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decorous-biohazart · 6 years ago

Video

Trigger warnings to all who read or watch this. Just like the video says, the thematic nature of it’s content as well as my entry cover very sensitive topics.

I saw this tonight, and the words of it along with the recent implications of situations as well as encouragement from those I confide in I wanted to share this.

But moreso, I want to speak.

Normally I’d say ‘you don’t have to read this’ or ‘it’s just a vent musing ignore it haha’ but not this time.

Not talking, keeping things to yourself, and having apathy for your situation will only make it worse and lead you to doing things that hurt others just as bad as yourself.

My story, my experience, is what pushed me to start art and speak out about abuse. But recently I’ve started to waver, lose my push forward to chase that dream and instead wallow in thoughts and memories.

They need out, and I’m going to let them out.

So I ask, as selfish as it sounds, please read. Just this once.

If you did read all of this, I thank you for listening and I hope it helped you just as much as me. If not, I encourage you to at least watch this video if you have battled with any kind of abuse.

Because of this video and what has come from it, I had the courage to send a message to my former youth pastor to speak with him and his wife to tell them the truth about what they didn’t know about my father. Not out of a vendetta, but as a Deacon in their church he deserves to know who he is.

But above that, I need closure, and I won’t be denied any longer.

You are not alone in this. We are not alone in this.

Speak up. Be heard. Let them keep you silent no longer.

I stumbled across this video tonight, and at first I didn’t open it.

The title was so stunning, what felt like a missile directed right at me that would sink me deeper in to the fog I was already in and I almost didn’t click it.

But I did, and I don’t regret it. Instead, I wanna tell my story.

It’s what I have wanted to do since I set out to become an artist. To make my story worth something. To share the characters, thematic worlds and designs I’ve created that served so long as my sanctuary from what was real. My way of expressing what I was going through and what was in my head.

I remember, ever since a young age, for some reason I was always afraid of my father. Now, to some extent all children are. They fear getting in trouble, upsetting their father for things they did. I got that, so I thought it was normal to feel how I did.

The nights I spent crying in terror, the days stuck in the car where he pushed me to my limits with threats for losing one point on a spelling test for talking.

I thought it was normal. So I took it.

Then I got older, and I started to see things different. For what they were. When he divorced our mother things stayed relatively like that. I had my suspicions, but never capitalized.

Then our first step-mother came along. Now, she wasn’t the nicest, and it was such an unfamiliar concept to us. In a lot of cases she was much more assertive, much more controlling and somehow our father became our haven from her.

That it was her fault for what we were feeling, and we had to rebel against her. Eventually, we drove her off. But still it continued.

The yelling, the runarounds in conversations that left us no ground to speak for ourselves other than to say ‘yes sir’ and admit to whatever he wanted us to.

During the time with our first step-mother he started pushing us into church. I remember the day he asked if we ‘wanted to go to church’ like we had some kind of choice. That was when he was ABSORBED, absolutely overtaken by his ‘faith’ that I didn’t see until years later was a ploy to give him divine affirmation to do the sick things he did to us.

The way he made his word law, and questioning it was heresy against God. To go to church time after time and even be court ordered at our mother’s home to be taken there. Where we would cry and beg not to be taken to church but she had to by juristic requirement.

Then the real agony started in middle school. When I started to wake up to what was happening to me.

When I started taking drastic measures just to get anyone to notice what was happening to me.

Not bathing, showing up to school in dirty clothes, letting my grades slip, starving myself. ANYTHING to get someone to ask what was wrong.

But instead, it reflected on our mother and not our father. It almost got my brother and I taken away so many times and I had to stop. To pull it together.

Although, even when I tried in school, it wasn’t enough. Second grade I was testing at a college level. He’d say we were ‘destined for greatness’.

So when life started to catch up and wear us down, when the work got harder and we had real life things to get in our way it was unacceptable when we could not succeed.

When we had horrid acne that ruined our esteem he would berate us for how awful our faces looked and send us away so he did not have to look at us.

Then he put us on Acutane to clear it up. Those days were some of the most physically agonizing I had to experience.

For those who do not know what Acutane is: it is an acne medication that works to extreme measures for chronic acne. It fills the blemishes with the medicine to clean them out before it would start clearing up.

This not only made the acne worse by making it swell to painful levels, but also would make the user break out in bulbous yellow heads and dry out the skin and lips to severe degrees.

It was torture, but the verbal berating we got when we stopped taking the medication consistently was worse.

One day I was stood in the garage, just so overwhelmed while we were doing yard work by the utter weight of my father. So much so, that I found myself holding a pair of hedge clippers to my neck.

I almost did it. I almost quit. Left this world at such a young age.

But I didn’t. And I put them back. It wasn’t the last time I thought about it, but it was the last time I tried.

Then came high school and I chose to get baptized. I wanted to pursue my own path of faith and try to find my own place within it rather than conform to his view of it.

At least that’s what I told myself, but in hindsight I believe I did it to please him.

So when word got back we messed up once at our mother’s house and he went into another hours long lecture it was worse for me because I was baptized.

That being submerged in that tank made me not allowed to make mistakes anymore, then he swatted a phone across the room. One of his many times he sent objects flying in a rage. There was a knick in the kitchen counter at our old home where we lived with our mother where he threw the island counter top at her.

Our second step mother, who he is still with, obediently picked up the pieces as he went on.

Then, it happened one day. The first time, I had an anxiety attack.

I was pale, shaking and couldn’t breathe. I had to leave class, go to the counselor’s office to help me get my grip back. I had to go home that day because being outside struck a fear into me like none I had ever known.

But when I forewent the church trip that weekend I was looking forward to, as an escape for the weekend rather than going to his house for those few days, he crossed an nonredeemable line.

He started by parking across the lawn from our mother’s house instead of pulling in the driveway like he always did.

When I got in the car, he was playing a Weird Al Yankovich song because ‘it always cracked him up’.

I had the hope, just for a second, he understood. That it was gonna be okay, and he was gonna listen.

But when I said on the sidewalk outside his house that I was glad the week was over I was proven so horribly wrong.

He said, and I quote, ‘don’t talk about what happened this week until we’re in front of a therapist otherwise I can’t guarantee your safety. Understand?’

Of course I said ‘yes sir’.

‘Good man!’

That was his response, in such an unfitting spirited voice before he went about going to the neighbor with me to feed their dog while they were out of town.

I snapped that day, seething in fear and anger but all I could do was sulk on the couch.

Then he sent me upstairs because he didn’t want to see me do that. But that wasn’t enough, he came up there and DEMANDED that I pray and apologize for my actions.

I had to APOLOGIZE for what HE DID to me. And I did, like the obedient child he molded me to be. He started praying too and touched my foot, and every time I think about it I want to break his nose.

One day we confided with our step-mother about the many incidents she didn’t know about before her time there.

The threats, the shows of power, even threatening our last step-mother with a gun.

The current one told us about a time she had to pull a knife on him when he pushed her against the counter and tried to get her to break down crying.

But she never said anything about it to the church, just like we didn’t, because she knew no one would believe it.

Time after time, more and more incidents until finally college came.

Summer before, we’re going on a cruise to Alaska to celebrate our graduation.

And on that trip there was an insignia on the cards that we were given (because we registered before we were 18) that allowed us to participate in activities with attendees 12-17.

Now I had no intention to attend these, rather they were an alibi to avoid him.

But he said it would probably be better not to for the image it’d give. And you know, for the first time we agreed on something. At least I said I agreed and meant it for once.

But when our step mother asked us to dance on the deck of the ship and I refused due to my raging social anxiety (guess where that came from) he instead saw it as protest for now going to those events because we wanted to touch the kids.

That’s right. He believed, because we did not want to dance that we were pedophiles.

Now, he is a cop. And just like his job at the church he uses it as affirmation to do the things he does.

So he said time and time again during that lecture, nay, that interrogation that he was speaking to us as an officer and not a father. That this was his worst nightmare.

Now if this were true, he would have sent us back to the US on a plane to be processed like he said he would.

Instead eventually he just left the room, leaving us behind to simmer with that classic, obnoxious edgy arrogant thing you see badly written characters (or people with huge egos) do where he gave one last quip over his shoulder before leaving.

Then, it was like it never happened.

Now, how could it be him talking as an officer if he did not take his job serious enough to process us?

Nah, he got his rocks off doing that. It’s how he always did, but this time was one of the most extreme and that was easily why he was in such a good mood the rest of the trip.

Our first summer was approaching out of college, and he wanted word back from our summer job at the local pizza place about getting our job back for the break.

Now I knew early on I wasn’t cut out for that place, and the day I was going to quit he demanded that we request 20 hours a week from them.

Because of that, I believe was why they shined us on and didn’t tell us they were going to fire us.

But of course, it had to be our fault and that we were not trying.

So finally, we put our foot down. We had to gather in my work at the Conduct office with my bosses, my brother’s boss, and an Auraria Campus police officer to tape the call while we had it JUST to tell our father we needed space.

We asked for space and said we needed to cut contact. We didn’t tell him how the night before when we ignored his calls we hid in a friend’s room two floors above ours at our dorm until our mother picked us up to hide out at her apartment.

His response: I am cutting your phone plans and medical care. Don’t give me this bullshit (his response to when I said I didn’t want this to be permanent and that this would hopefully make things better between us) you want to go live entitled with your mother. I will let you be homeless in a box before I enable you (one of his favorite lines).

I’ll see you when you crash and burn.

It’s been two and a half years, those were the last verbal words he said to me.

Last year, I started antidepressants in part of my desire to pursue art. To get better. But they didn’t work, none of them did. So I finally saw a psychiatrist by the behest of my physician.

He, along with the other I went to for a second opinion, both asked me extensive questions and told me a diagnosis I never thought I would hear.

‘You have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder’.

PTSD.

I had PTSD.

What was I going to do with that information?

How could, even after all that time and thought about how bad it was, did I not believe he really did that much damage to me?

It made me realize just how in my head he was.

Then my brother went back to him. Tried to patch things up, and it actually looked like things were going well.

He made it clear he would not be putting up with his crap any longer. That things were to be different.

He told him about my diagnosis, and about a suicide attempt my brother had made the semester before in result of what happened.

Never an apology. Never.

Instead he said ‘no matter how much you hurt us, we will always still love you’.

He had ALL the facts and instead still twisted it to make us the perpetrators.

That was it. That was enough.

But still I suffered, battling this mental disorder and the ghosts of my past.

Then I saw this video, and just like with the medication I felt free to speak publicly.

I started medication because an artist by the handle RinTheYordle started talking in her stream once about doing what it takes to get better at your craft. Studying, school, tutorials, medication.

I felt like that was the green light to start what I had always been told was fake, that I was faking and didn’t need it. I was told yes from someone who I held at a higher opinion than the one who said no.

Just like with this video, I saw it good to finally speak publicly. That it could change a life. Even just one. Even just mine.

#My Story #Free At Last #Abuse #Mental Abuse #Anxiety #Parental Abuse #Speaking Out #Silent No Longer #Trigger Warning #Not a Victim #A Survivor #Help #Help is out There

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