BEFORE THE VIOLENCE (Why I Stayed)…

Maybe, sometimes, instead of asking “why did you stay?” the question should be “Why did it start?”  When I started writing this blog post, it was with the intention of explaining why I stayed for so long with my abuser.  However, as I was writing, I began to realize that this was another survivor story…a story of Domestic Violence that was not physical in nature, rather, a story of emotional child abuse.  Both the preparation, and actual writing of the post has been very painful, but at the same time, very therapeutic.  

I have come a long way in my Domestic Violence journey.  I am no longer embarrassed about discussing the abuse I suffered.  I still encounter people who find it necessary to ridicule me when I admit that I was abused.  Those kind of comments no longer bother me.  But the question I have difficulty with is “Why did you stay with her?”   More often than not, my answer is simply “I don’t know.”  However, such an answer dodges the issue, and does nothing to help those who are being abused, and need to escape....and isn’t that why we advocate against Domestic Violence?

Being a truck driver, I have lots and lots of time to think.  I drive for an average of 8 to 10 hours a day, and most of the driving is down relatively quiet freeways, and I am able to think about a lot of things, and still keep my attention on the road.  So lately I have focused my attention to this particular question:  Why DID I stay?  And I’ve found that there is no simple answer, and I apologize in advance, the answer is quite long and complicated.  And it starts with my mother in 1945...

Whenever the topic of my mother comes up, I always preface what I say about her by saying “I loved my Mother, but I didn’t like a lot of things about her.”  Near the end of World War II, at the age of eighteen, my mother left home to attend training to become a Navy Auxiliary Nurse in Bremerton, Washington.  A year and a half into training, she met a man, and in 1947 she became pregnant.  After she told him of the pregnancy, he made a hasty retreat, basically telling her, “you’re on your own, I’m out of here!”  She had to drop out of training.  Then she met my father who was in the United States Navy.  He felt sorry for the cute girl who was “in trouble.”  Within two weeks after they met, they were married.  (Not exactly the recipe for a successful marriage.)  Seven months later, my oldest brother was born (I was not made aware that he was actually my “half” brother until I was 28 years old.)  Ten months after that, my second oldest brother was born, and 16 months after that, my sister came into the world.   Six years later, in 1955, I made my entrance into the world in Twin Falls, Idaho.

My father used to joke “you came into the world backwards, and you have been going that way ever since!”  I was what was called an “impacted breech” baby.  I came into the world “butt” first.  I had to be pushed back into the birth canal to bring down my legs, then, when I was half born, the doctor realized my arms were over my head, and had to push me back again to bring them down.  Because of the difficulties of my birth, my mother was convinced that I must have had some kind of birth defect.  For a time she considered having me committed to the State School for the Mentally Retarded.  However, I developed fairly normally…and at the age of 3 I learned my letters, and was reading at the age of four.  My mother often told me she was glad I was “kinda slow” because I caused her little trouble while she was dealing with my older siblings.  I asked her once what she meant by “kinda slow?”  She said “you were quiet, never cried, and liked to be by yourself, and you could entertain yourself without toys or anything, and when you started to read, you kept your nose close to the book, like the ‘retarded kids’ do.”  When I started kindergarten, the teacher noticed I couldn’t read the blackboard, even from the front row.  It was discovered that I was severely near sighted, and I started wearing glasses.

At around the same time I was getting glasses, my youngest brother came along.  My mother was fond of telling people that my youngest brother was the only one that was “planned…and planned right down to his blond hair and blue eyes!”  (I’m not sure how she accomplished that?)  She often told others (when I was present) that when my youngest brother came along, that she had decided “to be a good mother to this one, since the other four were ‘write offs’!”  So, in short, she was letting me know that she wrote me off when I was four and a half years old!

I became the proverbial “middle child.”  Although I was not chronologically in the middle, my parents were dealing with three children entering adolescence and the teen years, and a brand new baby.  I was the quiet kid who always had his nose in a book.  Easy to ignore.

I struggled in school.  The only subjects I excelled at were reading and history, and history was primarily reading.  I had great difficulty with mathematics and spelling (and still do, thank goodness for calculators and spell-check).  Many years later, when I was in college, I was diagnosed with dyslexia, which explained a lot of my difficulties.  The professor who diagnosed me explained that I must have found a way to compensate for my dyslexia with reading, because books had become my refuge.

I was bullied at school because of my glasses, I was the “four eyed” kid. I had a pointy head, and was kind of goofy looking, and I had developed a profound stutter.  Furthermore, as the cliché goes, I “couldn’t walk and chew gum” at the same time.  I was clumsy and very non-athletic.  To give my mother some credit, she tried to help me.  She sent me to speech therapy to help overcome my stutter.  To overcome my clumsiness, she sent me to dance classes (which only served to give bullies another reason to pick on me), and made me play little league baseball, but I just didn’t have the skills, and many of the bullies who picked on me happened to be on the team. 

Second Grade

My memory of my father was that he just wasn’t there.  He was always working; he was a carpenter and general contractor building houses.  Often he would work out of town, and for nearly three years he worked over 400 miles away from home because the housing market was slow in my home town, and he would come home “to visit” a couple times a month on weekends.  He had grown up on a farm, and never was involved with athletics.  So he wasn’t the “dad” who played catch or hoops with his kids.  What memories I have of him, was that he wasn’t very happy, and my mother was very critical of him.  She made fun of him because he couldn’t throw a ball properly, and he ran “stiff legged.”  She also made fun of his intellect.  I remember a couple times when I would ask him a question about homework my mother would tell me (in his presence) not to bother him because, “it embarrasses him that he is dumb because he never finished school.”  She told us that my father had “flunked” out of school in 7^th grade.  (In fact, he joined the Navy to support the war effort at the age of seventeen; he was a senior in high school. After 9/11, the state of Illinois honored him, and other WWII veterans who had left school early to volunteer for military service, by awarding him his high school diploma.  He was so proud when it happened.)  I realize now that my father was just as much a victim of emotional abuse as I was.  However, he stoically endured the abuse, because he was determined to raise his children (including the one that wasn’t his biological son) the best he could.  And he stayed with my mother through thick and thin until all of us were adults before he made his own escape and divorced her after 33 years of a miserable marriage.

I’ll never know if she did so deliberately or if I was just invisible to her, but she would often disparage me in front of other adults.  I recall one time she was telling a friend how “wonderful” my younger brother was.  She described him as having a combination of the best of my two older brothers’ best attributes….according to my mother my oldest brother was the intellectual, but was a complete klutz, and my next oldest brother was a gifted athlete, but “dumb as a rock.”   “And on top of it all”, she explained referencing my younger brother, “he’s the best looking one of the bunch!”  Her friend ask if he had any attributes of Gus…my mother laughed and said “poor Gus, he’s dumb as a rock, a total klutz, and homely as hell!”  I was, as usual, in the corner of the room, reading a book.  In another instance:  I had been home sick for a week with strep throat.  My teacher showed up on our doorstep and asked to speak to me.  My mother came to get me, and asked me what I had done wrong for my teacher to show up?  I told her I didn’t know.  My teacher told me that she just wanted to bring me something….I had won first prize for an essay I wrote for the American Legion on why I love America, and she had brought me the certificate.  My mother asked my teacher if this was some kind of joke because “that kid can barely write his name, let alone an essay!”  My teacher was appalled, and gave me the certificate, and told me how proud she was of me.  She looked at my mother and stated firmly “Gus is very bright, and you should be proud of him.”  Then she left.  My mother asked me who wrote the essay.  I told her that I did.  And she said “liars go to hell, either someone else wrote the essay, or you are faking being dumb, and you are just not trying to get good grades.”  She sent me back to my room in tears, I never saw the certificate again, and she never mentioned it again. 

Two greatly significant events occurred in my youth which affected the way I interacted socially.  I went to public school through 5^th grade.  I always had difficulty making friends, but by the time I was in 5^th grade, I had started to do so.  Plus, I was getting to the “top of the pyramid” in school, 6^th grade was the highest grade in the school.  But, then my mother decided that simply going to catechism classes after Mass on Sunday was not sufficient.  So she transferred me to the Catholic Parochial school in our town.  So in 6^th grade, I became the “new kid.”    For the next three years I struggled to fit in.  I became an Altar Boy, I tried, and failed, to make the basketball team.  I joined the Boy Scout troop sponsored by the Church.  But I was still the outsider kid who wore glasses, who wasn’t very bright (I still struggled academically), and who was a nerd who spent half his time in the library.  However, I did make two friends…one being my best friend, who, like me, was somewhat of a misfit.  He was the “fat kid.”  My other friend was also a “misfit,” she was a “tomboy” and almost “one of the guys.”  She was good at sports, tough, and didn’t like girly things.  So she was ostracized by the girls, and the boys thought she was weird.  (We kissed one time when I was twelve, just to find out what it was like...I liked it, she thought it was gross.) I also discovered a passion for History.  Two trips with my family, one to Illinois, where I saw a lot of sites associated with Abraham Lincoln, and to Washington. D.C. increased my interest in history. I also discovered a passion for music.  I loved the music of the sixties….The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkle, Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul, and Mary were amongst my favorites.  But at the same time I discovered Beethoven, Mozart, Grieg, Tchaikovsky and other classical composers.   I joined the choir,  and found a wonderful teacher who encouraged both my passions.  Sister Mary Myles was the choir mistress, and she took me under her wing.  She discovered that I had a deep singing voice (I finished puberty by the time I was twelve) and pushed me to achieve in the choir by giving me several solos.  She also loved history, and would take the time to discuss the books I was reading.  (After I left the school we corresponded, until she was tragically killed in an automobile accident a year later.)  By the time I reached 8^th grade (the final grade at the parochial school), I had begun to find my own niche.  But then my parents (I have heard conflicting stories as to the why from both my mother and father) decided to move to Boise, Idaho.

Just before moving to Boise, Idaho, 1969

I thought, since I had finally found a niche in a Catholic Elementary School, that maybe it would continue in a Catholic High School.  But I was the “new kid” again.  The school was very clique-ish.  The kids from the different parochial schools hung out with each other, and I didn’t attend any of those schools, so I was left out.  At the end of my freshman year, I was miserable, and I asked my mother if I could go to a public school…she said “by god we moved to Boise for you to go to that school, and you will damn well go to that school.”  I was 14…my mother just told me the whole family had been uprooted for me to attend a special school; I had no idea that she could be lying to me.  So I spent the next three years in misery.

I did what I could to fit in.  I played football my sophomore year.  I wasn’t very good, but I was the biggest kid in class, 5’ 10” tall and 170 lbs.  When I finally made the starting team (as it was a small private school, the team only had a total of 22 players), I rushed home to tell my family.  My mom, Aunt, and my younger brother were working out plays and strategy for his little league Football game the next day…I excitedly told them that I was starting that night, my mom said “can’t you see we are busy here?”  No one from my family attended that game, or any game I played in.  At the end of that season I developed a hernia, and my playing days were over.  Since I couldn’t play, I became the equipment manager for the football, basketball, and track teams.  When I was awarded a Letter for my work with all the teams, my mother commented, “they gave you a letter for being the ‘water boy’…how humiliating, at least your little brother is the star of the team, and will win ‘real’ letters!”

I was miserable in school, and I was miserable at home.  My mother constantly criticized me for everything; how I dressed, how I wore my hair, the music I listened to, the books I read.  Furthermore, she used me as an example of what NOT to be for my younger brother.  I asked her once why she was so hard on me.  She told me:  “it’s a hard world out there honey, and you might as well hear the truth from me, I don’t want you to get you hopes up for any kind of happiness.  You got dealt a bad hand, I’m just helping you realize it!  Your youngest brother is the only one with any talent, smarts, and looks; just face it, you are a loser and you’re gonna be miserable for the rest of your life, just like your mother…I mean, your father!”  At the time, I took her at her word that she had misspoken, but years later I realized she was a bitter and angry woman her whole life.  She felt trapped by her children.  The oldest reminded her of her indiscretion in her youth, the next three represented the burden of being a woman in the post WWII era, expected to have babies and stay at home.  She resented being married to a man so (in her mind) beneath her intellectually.  She idolized her father as the perfect man…a big strong, red headed, blue eyed Swede. My oldest (half) brother was tall and skinny, dark eyed and dark haired. The next three were also dark haired and dark eyed, but squat in stature.  Only my youngest brother met her ideal of the perfect child, fair haired, blue eyed, big and tall…the perfect “Scandinavian Viking.”  She lived vicariously through his achievements, his athletic prowess, his popularity with girls, his being the “cool dude” in school. 

She truly believed that being cruel and critical of the rest of us, she was helping to prepare us to “survive” in the cold cruel world!

I was afraid of girls.  I didn’t date much in high school, actually that is not true, I didn’t date at all in high school until my senior year, and then only with the girl who would become my first wife, who was my abuser.  I only asked two girls out for dates before my senior year.  The first I asked if she wanted to go to a movie….she laughed in my face.  The second I called and asked if she wanted to go to a concert (my mother was a student at Boise State College, and had picked up two free tickets and gave them to me) , the girl asked me who was playing, I told her, she said “never heard of him, it would have to be someone famous for me to go with you!”  And she hung up the phone.  (It happened to be a fella named John Denver, and at the concert he introduced s new song he had written called Rocky Mountain High…within a few weeks he was a mega star).  I didn’t ask another girl out until my final year in high school.

After I was rejected by the girl I asked to the John Denver concert, I went to my mother to ask her how to talk to girls, and why girls didn’t seem to like me.  My mother told me I was a homely clumsy nerd, and that I may as well resolve myself to the fact that I would never have a girlfriend because I was a loser.  My mother had me convinced that I was an undesirable troll, and that any attempt to even talk to a girl would only get me rejection and pain.  Whenever a girl would talk to me, or flirt with me, I convinced myself that she either just felt sorry for me, or was setting me up for humiliation.  I seriously considered going to a seminary to become a Catholic Priest, or even better, a cloistered monk.  I figured I might as well live a life of celibacy, since women were never going to be part of my future anyway!  I began to hate my mother, but I felt extremely guilty for doing so.

Then I met Ric.  Just before my senior year began, the football team started pre season practices, and I remained the equipment manager for the team.  Several players from Boise State College were working out with our team because of NCAA restrictions on organized practices at the college level.  I assumed Ric was one of those players.  He looked older, he had a full red beard, and carried himself with the confidence of a college student.  On the first day of school, I was surprised to find that he had the locker right next to mine.  He was a “new guy,” and for some reason we hit it off.  He became the best friend I ever had…and remained so until his untimely death in 2007.  He made it a project to get me involved with a girl.  We both worked in the school cafeteria (to pay for our lunches) as dishwashers.   There was also a pretty redheaded girl from  the junior class working with us…he constantly flirted with her (he flirted with all the girls), and he nicknamed her Curly.  When the homecoming dance came along, he told me I had to go….that I had to attend at least ONE dance while I was in high school.  I told him that no girl would agree to go with me…he said “I bet Curly would, ask her!”  A few days later, after a short football practice was over, I went to my locker.  Ric was waiting for me (he had quit the team, because he didn’t like the coach).  He told me he had just got out of detention, and guess what, Curly was also in detention, and there she is at her locker (about 60 feet away from mine)….”now go ask her.”   My knees were literally shaking when I approached her, suddenly my stutter returned in earnest.  But somehow I managed to ask her to the homecoming dance…when she said yes, I thought I was going to pass out, so I said, “see ya tomorrow in the cafeteria,” and beat a hasty retreat.  I didn’t realize until years later that Ric had set it all up, and made sure that she would say yes before I ever asked. 

When I told my mother I was going to the Homecoming dance, she asked me “what kind of girl would go to a dance with YOU?”  I told her she was a Junior, and mentioned her name, which was Hispanic (her father was from Spain).  My mother made the comment, “what, is she a wetback trying to hook up with an American?”  I said “she is an American, and why don’t you just leave me alone, you are not going to ruin this for me!”  She started to say something else, but I walked out the door.  It was going to be my very first “date” in my life, and I wasn’t letting my mother make a farce out of it.  Being around Ric had helped me to have more confidence.  I began to stand up more to my mother’s insults and put downs.  I was going to prove her wrong, that I was not a pathetic loser…I could find a girlfriend, and this was my first, halting step.  As it turned out, it was also the first step towards my worst nightmare.

She was pretty, she was nicely shaped, she had long red hair….and I was in love!  After the dance, I asked her if she would like to go to a movie or something some time, and she said yes.  We started dating on a regular basis.  She warned me that she had a terrible temper, and that she could be very jealous, and she hated “cheap” guys.  I didn’t care, she was a girl, she paid attention to me, Mom was wrong!  She kissed me on our second date.  This was only the second time I had kissed a girl:  the first time when I was twelve with my “tomboy” friend.  The relationship moved fairly fast.  By Christmas we were “going steady,” she was wearing my class ring. By February we were “engaged.”  The funny thing is, I never proposed.  As our relationship grew, our “kissing” turned into “necking,”…and soon the “necking” turned into “heavy petting!”  One day she told me I had to buy her a diamond ring since we were getting married.  I was somewhat surprised and showed it, she reacted by saying “no man is gonna touch my tits without an engagement ring!”  I wasn’t objecting…I was elated, I never thought it could happen.  I was blinded by love, and I was desperate, I just didn’t realize it.  I also didn’t realize I was trading one abusive relationship for another.

My mother absolutely hated her.  Mother said she was “poor wetback trash pretending to be white.”  One day I came home, and my mother asked me who I was taking to the upcoming Senior Prom.  Before I could answer she said “you better be taking a ‘fat’ girl!  I was the ‘fat’ girl in high school, and I never got to go to a prom, and, BY GOD, my sons will take ‘fat’ girls to their proms!”  I responded “not THIS son, I’m taking my fiancée!”  She said “no, you’re breaking up with that little slut.”  I came back with “F*** YOU!”  (The first time I ever used that word in front of either parent.)  My mother slapped me across the face, and when she went to hit me again, I blocked her hand away, and accidentally grazed her face…she got a cruel smile on her face, and calmly said “you will pay for that!”  When my father got home, he took me out to the back yard.  I expected to receive a beating, in fact, I was afraid he might kill me, because, according to my mother, I had broken his cardinal rule….you never hit a woman for ANY reason.  He asked me what happened.  I told him the story, he got a sad look on his face and said “well son, you were in the right” and turned to go back in the house, then he turned and pointed at me and said “DON’T let it happen again!”  He knew my mother was trying to get a rise out of me, he understood her abuse.  It was then that I realized that my Dad was just as abused as I was.

I began to spend as much time as I could away from home.  I was either with my fiancée or on the ski slopes.  I learned to ski at the age of 10, I was on the ski team, and Ric was an avid skier.  And each year for Christmas, my father bought me a season pass to the local ski resort.  I had a job so I could pay for nice things for my fiancée, and take her on nice dates.  My schoolwork suffered…I was barely passing, but I didn’t care.  I would soon be 18, and my number was up.  The Vietnam War was still going, and my draft number was 11, I was certain to be drafted.  I decided to join the United States Navy to avoid going into the Army (Ironically, 3 days after I joined the Navy, when I was still 17, President Richard Nixon suspended the draft!).  As far as I was concerned, my future was set, I was going to marry my fiancée and make a career out of the Navy….and escape from my mother.  What I didn’t realize was that I was trading one abusive relationship for another.

I graduated with the barest minimum grade point average.  My Graduation Day was an experience, to say the least.  We received our diplomas from the Bishop of the Diocese.  First you dropped to a knee, kissed his ring, then he handed you the folder containing your diploma, then he blessed you.  As I walked off the stage, I opened the folder…..no diploma…just a note saying “see the school secretary.”  Wow, I must have failed something.  After graduation (no one from my family attended except my Aunt, and she was there to see my cousin, who was a freshman, sing in the choir) there was a reception in the cafeteria.  I approached the school secretary and showed her the note, asking her if I had graduated.  She said yes, but there was an issue with tuition, and to see her in the morning (graduation was on a Sunday).  The next day I was informed that my parents had neglected to pay the tuition for the last three years, and my mother refused to pay it, stating to the secretary “he wanted to attend that school, so get it out of him!”  $1,500.00 was owed.  The secretary graciously gave me a photocopy of my diploma to show the U.S. Navy as proof of graduation.  (I kept that copy in my graduation folder for 5 years, until I was able to pay off the debt.)

After graduation I attended the “official” graduation party….graduates ONLY, thus my fiancée could not attend.  She was very tight lipped about not being able to go with me.  The next day, I experienced the “temper” that she had warned me about.  The party was a “controlled” kegger.  When you arrived, you had to have a sleeping bag, and turn in your car keys.  The parents hosting the party kept a constant vigil, after the festivities (including beer) the boys slept in the back yard, and the girls slept in the front yard…and the parents (the father being a state patrolman) stayed up all night patrolling the grounds.  The next morning my fiancée started screaming at me for staying all night (even though attendance at the party required staying overnight) and wanted to know what girl I “f***ed” at the party.  It took flowers, and a gift, and my best friend Ric, to convince her that nothing had happened.  She let me know that I was not allowed to ever attend a party (or anything else, for that matter) without her again.  She also reminded me that I better not “f*** up” what I had, because “you’re damn lucky to have me!”

Graduation Picture (1973)

That summer I was caught between the proverbial “immovable object and unstoppable force.”  My fiancée pushed me to stand up to “your bitch mother,” and my mother was doing everything to sabotage my relationship, and my life.  Both my younger brother and I were working for my father.  Up until that summer, I was doing carpentry work with my Dad…foundations, framing, roofing, siding, drywall, and such.  He had started to teach me cabinet making and finish work.  Suddenly it stopped.  Now he had me prepping houses for flooring.  I cleaned the houses, and burned the scrap materials, for $4.00 per hour.  My younger brother was doing cabinets and finish work…AND at the age of twelve, was being paid  $5.00 per hour.  (Years later my Dad told me he did it because my mother insisted that he do so.)  I was angry, but it was the best job I could have at the age of 17, and in a temporary status, I was leaving for Navy boot camp in September.  Plus, I could work whenever I wanted to…the houses all had electricity, so I could clean them at night if I felt like it.  One Saturday morning, after a late night date with my fiancée (I had a 2 a.m. curfew on Fridays and Saturdays, midnight the rest of the week), my Dad came into my room at 6 a.m., and asked me if I was going to work, I said “yeah, later,” he said “don’t bother, you’re fired!” (again, he did so at the insistence of my mother).  I managed to find a job pumping gas for the rest of the summer.

My birthday happened to be on a Saturday that year, my fiancée and I stayed out until 4 a.m., when I got home, my father met me at the door.  “Your curfew is 2 a.m.” he said.  I said “not anymore, I’m 18 now, I’m an adult, I can do what I want!”  He said “what’s on top of this house?”  I said “a roof.”  He said, “who pays for it?”  I said “you do.”  He said “and as long as you are under it, you follow MY rules….or get the hell out!”  (again, he did this at the insistence of my mother.)  So I got out, I moved into my fiancées parents house, and less than a month later, I began my military service.  On December 21^st, 1973 I was married…..and my long nightmare continued…..I stayed for six years because I was desperate for someone, anyone, to love me…even if she beat the hell out of me.

Navy Boot Camp 1973

My mother passed away in 2003.  A couple of months before she died, I asked her why she never liked me.  She responded by saying “does it really matter?  You turned out ok, so I must have done something right!”  I told her, “yeah mom, it does matter….and I didn’t turn out ok, for a good portion of my life I have been depressed and miserable.”  She said, “Ok, if it means that much to you, I hated you because you are just like your GOD DAMNED FATHER, you look like him, you sound like him, and you are a just as much a weakling as he was!”  I told my Mom that I had spent my whole life trying to gain her approval, trying to make her proud of me, tying to get her to love me.  She said, “sorry honey, you were doomed from the start!”  When she was on her death bed, and in an out of a coma, I sat at her bedside.  She came out of her comatose state one time, saw me, and lunged to hug me around the neck…to this very day, I’m not sure if she saw me, or if she saw my father…but from the look of surprise on her face, I’m fairly certain she thought I was my father.  She passed away 6 hours later.  Never once in her life, did she tell me she was proud of me.  To this very day, I am still trying to deal with the whys of how I was raised.  I guess I will never know, but thanks to some special people, I am dealing with the questions…

I started this essay with the intention of explaining why I stayed in an abusive marriage.  I now realize that my marriage was merely a continuation of much of the abuse I had already suffered, but with the added element of physical violence.  Sigmund Freud would have said I married my mother….and in many ways, he would have been correct. 

My second oldest brother, Dave, and I are now very close…he is my best friend.  (I don’t speak to my other siblings for various reasons, mostly in connection to our relationship with our Mother.)  Dave and I have spoken often about the relationship we had with our mother, both as children and as adults.  And I spoke to him about this essay.  He told me simply this:  “Mom was not a nice person!”  I can speculate on why she was so bitter and angry her entire life, but I will never really know.  All I do know is, it doesn’t matter why, people just should not treat their children like that!

There are many reason why victims of abuse stay.  Sometimes it is financial, sometimes it is fear, sometimes it has to do with self esteem….there are many, many, reasons.  In my case, I stayed because I had been raised as an abused person, I truly believed that, not only was being abused normal, but, that I deserved every bit of abuse that I experienced.

No one is worthless, no one is ordinary, no one deserves abuse.  Everyone has worth, everyone is special, everyone deserves love.  And Love should always be kind!

     

Confessions of a Wimp!

Last week, I commented on a post from Break the Silence Against Domestic Violence.  The post concerned why men were taking the Blow the Whistle Challenge!  I wrote the following:

Confessions of a Wimp!

She slapped me,

I didn’t slap her back,

Because I don’t hit women!

She punched me,

I didn’t punch her back,

Because I don’t hit women!

She beat me with a club,

I didn’t beat her back,

Because I don’t hit women!

I escaped, I grew, I found happiness. I am a survivor!

And I hold my head high,

 Because I don’t hit women!

If that makes me a Wimp,

I wear the title proudly!

The administrators at Break the Silence saw fit to post my words along with my photo on their page….the response was overwhelming.  The post drew over 1500 “likes” and over 135 comments!  A majority of the comments were positive, many stating that I was not a “wimp” but a “real man!”  Most of the positive comments came from women, but there were also men supporting the notion that men should not hit women.   But then, of course, there were a few negative comments, all from men.  Overall, it made for a positive post, reaffirming the concept that men should not hit women.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t my entire point.

I waxed a little too poetic….but in order to get my point across, I would need something like, well, something like this, a blog post to explain my thoughts.  But as I contemplate how to explain my “point” I realize why it is difficult for people to understand it, because in many ways, I'm a dreamer!

My primary concept is that I don’t hit women for ANY reason!  That is how I was raised, and that is how I live.   I believe it so strongly that, even when she gave me, perhaps the only justification for hitting her, I would not allow myself to do so.  Those who were negative pretty much followed the same point, that I should have “defended” myself.  In my mind “defense” is to protect oneself from harm.  Responding in kind is not “defense,” it is “offensive” in nature.  Especially if the person responding has the physical advantage!  In other words, hitting her because she hit me, is merely an excuse to hit her…if that makes any sense.

Let me try to explain with a silly hypothetical example.  My father taught me woodworking at a young age (I started working with him when I was probably 6 or 7 years old).  He taught me the proper way to swing a hammer.  I can, with fair consistency, drive a 16 penny nail into a 2 x 4 with one or two strikes using a 16 ounce hammer. Suppose my 7 year old grand daughter challenged me to a contest in driving nails.  She can barely lift a 16 ounce hammer, let alone swing it properly, but hey, she challenged me!  I win the contest easily, I dance around the shop, I talk smack to her “ha ha, I won!”  In reality, I used her “challenge” as an excuse to embarrass a little child.  I accomplished absolutely nothing! 

It is a simple fact of nature that men and women are built differently.  I am 60 years old, and out of shape….but I can’t think of too many women I would not be able to hurt in a physical confrontation.  A woman such as MMA sensation Ronda Rousey may be able to beat me to a pulp, but I probably could, without competitive rules, be able to hurt her before she did so, or maybe not…but the point is, in most cases, men have a physical advantage over women.  (As a side note, I commend Ms. Rousey for saying she would not fight a man, saying, “I don’t think it’s a great idea to have a man hitting a woman on television.”…from ESPN.go.com “Rousey: Bad idea to fight a man”).  So, just as in my example above, when a man beats up a woman, what has he accomplished (or proven)….absolutely nothing!

Getting back to the point I was trying to make with my Confessions of a Wimp blurb…If men start with the assertion that they will not hit a woman, even in “self defense,” then they will not find ANY reasons to hit women!

Perhaps the most common comment on the Break the Silence post was “REAL men don’t hit women!”  Which begs the question:  What is a “real” man?  Unfortunately, the statement “Real men don’t hit women” has, in many ways, become a slogan, oft repeated, but not always followed.  When a slogan is repeated often enough, it loses its meaning…and becomes just a “slogan” without definition.  How does one define what constitutes a “real” man?  Unfortunately, society has far too many ideas of what a “real” man is.  Real men don’t take “stuff” from anybody, Real men love sports, Real men hunt, Real men love cars, Real men don’t fear anything, Real men fight, Real men have a job, Real men support their families, Real men wear the pants in the family, Real men control their women, Real men are patriots, Real men…………….I could probably fill many pages with conflicting statements starting with “Real men are…”

Humans are far too complicated to be defined with simple slogans.  My Father taught me that the only thing that really defines a person, is integrity. According to him, integrity consists of honesty, responsibility, and morality.  Furthermore, he had a simple concept of morality…”you just know when something is wrong, and hurting people is just plain wrong!”

Perhaps I am naïve, but I cannot understand the “why” of Violence in general.  I made the strong statement that “I don’t hit women,” but the plain truth of the matter is, I don’t hit anyone!  In my entire life, I can truthfully say that I have only hit one person with the intention of hurting them…and then I only did so at the insistence of another!  (You guessed it, my abuser.  She insisted that I punch out her brother for spreading lies about her “sleeping around,” which, as it turned out, were not lies.)  I abhor violence in any situation, and I cannot understand why people feel that violence is necessary.  I am not so naïve to think that everyone will think as I do, far greater men than I, such as Mohandas Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., advocated non-violence in eloquent fashion…but the world remains a violent place.

I guess in the final analysis, the point of my Confessions blurb was this:  I was driven to silence by people calling me a “wimp” because I didn’t “stand up” to my abuser.  I have broken that silence because I now realize that not resorting to violence is not a weakness, and I want to help other men understand that as well.  However,  I wasn’t trying to set myself up as something special because I don’t hit women.  I wasn’t trying to say that I was a victim of abuse because I don’t hit women (there are many other factors involved, which I hope to address in another post).  I wasn’t saying that people should not defend themselves against violence.  My point was that, if men would only draw a hard line and accept that there is absolutely no reason or excuse for hitting a women, then they won’t find reasons or excuses to hit women.  If nothing else, I suppose I wanted to shame any man who thinks that beating up someone weaker than himself is some kind of accomplishment.

Far too many men believe that they are justified in hitting women for various reasons: to prove that they are a “man,” to make sure the woman “respects” that he is the “man,” to punish her for some real or imagined transgression because he is the “man” in charge, or the most ridiculous of all, to show that he “wears the pants!”  Violence proves absolutely nothing, except that the offender is as bully, and is incapable of finding better ways to solve problems. 

If the standard is non-violence, then violence becomes a thing of the past.  In the words of John Lennon:  "You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.  I hope some day you will join us, and the world will be as one."

And I stand by my statement:  If not hurting others makes me a wimp, then I am proud to call myself a Wimp!

Gustaf (Gus) Brock

A SHARED LAST NAME

My name is Gus.  I was honored and flattered when Tabitha’s little sister, Nikki Allman, asked me to become a contributor on the The Tabitha Brock Foundation Blog.  As a means of introduction, I would like to relate my incredible journey over the past couple of years.

First a bit of background:  I am a survivor of Domestic Violence, I am a 60 year old male, and I’m a long haul truck driver.  The abuse I suffered occurred during the 1970s, and I was able to break free of my abuser in 1980, but this piece is not really about the abuse I suffered, rather it is about the aftermath.  It is about the years of silence which ensued because of the aftermath.  But mostly I want to share the incredible, continuing, journey, brought about by three amazing women, which has brought me to where I am today….a very non-silent, advocate against Domestic Violence, and against violence in general.

There were then, as now, strong stereotypes about male victims of domestic violence.  Only males who were “wimps” and “henpecked” suffered abuse.  And then, only at the hands of large, hulking, masculine, women.  No man, who was truly “a man” would “allow” a mere woman to physically beat him. I was raised to respect women, and to never hit a woman for ANY reason. Support systems for victims of Domestic Violence were rare, and confined to the assistance of “battered women.”  Support for male victims was nonexistent.  I was lucky to have found a counselor named Diane (who was a graduate student intern), whom was also a survivor of Domestic Violence.  She made me realize that no one deserved to be abused, and she helped me to be able to break away from my abuser.  Unfortunately, she soon graduated and moved away.  Little did I know that she was one of the few that understood that men could also be victims of physical abuse.

After I broke free from my abuser, I returned to college to study Psychology.  It was a joke amongst Psych majors that people only studied Psychology in order to figure out their own screwed up lives.  With me, it was literally the truth.  Through my studies, I I gained an understanding about many aspects of my life, especially issues relating to my childhood.  One of my professors discovered that I was dyslexic, explaining many of my struggles in school. My studies explained my lack of self esteem, helped explore the causes of my childhood stutter, and my fear of dating and interpersonal relationships.  However, my experience as a "battered husband" was never addressed.

The subject of domestic abuse was almost taboo…and when I tried to bring it up, I was advised to change majors to “women’s studies!”  I was once told that “battered Men’s syndrome” was a myth.  During one class, the subject of “Battered Women’s Syndrome” (as it was called back then) was a topic of discussion.  A lot of ridiculous ideas were brought up (such as the idea that women “craved” discipline from men).  I mentioned that I was a victim of abuse, that my former wife often beat me.  One woman laughed and said “what, did she slap you and hurt your feelings?”  I calmly related to her the worst beating I ever received: 

My ex was angry that the Navy had assigned me to go overseas for a period of 3 months.  She demanded that I get the orders changed; I told her I couldn’t get them changed, even if I wanted to.  She replied “I can!”  I owned a two piece pool cue, the two pieces screwed together, and the heavy end was about the size, shape, and weight of a police billy club.  She picked up the heavy end of the cue, and began beating me with it, swinging it like a baseball bat, and swearing that she was going to kill me.  I did my best to ward of the blows with my arms, doing what I could to protect my head. I tried to take the cue away from her, but then she swung low, and hit my lower leg, breaking it in the process.  I started to fall, and put my hands out to break the fall, which gave her the opportunity to swing at my head.  She struck me behind the right ear, as I was losing consciousness, I remember the sheer terror, and belief that I was about to die.  I knew that, once I blacked out, I would not be able to protect myself….I knew that in her state of rage that she would beat me to death. I felt one more blow to the head, and remembered no more. When I regained consciousness, a Corpsman at the emergency room of the Naval Hospital I worked at, was helping me out of my car (I have no idea how I got in the car), and my ex was telling him that “the clumsy idiot fell down a flight of stairs,” at the same time, letting me know the story I had better stick to.   I had several more injuries than I had before she knocked me out, so apparently she continued to beat me.  Why she stopped, I’ll never know.  I ended up with a broken leg, two broken ribs, and a concussion from at least 3 blows to the head, and many bruises and contusions.  Needless to say, because of the broken leg, my overseas orders were changed.

The woman in the class looked at me and said “if she did that to you, you probably deserved it….but no ‘real’ man would allow that, all you had to do was deck her.”  I told her “I don’t hit women for any reason.”  She replied, “then you’re a damned fool!”  Most of the others in the class agreed with her, saying that I should have “defended” myself.  I tried to explain that I tried to “protect” myself, but I believed that inflicting violence on another, in any situation, is not “defensive,” but rather “offensive” in nature.  At that point a male student told me I needed to “grow a set,” and the professor cut off further discussion and ended the class.  But even the professor did not support my position.  Not long after that, I decided not to subject myself to that kind of ridicule (and abuse) again….I pushed my feelings into a deep dark hole, somewhere in the back of my mind. And, except for a few nightmares, that is where they stayed, for over 30 years!

About two years ago, someone shared a photo that appeared on my Facebook page, two photo’s actually.  The first was of someone, barely recognizable as human…a bruised and battered face, swollen, and covered in cuts, a person barely alive!  Next to it was the image of a beautiful young blond woman, with the prettiest smile.  Her name was Melissa Dohme.  She had survived a brutal knife attack by an ex boyfriend.  It was her smile that intrigued me.  Here this young woman had nearly died at the hands of someone who claimed to care for her.  Instead of turning to anger and bitterness, she had chosen to become an advocate against Domestic Violence, and dedicated her survival to helping others avoid falling in the same situation she had endured.  Melissa’s smile, although a bit "off kilter," (due to nerve damage in her face) was so REAL.  It radiated strength, determination, conviction….and true Joy, Joy at being alive, Joy at helping others, and the Joy of becoming stronger and better everyday.  I was impressed and inspired by Melissa’s continuing story.  I began to follow her page.  I started reading the comments of women who were involved in, or had escaped from abusive relationships.  As I read them, I began to realize, that their stories, were my story.  Hesitantly, I began to make a few comments myself, relating my own experiences.  I half expected to be told to go away, or for people to reject or mock my comments.  I was somewhat shocked when people supported my comments, and commended me for coming forward.  I started to see the possibility that I could address the demons that I had kept hidden for so long.  And then came an extremely emotional day!

As Facebook is want to do, they often “suggest” pages with “similar content” when visiting certain pages.  This was true on Melissa’s page.  I usually just glance at these suggestions; I’ve never been very good at “multi tasking” and tend to stick to a minimal number of pages to follow.  However, one of the “suggested” pages caught my eye.  I saw my last name!

A side note here:  I am an emotional person; I tear up easily for anything from a beautiful Mozart Aria, to kids getting excited about a puppy on Christmas morning.  Often my emotions are touched deeply, and I’m well aware that emotion follows no logic, as will be seen.

I saw my last name “Brock”, and clicked on the link.  I was rewarded with the smiling face of a beautiful young woman.  I suppose I was expecting a story similar to that of Melissa Dohme’s.  An inspirational story of survival, struggle and triumph!  ….and then I felt the pool cue hit me in the side of the head!  That is when I realized that this was a memorial page, and the smiling young woman was no longer with us, murdered, by Domestic Violence.  I’m not sure why, perhaps because of the shared name, but it hit me hard.  I am not related to Tabitha, as far as I know.  I had never met her, I hadn’t ever heard of her!  But I sat in my truck crying over the death of this young woman.  I’ve read many stories about young people being taken far too soon, but this wasn’t some tragic auto accident, or some disease such as cancer.  No, someone decided she should not live.  Then my sadness turned into anger.  How dare he do this?  I took this personally; I would never get the chance to meet this lovely person because someone had the arrogance to believe he had to right to take her life.  And then my emotions took an even more illogical turn….I began to feel guilty.  Why couldn’t I have been there to protect her?  Why wasn’t I there to stop this terrible thing from happening?  (As I said, emotion follows no logic.)  I flashed back on that night that I believed I was going to die, I was being beaten to death, and I could do nothing to stop it….I prayed to the Master of the Universe that Tabitha had not experienced such terror….All of these emotions, because of a shared last name.  I had to stop reading, I didn’t understand why I reacted so intensely.  But I hit the “like” button, vowing to return. 

And I did return. I learned more about the efforts to stop Domestic Abuse, and to bring about more awareness.  I began to share some of my experience.  The Tabitha Brock Foundation page (along with Melissa’s page) lead me to Break the Silence Against Domestic Violence.  All three pages made me feel welcome, and accepted.  After more than 30 years of Silence I was able to open up about the abuse I suffered.  I no longer felt like a “victim,” instead, I was a Survivor.  But the Tabitha Brock page went a step further.  The responses to my “comments” were personal, in the person of “Tabitha’s Little Sister” Nikki.  I am inspired by Nikki and her mother Cindy Lou.  I can’t imagine the depths of despair at losing a child or a sibling to such senseless violence.  But Nikki has turned her despair and anger into something positive, keeping the memory of Tabitha alive to help others!   Nikki seemed to understand my need to be included in the Domestic Violence conversation.  Last January, Nikki invited me to share my story on the Survivor Saturday feature on the foundation’s page.  I agreed to do so, but I felt some reluctance.   I gave her the excuse that it would be some time, since I was so busy.  I had never shared my story with anyone; even my wife of 26 years had only heard bits and pieces of it.  I was afraid to open myself up to ridicule and shame again.  Thus far I had only made a few comments…how would the whole story come across??  I delayed for a couple months, but then I went back to The Tabitha Brock Foundation page, trying to decide if I should “take the plunge,” or give Nikki another excuse!   Then I started reading Tabitha’s story again….and the emotions came back.  I couldn’t explain why Tabitha’s story affected me so strongly; simply having a shared last name could not be the only reason.  Then I realized, Tabitha is/was around the same age as my own kids.  I couldn’t protect her, but how can I protect them?   Nikki gave me the answer:  had she, and Tabitha, and others known the signs and triggers of Domestic Violence, perhaps this tragedy could have been avoided.  The only means I had to protect my kids, and grand kids, or anyone, was to make them aware….To BREAK THE SILENCE!

So, in March, I wrote my story.  It was difficult recalling the years of fear and the feelings of worthlessness.  But as I wrote, I started to get a feeling of freedom.  I felt the weight of a thousand demons leave my shoulders. The response on Facebook was fantastic, a great deal of support and praise, and even gratitude for sharing my story.  My wife, and my kids, learned a lot about me…and it even explained why I react the way I do to certain events.  I even learned a few things about myself.  Mostly that Silence is far from golden, it can be deadly.  I’ve always hated change, I like routine…and it takes a lot to get me to change my routine.  Routine is safe, routine does not take much effort, routine can hide a lot of pain….but my routine has been broken, this time by something as simple as a shared last name.

Soon after I shared my story, I noticed a lot of the people at Break the Silence were talking about SurvivorInk, a BTS tattoo, depicting a purple ribbon with the letters “bts” incorporated into the ribbon.  I wanted that tattoo…I wanted a permanent declaration that I would be silent no more, a means to open the discussion about Domestic Violence, and a testament to three women who had greatly affected my life:  Melissa Dohme, Nikki Allman, and especially, Tabitha Brock.  When I got the tattoo, I debated where I would place it.  My wife went with me when I got it, and she told me to put it on the inside of my right arm, so that when I shook hands, people could not help but notice it.  And it has opened a lot of discussions.  The first photo of my tattoo, I shared on The Tabitha Brock Foundation page…in memory of Tabitha.

On a personal note:  When I got my tattoo, I considered including Tabitha’s name, or initials as part of the tattoo.  But then I decided that such a thing would be inappropriate. Such a personal touch was something reserved for her family and loved ones.  But then one day, I was looking at my tattoo, admiring it really, it had healed and the color popped….it was looking good.  Suddenly I realized Tabitha was there, in my tattoo….as I said, I am dyslexic, numbers and letters often appear in reverse order….and while the rest of the world sees “b t s” for Break the Silence, to me it will always read “s t b” for the Spirit of Tabitha Brock!

And so my journey continues.  I have become quite vocal about Domestic Violence, and I’m trying to become more involved in this cause.  (Now I’m even writing a blog about Domestic Violence.)  I no longer fear ridicule, although I still encounter a great deal of ridicule, non-belief, and scorn, but it makes for a “lively” conversation.  But it doesn’t bother me anymore, because I know that the conversation is still bringing about awareness!  And I also know that there are places I can go where I will feel accepted and supported.  Our society has a long way to go when it comes to Domestic Violence, and violence in general.  In future posts I hope to explore the “male” perspective on Domestic Violence, both as a survivor, and a male in general. 

Change is slow to occur, and it often happens just one person at a time.  I truly believe, that if just one person is helped because of me Breaking my Silence, then it is all worthwhile.  Change can come about from simple actions and events.....even from something as simple as a shared last name!

Gustaf (Gus) Brock

Education Key to Ending Domestic Violence

Before May 10, 2012 I had never even thought about how much domestic violence affects our world. I doubt I even really thought about domestic violence at all. It all changed drastically when I received a call from my mom at 5:36am on May 11, 2012. When I made it to her house I learned one of my older sisters, Tabitha Brock, had been murdered and set on fire by her ex-boyfriend. He was the father of her son and had murdered her right in front of their child.

Throughout my entire childhood never once were we spoke to about teen dating violence or sexual abuse during school. It was in eighth grade that Tabitha met the man who would later murder her. She was 14 years old and he was 21. They dated quietly for a year before anyone found out. He seemed quiet and charming. Not someone you would ever think could be capable of something so evil. Over the course of the next few years I watched as he charmed his way into my sister's heart. Bringing her expensive gifts, taking her out to dinners and the movies, and seeming like the perfect guy.

It wouldn't be long until he began the usual tactics of a domestic abuser. While, he never hit my sister until the night he killed her (as far as we know) he was emotionally and psychologically abusive to her over the course of ten years. It began with small comments to make her feel negatively about herself and later went to more extreme measures including stalking her and stealing items from her house and his workplace. Tabitha had separated from him several years before he murdered her, but stayed in contact because of their son together.

I did not understand that during those ten years what I was watching happen to my sister was domestic violence. I knew that he was mean to her at times and had strange behaviors, but I thought he was "just a jerk". I don't think I ever thought he would physically harm my sister. Now, looking back I feel devastated for not recognizing the signs of abuse and how serious it was.

I should have tried harder to get her away from him, taken her more seriously when she talked about all the crazy things he did, and spoken up when I saw the behavior myself. I understand now I simply did not have the knowledge, nor the courage, to do so at the time. I could write a thousand things I could have done differently, but it would not change it now. All I can do is try to prevent future violence in her memory.

Now, after three years of intense study about domestic violence I do what I can to educate those around me so that they do not go through my sister's fate. Educating children young on teen dating violence, sexual abuse, and bullying is vital in ending the epidemic of violence that is ravaging our world. Without a true understanding of these types of violence, and where to go if one is going through it, we will continue to see the cycle of violence continue.

It starts at home in educating others about abuse, but it's just as important that schools, workplaces, and businesses get involved in preventing domestic violence. On average, 24 people per minute are victims of rape, physical violence, or stalking by an intimate partner in the United States - more than 12 million women and men over the course of a year (NDVH). It happens across the board through all age groups, cultures, and demographics.

If you are being abused please reach out to a trusted loved one or a local domestic violence agency! You do not deserve to be treated with less than respect. Love is patient, kind, and respectful. Never cruel, abusive, or controlling. To educate yourself about domestic violence please 'like' our page on Facebook and/or read through the articles below. Make sure to examine the relationships that you, your family, and friends have and ask yourself if it is healthy. If you need someone to talk to you can message us on our Facebook page.

Best of Wishes,
Nikki Allman

In Loving Memory of

Tabitha Gayle Brock

Beloved Mother, Daughter, and Sister

Born - November 20, 1988

Murdered - May 10, 2012

Links:
www.thetabithabrockfoundation.com
http://www.thehotline.org/resources/statistics/
http://www.ncadv.org/
http://www.breakthecycle.org/

My Sister. My Friend.

I have the unfortunate reality that tomorrow is my birthday and I will be 24 years old. While most would look at this age as nothing in particular; for me it has special significance. At 23-years-old, I am now the age that my sister was when she was brutally murdered and later set on fire. I was 21-years-old when Tabitha Brock, my 23-year-old sister, was taken from us. Now nearly three years later I am the age she was and tomorrow...I will be older.

I do not understand completely why I dread this so terribly; except with the knowledge that it will be the first time in our lives, now my life, that I am older. Tabitha took great pride in being an older sister and I regularly looked forward to calls from her; just checking up on me. She was the greatest friend I had ever known. She was always the very first to text me, "Happy Birthday". I believe she waited up till midnight every time because by 12:05am there would be a text from her.

I truly believed we would have our entire lives together and watch one another grow old. I thought we would laugh as our bodies aged and take care of one another. She was kind, compassionate, and a friend anyone would hope for. My childhood memories with her consist of playing Barbies, singing Britney Spears on Karaoke, and long talks at night. Watching Disney movies and staying up late during hot summer nights.

I remember the first time I ever thought of Tabitha dying. I was maybe eight years old and had just finished reading Bridge to Terabithia. The story of two young friends I was instantly drawn in. Later in the book when the young girl died I kept thinking about Tabitha. All the times we would play and how quickly it could be lost. Something, or someone, could very easily take us away from one another. It would be the first, but not the last time, I cried over her loss.

Now here I am. Nearly three years later dreading my 24th birthday tomorrow. I know she would want me to be joyous about it and tomorrow I know I will have a wonderful and fun time with my family. I cherish my time with them more than ever. But, for tonight, I will allow myself the time to mourn this loss again. To remember the beautiful blonde haired girl I played with for so many hours during my childhood. For the incredible young mother she was to her son, who she loved more than anything. And to the greatest friend I have ever known.

I Love You, Tabitha.

Your Little Sister,

Nikki Allman

My sister, my friend.

Tabitha Gayle Brock

Born November 20, 1988 - Murdered May 10, 2012

Nikki Allman (left) & Tabitha Brock (right)

Social Media:

www.facebook.com/justicefortabitha 

www.thetabithabrockfoundation.com

www.twitter.com/justice4tabitha 

Domestic Violence Is Not Just Physical

 

Domestic violence (DV) is often thought to be only when someone physically assaults their partner. Physical abuse, while extremely life threatening, is not the only form of abuse that a victim of violence can undergo. The most common form of abuse is emotional. DV includes; emotional, physical, mental, sexual, financial, and spiritual abuse. Below I will provide examples of each type of abuse so you can better understand how to recognize this in your own and loved one's relationships.

Emotional Abuse: Undermining an individual’s sense of self-worth and/or self-esteem, constant criticism, diminishing one’s abilities, name-calling, or damaging one’s relationship with his or her children.

Physical Abuse: Hitting, Slapping, Shoving, Grabbing, Pinching, Biting, Hair Pulling, Etc. Includes denying a partner medical care or forcing alcohol and/or drug use upon him or her.

Mental Abuse: Causing fear by intimidation, threatening physical harm to self, partner, children, or partner’s family or friends, destruction of property, physical harm to partner’s pets, forcing isolation from family, friends, or school and/or work.

Sexual Abuse: Coercing or attempting to coerce any sexual contact or behavior without consent. Martial rape, attacks on sexual parts of the body, forcing sex after physical violence has occurred, or treating one in a sexually demeaning manner.

Financial Abuse: Making or attempting to make an individual financially dependent by maintaining total control over financial resources, withholding one’s access to money, forbidding one’s attendance at school or employment.

Spiritual Abuse: Refusing to allow partner to attend church or spiritual practices of their faith, forcing partner to adhere to a religion other than their own, forcing partner to do acts that are against their faith, not allowing partner to attend spiritual counseling.

As you can see domestic violence can include multiple types of abuse. While physical is the most deadly, many of the survivors I have spoken to say that the emotional/mental was the worst part of an abusive relationship for them. If you recognize any of these signs in your own relationship or a loved one's please reach out. No one deserves to be abused! Below I have provided links where you can reach out for help .

Best Regards,
Nikki


Links:

http://www.icadvinc.org/ (For Indiana Residents - DV)
https://www.rainn.org/ (For Sexual Abuse Victims)
http://www.ncadv.org/ (National Coalition Against Domestic Violence)
http://www.breakthesilencedv.org/ (Break the Silence Against Domestic Violence)
http://bandbacktogether.com/how-to-help-friend-abusive-relationship/ (How to help a Friend)

Dr. Phil Episode on Domestic Violence

Post by Dr. Phil.

Our Social Media: 

www.facebook.com/justicefortabitha

www.thetabithabrockfoundation.com

www.twitter.com/justice4tabitha

http://thetabithabrockfoundation.blogspot.com/

Struggling with PTSD

In our society there is very little education on mental illness. We tend to keep silent about this type of pain. It is important for us to break this stigma and allow open discussion on mental health. Today, I would like to write about PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and the causes, symptoms, and long term effects relating to it.

I felt the need to write this post on my own struggle. I was diagnosed with PTSD last year, nearly two years after the murder and burning of my older sister, Tabitha. I did not seek a therapist until I began to have severe physical symptoms and doctors could find nothing wrong with me. I became very ill, barely able to eat, nauseous constantly, and had terrible stomach pains. The pain was so overwhelming at times I was sure I was dying.

I had been very close to my sister and took her death very hard. At the time I did not know that PTSD was escalating the grief I was feeling for her. I could barely leave the house unless it was for work or to do a community event on domestic violence awareness. I lost countless friends because I could not bear to be around other people. It only reminded me of my loss. I have extreme anxiety attacks over the smallest encounters. For a long time I hide away from others because of fear of anxiety; even thinking about it can cause an anxiety attack.

PTSD can be caused by being in combat, rape or sexual abuse, living through a disaster, or any traumatic event. Anyone can develop this disorder and it is not a sign of weakness. Most people experience some type of stress after trauma, but if it continues to linger you may have PTSD. To know for sure you can set an appointment with your family doctor or a local therapist.

Symptoms of PTSD can include: severe anxiety, startled responses, always feeling on alert, fear, losing interest in activities you once enjoyed, feeling numb, avoidance of anything that reminds you of the event, guilt over the event, angry responses such as lashing out at family or friends, neglecting health, drinking too much or consuming drugs, or physical symptoms such as stomach pains, headaches, and fatigue.

For some people, with the help of a good therapist, they can quickly heal from PTSD, but others may live with the symptoms for the rest of their lives. It has nothing to do with strength or weakness. Everyone is wired differently and has different responses to this disorder. If you are able to safely speak to friends or family I recommend you open up about the issues you are facing. There is nothing wrong with asking for help. If they better understand what you are going through the easier they can provide you with support.

In the meantime there are many things you can try to help get you through your day. Recognizing my triggers helped me be able to better avoid them when necessary. Triggers are anything that causes you to feel anxiety, fear, or a negative emotional response. Such as watching violence on television may be extremely upsetting for someone who had experienced violence close hand. If you can write in a journal what causes these episodes you can better prepare yourself for when it happens.

Activities that can help; keeping a daily journal, meditating daily, reading positive books, meeting up with a small group of friends or family, writing friends online when you don't feel like leaving the house that day, bond with an animal companion, gardening, taking morning walks, connecting with a therapist trained in trauma, trying one new or old hobby a week.

What has helped me is slowly trying to do activities that I once enjoyed. For a long time after Tabitha's murder I could not bring myself to write, something I loved. It has taken time, but now I try to write at least once a week and it has helped me tremendously. I continue to work on the foundation page I created in memory of my sister. It gives me a purpose and allows me to spread awareness to why violence must end,

The struggle with PTSD is real and it is difficult, but there is a lot one can do to help ease the symptoms. If you do not have friends or family for support you can always look for online groups where survivors connect. Just know that you are not alone and it is not your fault. I have provided links below on more information.

- Nikki, Tabitha's Little Sister


Links:

http://www.ptsd.va.gov/public/understanding_ptsd/booklet.pdf 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Posttraumatic_stress_disorder

http://www.webmd.com/anxiety-panic/guide/post-traumatic-stress-disorder


Online Support Groups:

http://ptsd.supportgroups.com/

http://www.healthfulchat.org/ptsd-chat-room.html


Face-to-Face Support Groups:

http://ptsd.meetup.com/

http://ptsdusa.org/get-help/warrior-groups/

Our Social Media: 

www.facebook.com/justicefortabitha

www.thetabithabrockfoundation.com

www.twitter.com/justice4tabitha

http://thetabithabrockfoundation.blogspot.com/

What is the Impact of Domestic Violence?

Domestic violence is a subject that can be difficult to think about, let alone speak about, but for many it is a reality they are forced to live with everyday. Domestic violence kills more than three women and one man every day in the United States. It is because of these dangerous numbers that we must do our best to educate the public on this epidemic.

I first came into knowledge about domestic violence in May 2012. It was on the tenth of that month that my 23-year-old sister was murdered in front of her four-year-old son by his father. She was in college at the time and just completed her first semester; making straight A's. She had been a hair stylist for six years, but wanted to do something different after she had her son. She wanted him to have a good life and decided to go to college to possibly become an elementary school teacher. She never got to finish college. She will never see her son grow up or attend another family Christmas dinner. So many memories stolen from her future.

I was 21-years-old at the time of her murder and emotionally could not handle what happened. I didn't understand how he could have killed her. At the time I knew virtually nothing about domestic violence. Although I knew how badly he treated her it didn't click that it may ever turn into anything violent. I just thought he was a jerk and cruel to her. I never knew he would eventually kill her and then set her body on fire in her car. I began to research all I could about domestic violence, the signs, it's impact, anything I could find. I started a Facebook page in her memory (The Tabitha Brock Foundation).

I would find something that would both break my heart and inspire me at the same time. I found that there was a whole network of advocates working to educate society on domestic violence. I was able to read their stories and connect, but it broke my heart to know what they had endured. I read of Melissa Dohme's (Support Melissa) story of survival where she had been brutally stabbed 32 times by an ex-boyfriend. She went on to become a strong and courageous advocate against domestic violence and now has shared her story with thousands of people at events, high schools, and colleges.

I read of the tragic murder of Ashleigh Marie Lindsay and her unborn daughter, Patience (Memorial Facebook Page). Ashleigh had been severely abused by Joshua Mahaffey, her ex-boyfriend. She went into hiding to protect herself and her child after leaving him. For a month she went from friends house to friends house. She made plans to go to a domestic violence shelter on a Saturday. Friday Joshua Mahaffey found Ashleigh. He shot Ashleigh and their unborn child, Patience. He then killed himself. Ashleigh passed away from her injuries. Her family now works to spread awareness to domestic violence in Ashleigh and Patience's memories (Ashleigh's Patience Project).

I connected with others through a wonderful national organization called Break the Silence Against Domestic Violence. It was founded by Kristen Paruginog who had shared her story of survival on social media. She went on to create a 501(c)(3) non-profit to help educate the community on this issue and empower victims of domestic violence to become survivors. BTS has reached people from all around the world and gave a community to advocates and survivors. +Breakthesilence DV

I began to understand the impact of domestic violence on our society the more stories I read. My sister, Tabitha, was one of three women who died on May 10th over two years ago. I know the impact that her loss had on my community. Her son lost both his mother and his father in one day. His mother was murdered and his father jailed. My mother lost a daughter and three siblings lost a sister. Tabitha had so many family and friends that loved her completely. Her loss broke their hearts. The cost to me was the loss of a sister, grief, and PTSD. The effects rippled out to hundreds of people because of one man's actions.

Think of the impact of this on society as a whole. Imagine every day in the United States three women and one man losing their lives. Their loss will harm so many people. Not only would this cause a serious economic impact on our society, but also on the emotional, physical, and spiritual health of those involved in the loss. (Community Cost of Domestic Violence)

I am now a few months away from being 24-years-old. It will be the first time in my life I will be older than my sister. It makes my heart ache. I have in this time done what I can to educate my community on domestic violence and attempt to end the stigma around it. While some subjects in this life may be uncomfortable to bring to light it is something we must do if we are to ever eliminate this tragic epidemic.

What I would suggest to those looking to become an advocate against domestic violence is to read everything you find on this issue. There are many great resources I will link that can help you understand the signs, symptoms, and impact of DV. You could also contact your local domestic violence shelter and ask to volunteer or for more information. Talking to family members, friends, and even strangers is key to educating our society on DV.

Wishing You the Best,
Tabitha's Little Sister Nikki

Resources:

http://www.icadvinc.org/ 
http://www.ncadv.org/
http://www.breakthesilencedv.org/
https://www.rainn.org/
http://www.thehotline.org/
http://nnedv.org/

Tabitha Brock with her son, Clayton, two weeks before her murder. 

Tabitha Gayle Brock

Born November 20, 1988 - Murdered May 10, 2012

Beloved mother, sister, and friend. 

 Our Social Media:

www.facebook.com/justicefortabitha

www.thetabithabrockfoundation.com

www.twitter.com/justice4tabitha

http://thetabithabrockfoundation.blogspot.com/