The truth is abuse is a difficult subject to broach. For me, mostly because I am never sure how comfortable other people are with the topic. I grew up with abuse, and so became quite comfortable with the constant uneasiness of it, though not in a usual manner. I did not come to believe that it was “normal”. I did not seek partners that would repeat the pattern of abuse of humiliation. And most importantly, I do not visit the same pain I endured as a child upon my own children. I broke that chain. I became the proud, and ironically strong, weakest link in a long chain of abuse that traced far back up one side of my family tree. And I guess the question that is commonly pondered by my siblings that endured some of what I did is, how did I find that strength? The answer is never a simple one.
The truth is that it probably begins with a disposition that favored goodness and could not understand, or tolerate, anything opposed to that. But really, that could be said of any child born into this world. Hearing just once the sad and confused cry of a child that has just been battered, anyone comes to know that to be true. Add to that the tremendous influence my maternal grandmother had on how I viewed not only my abuser, but the strength I could possibly possess if I wanted, and my link in that chain became brittle and defiant against the thought of lengthening that legacy. While my mother cowered at my father’s rants and intimidation, my Abuela would yell back without so much as even a hint of fear. The louder he got, the more she stood her ground, and I saw that there was an option. I decided at a very young age to choose my Abuela’s strength over my mother’s acceptance of the abuse.
My comfort with abuse comes with the knowledge and understanding that it is not my shame. Finding my voice and courage from my Abela’s influence, I had spent my childhood lobbying my mother, and at times even my father, against the abuse through notes, conversations and poems. Upon leaving at eighteen, there were letters and a video left behind to make it clear that I was leaving the abuse and not the family. Yet, my family as a whole reacted to the exposure of the abuse in almost text book fashion. I immediately became the black sheep and a taboo topic. And while I am exceedingly happy to report that my efforts were rewarded and the abuse stopped, that my youngest sibling doesn’t even remember any of it at all, I am left with the sadness that it cost me their affection. I forced honesty on a family comfortable with the deceit of abuse, and that can be overwhelming.
I am attending an event tomorrow on the topic of domestic abuse and hope to learn how to effectively share my Abuela’s strength with others who may need it. Be it for themselves, or the sake of their children, because I understand that there are elements of parenting that can be difficult to master, like patience for the endless “But why?”s, or the elusive skill of getting kids to eat their vegetables. But raising children without raising a hand in anger is by far the simplest thing I have ever done.
What would you tell someone you thought might be living with abuse? Did you have an influence of strength in your life that changed the course of your destiny?
