Father is nowhere to be seen. He must have gone to the liquor shop nearby. I shudder at the very thought and bury myself with work to prevent my mind from wandering. Mom is preparing the dishes along with Nancy, the other cook. Mom has often tried to stop Father from drinking but that just agitates him more. Mom and Father fight a lot and once, I’d even seen him slap her during an argument. That was the first time I thought about escaping.

Father returns with a bottle of liquor and I gulp involuntarily as my heart starts racing. I serve the dish to the last customer in the restaurant, hands trembling. I accidentally drop ketchup on him and a deep red botch covers his shirt. Fury takes over the customer and he yells profanities at me. To him, I’m just a stupid clumsy kid who can’t get a job done right. And maybe, I am. Father glowers at me and apologizes to the customer for my impertinent behavior.

As soon as the customer leaves, Father clasps my wrist and drags me to our house adjacent to the restaurant. Mom hurries behind us, begging him to stop and calm down.

“Unlock the damn door!” He growls at her. Mom wails as she opens the door, pleading him to be calm.

Once we’re inside, he pushes me forward, takes a swig from the bottle and slams it on the table. Mom pulls me aside by her hand protectively. With clammy hands and tears sluicing down her cheeks, she weeps uncontrollably. Father yanks me away from her and my only protection is gone. I feel…vulnerable. I don’t want to cry myself to sleep.

He shouts incoherently, “What was that, Patrice?!” I stand speechless, motionless.

The couple could have chosen another table. I want to say it. But I can’t.

Coward.

“What the hell was that, you stupidgirl?!”

I try hard to stop the tears from falling. I fail. I know what awaits me and I brace myself before it comes. He raises his hand and strikes my face.

A moment. Just a moment of intense, physical pain and a lifetime of haunting nightmares. A lifetime of suppressing the hurt and distress. Excruciating pain and fierce revulsion boils inside me. Blood rushes to my cheeks and tears obscure my vision, blocking my throat and wetting my face. Mom’s shrieks fill the silence and I just can’t lower my head anymore. I raise my head and glare right into his malicious eyes.

Father slaps me hard again and I fall to my knees, dark strands covering my face. I let out ugly sobs and look around wildly for the door. What am I thinking? I can’t run from home! Can I? How much of a coward can I be?

I try so hard to compose myself, setting my jaw and clenching my fists and I raise my face to look at him. He is about to hit me again when Mom stops him. He yells at her loudly but fatigue washes over me and I can’t hear a word he says. My abdomens feel hollow and my chest has become a tight burden. The tears block my eyes and the last thing I see before passing out is Father raising his hand again. But I don’t feel the strike. All I feel is the need to escape.


Hey guys!

My name is Rashi Singh and I love writing fiction. This is my site and I’d appreciate if you check it out.

https://fictivefinesseff.wordpress.com/

In many households, violence is a method of “teaching” and by teaching, I mean hitting them just because they don’t follow something or enforcing them to do things that they’d rather not do.

Please note that this piece is my story but expressed as fiction.

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here. 

#savingme – Will you even know the real me

Yes, I’ve been run down in life.

Yes, I’ve been beaten ruthless in life too.

Yes, I am stupid.

Yes, I am undesirable.

Yes, I am a screw up.

But, why can’t you tell me something positively amazing about me for a change?

Yes, I’m not beautiful.

Yes, I am hairy, for a girl.

Yes, I am dark.

Yes, I am stupid.

I’m sorry!

But, I’m sorry, I was born that way.

Emma, you are so dumb! How did you not get this math question right?

Emma, you’re so stupid! How do you still not know math?

With all the “subtle” situations have have gone wrong, I really wonder, was everything really my fault?

Emma, I just don’t understand, what do you do all day?

With all the thoughts running through my mind of snarky sarcastic comments to blurt out back to their face, I just smile and say, lots! You simply wouldn’t understand.

Let’s say I go back to work.

Why are you working as that position?

Why is your salary only so much?

You should get another job. This job doesn’t “suit” you!

Emma, your paints are ugly!

Emma, you’re not bright!

Emma, you’re a joke!

Do something else! Everybody is laughing at you!

Whether I do something kind,  unruly, or abrupt.

Looks like the blame is still coming to me!

After everything I’ve done, and the amount of smiles I’ve gathered from others, most so from strangers

I still wonder,

What will it take, for my own to see me? The real me?

After everything, many still ask me,

But, I don’t understand, why are you sick?

Then, some on the other hand, feel, hey! It’s great that she’s sick!

She’ll die faster!

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here. 

#savingme – You are a survivor

In my post “The story behind the name Luna” I shared a part of my story about domestic abuse. It actually gave me courage to dive deeper into this problem and open up about it here because I think this is a great community to share such stories and help each other. It took me years to speak about the torment my father put me through and I can relate to many children who were abused and today I want to write a little bit about how to deal with abuse after it’s done.

When I was 11,12 years old the problem with my father started solving and it wasn’t over until a few months ago. I haven’t lived with him for years and I last saw him and spoke to him about 5 years ago. That chapter of my life is over now but it still takes me a great amount of strength to close that chapter in my head. My problem was that I identified myself with what he has done to me and I believe that’s the problem of many abused children out there. We develop a bad opinion about ourselves based on what the person who abused us had done to us. We often feel like we aren’t worthy of anything, become introverted, depressed, scared to live the lives we deserve and we can’t step out of our pasts. Going through abuse leaves a strong scar on the one’s personality, sometimes even on our bodies and I will be quite honest and say it’s impossible to hide that scar or erase it so wear it proudly!

Don’t be ashamed of yourself and of who you are and of what you’ve been through. Instead of waking up every morning feeling like you are worth less than others, feeling like you will never reach happiness, wake up and say to yourself “I’ve been through hell and I survived that. World, bring it on because I can handle you!”. Don’t call yourself an abuse victim but rather call yourself a survivor because that’s what you are. Your body and mind were strong enough to handle the weight of abuse and I know how heavy that weight is and you are still here. You are biting and scratching your way through life. You know how to handle difficult situations and your power can never be drained out. Even when depression hits and you feel worn out just repeat those words to yourself.

Who you are depends only on what you want to be so be a survivor, be a warrior and show the world there’s happiness after abuse. Learn how to show your scars to the world and demand respect for them and respect your own past because if it wasn’t for it you wouldn’t be the strong person you are. Even if you feel weak, trust me you’re not. Shift your state of mind and you will turn your life around. Remember: You are a warrior, you are a survivor.

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here. 

#savingme – Just Breathe

Some days I just want to forget
Take a step forward
Learn to be truly free
Except it continues to be difficult
Thanks to the memories that imprison me
Why is it so difficult
I sit here alone finding it harder and harder just to breathe
The darkness within tugging at me
It sits just below the surface
So many things trigger it
I just don’t understand
Why did it have to be me
Pieced together like a pretty little package
Not knowing when the next moment will be that will sweep my legs out from under me
In an instant my world goes dark
Fear, shame, panic and flashes of the most horrible moments are the best way to describe what is lurking inside
In that moment it feels like I’m just learning to breath
Gasping for air as I struggle so desperately
Telling myself breathe, just focus and breathe
Seems so simple
Should be
Just not in those moments
And not so easy
I often wonder if there will ever be a moment when I’m not dealing with that grief
When all the broken pieces fall into place
Will they ever finally set me free
Would I ever learn to accept & love the pieces I use to be
So many years, my life since birth honestly
All the intricate fassets that hold such horrific memories
Secrets, memories re-written by those who should have protected me But you didn’t hear that from me
I still wonder why my mommy & daddy never felt any love for me
I learned to hide make myself small
Never asking for hugs & kisses just food & trips to the ER is what my life was summed up to be
Don’t say a word of what you have seen
Followed by threats of more torture & death
I waited for an escape
I prayed for someone to come save me
Death started to feel like my only way out
I know I thought about it more than once
Wishing for eternal life ever after
The thought so morbid but still was something that provided me pleasure
A safe place in my mind with secrets known only to me
Now that I think about those times it elicits a physical reaction in me
My heart is racing faster
My hands are trembling and shaking
My hearing is completely focused on every noise that is surrounding me
My eyes dart around this space ensuring no one can get to me
My thoughts racing but I continually keep reminding myself that I just need to breathe
A chill of despair is beginning to consume me
If I don’t distract myself quickly I’m not sure I will ever be able to
It’s not something I’ve ever taken further
I’m too scared that one day I will be too tired to keep running
My biggest fear is it catches up and all these years I’ve spent avoiding it will be no longer as I’m forced to face it
What will all the shattered pieces bring to the surface
How can I be re-broken if the shattered pieces have shaped and already created the broken shell of a woman that I’ve turned out to be
I now realize it’s the all these broken pieces that continue to rob me of the simple ability to just breathe.

Written By

The Broken inside of me

https://thebrokeninsideofme.com/

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here. 

#savingme – The Broken Inside of Me

I was born into a life no child should ever have to experience.

I have never known a Father’s love but instead a Father’s rage, addiction, violence, and being sexually abused.

I was only 2 when he stole a bigger part of me.
I was too young & didn’t understand but was left feeling confused.

I was only 4 when he ripped me apart physically.

Years & years of laughter, love, & joy were not what would be in store for me.
Instead i have faced countless surgeries, unbearable pain and eventually heartbreaking infertility.

Through no fault of my own just another thing he took from me.

The physical scars have distorted my body.
But it’s the emotional wreckage that has continued to haunt me.

I often wonder what that little girl would have grown up to be.

If only she hadn’t been so viciously stolen from me.
She had no time for playtime, fairytales, hopes or dreams.

But instead staying alive & keeping her sanity would be her biggest priority.

You may think she is a survivor & how true that might be
But it certainly doesn’t feel that simple with the daily reminders & horrific memories.

I was only 7 when she abandoned me.
A mother’s love,that I did not see.

Where was my protector & biggest fan.

The person who was suppose to build me up & tell me I can.
Horribly failed me in the short time we had together.
I only wished that she could have loved me better.
What was so wrong with me that my own birth parents could cause so much damage & destruction.
Not stopping to think about how all this would forever affect me.

I continue today living through all the repercussions.
What a tragedy at how my life started off to be.
All because they put addiction, abuse, violence, wants & selfish needs first instead of me.

Years of therapy, doctors & medication could never replace the shattered pieces of my heart, soul & innocence that they have stolen from me.

No justice was served or consequence for them to bare
Although apart they live worry free
No second thought of the damage caused to me
It is my burden to bear as they live their life vicariously
Wronged yet again through the system and no justice will ever prevail for me.

xoxo
♥️me

Thebrokeninsideofme

https://thebrokeninsideofme.com/

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here. 

#savingme

“Hey, kid! Get me some water!”

A surly, old man shouts from his table. I fill a jug and hurry to serve him before Father gives me the stink eye. I haven’t been performing well lately. Not in school. Not here, in the restaurant. Father owns a small restaurant and earns just enough to provide for the family and to quench his thirst for alcohol. Mom manages the restaurant most of the time because of Father’s incessant hangovers.

Someone shakes my arm and pulls me out of my reverie. Father. He looks at me with eyes full of angst and a wildness that comes from inebriation. I have good reasons to be afraid of him but I try to hide the dread whenever I can. I lower my head and walk to the nearest table, throw away the mushy leftovers from the plates and wipe the table. From table to table, I serve the food and clear the old plates, adding them to the pile I’ll have to wash later. Maybe, Mom will offer to help.

I wish I could get out of here.

I’m cleaning another table when Father calls at the top of his voice,”Patrice, come here!” My pulse quickens and I scurry towards him, legs shaking. What did I do now?

“What. Is. This?” Father asks with an eerie calmness which masks the wrath behind each word. I look up to see what he is pointing at: a greasy table with an oily plate on it and a couple waiting to sit there. I clean the table as swiftly as I can and apologize to the customers for the delay. They sit down, grunting and begin to skim through the menu. My eyes slowly creep up to see my fathers’ and his look of resentment says it all.

He’ll deal with me later. Later when he is drunk and when his anger gets the better of him. He’ll probably hit me and then I’ll cry myself to sleepIt has happened twice this week.

The sun is emitting its last rays and fear grips me as the evening wears on. My hands tremble when I serve the dishes.

I don’t want the day to end. I don’t want the day to end.

Father is nowhere to be seen. He must have gone to the liquor shop nearby. I shudder at the very thought and bury myself with work to prevent my mind from wandering. Mom is preparing the dishes along with Nancy, the other cook. Mom has often tried to stop Father from drinking but that just agitates him more. Mom and Father fight a lot and once, I’d even seen him slap her during an argument. That was the first time I thought about escaping.

Father returns with a bottle of liquor and I gulp involuntarily as my heart starts racing. I serve the dish to the last customer in the restaurant, hands trembling. I accidentally drop ketchup on him and a deep red botch covers his shirt. Fury takes over the customer and he yells profanities at me. To him, I’m just a stupid clumsy kid who can’t get a job done right. And maybe, I am. Father glowers at me and apologizes to the customer for my impertinent behavior.

As soon as the customer leaves, Father clasps my wrist and drags me to our house adjacent to the restaurant. Mom hurries behind us, begging him to stop and calm down.

“Unlock the damn door!” He growls at her. Mom wails as she opens the door, pleading him to be calm.

Once we’re inside, he pushes me forward, takes a swig from the bottle and slams it on the table. Mom pulls me aside by her hand protectively. With clammy hands and tears sluicing down her cheeks, she weeps uncontrollably. Father yanks me away from her and my only protection is gone. I feel…vulnerable. I don’t want to cry myself to sleep.

He shouts incoherently, “What was that, Patrice?!” I stand speechless, motionless.

The couple could have chosen another table. I want to say it. But I can’t.

Coward.

“What the hell was that, you stupid girl?!”

I try hard to stop the tears from falling. I fail. I know what awaits me and I brace myself before it comes. He raises his hand and strikes my face.

A moment. Just a moment of intense, physical pain and a lifetime of haunting nightmares. A lifetime of suppressing the hurt and distress. Excruciating pain and fierce revulsion boils inside me. Blood rushes to my cheeks and tears obscure my vision, blocking my throat and wetting my face. Mom’s shrieks fill the silence and I just can’t lower my head anymore. I raise my head and glare right into his malicious eyes.

Father slaps me hard again and I fall to my knees, dark strands covering my face. I let out ugly sobs and look around wildly for the door. What am I thinking? I can’t run from home! Can I? How much of a coward can I be?

I try so hard to compose myself, setting my jaw and clenching my fists and I raise my face to look at him. He is about to hit me again when Mom stops him. He yells at her loudly but fatigue washes over me and I can’t hear a word he says. My abdomens feel hollow and my chest has become a tight burden. The tears block my eyes and the last thing I see before passing out is Father raising his hand again. But I don’t feel the strike. All I feel is the need to escape.

This story is inspired by real incidents although it may have been exaggerated (yeah, I have a flair for drama). In situations like these, we tend to blame our parents’ behaviour on the stressful situations they are in but that is no excuse for the way they treat you. From pressurizing kids to hurting them physically, child abuse makes the child’s self esteem fall down. Well, I’ve been in times when I hated this life but at these exact moments, all I needed was that push to keep me going. That push to tell me that maybe, when I grow up, I can live somewhere fancy in LA, earn a lot and help other kids going through the same problems. That when I grow up, I can tell them that they can survive too, just like I did. You can’t escape the damage that life gives you. But you can be mended and can mend others.

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#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to savingmestory@gmail.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here.