I am one of many

I am not alone, nor am I that unique when I say I grew up in a house where violence was expected. The violence was not a single event that becomes a paralyzing memory. It was an occurrence that was so frequent, so regular in its irregularity, that it became something far worse than terrifying. It became "normal".

When something becomes normal, it becomes part of you. It makes up the skeleton, the framework that everything else that is you hangs from and is attached to. Normal is the pair of glasses you look through to see the world. Not rose-colored by any means, but glasses that focus vision in certain directions.

I am not trying to be poetic or sound like someone who can tell others the right thing to do, give advice or comfort. Words are such a lame way to explain how growing up with violence as part of life that simply stating facts of what happened is close to useless.

My first actual memory of violence is age 2. Because of that, I am convinced from that cloud of memories surrounding it, I became "Houdini" and found a way to get a chair, stand on it, undo several locks supposed to be childproof (in 1963) pushed my little hand through an opening in a screen door to reach the other side to pick a lock meant to keep me in, pulled the chair away and walked down the road until a neighbor saw me. My mom, already abused verbally and physically by my drunken stepfather was now the victim of nasty words, looks and accusations of being a bad mother because of my wanderlust or escapism, you decide.

It has taken over 40 years of living on this planet, learning about others' lives, watching, observing "healthy" relationships before I have learned to trust others and most importantly, to trust myself. I have lived in fear of becoming my mother. I have feared intimacy and even love, because when someone said "I love you" it was either before or after they beat you up. If that was love, why did everyone want it so much? I thought the world was sick and I was the only one who was sane by not wanting to be close to others beyond a hug.

Mothers, please leave your violent partners for your children.

Your children may or may not love the abuser, it doesn't make a difference, by living with violence you are making marks on their soul that will take a lifetime or never to repair, if it can be at all.

I live with my scars now and wear them as if they were scout patches of accomplishments. I have lived through what kills many, inside or out, by drugs, more violence or suicide.

I am not proud of my scars, but I realize now they are part of me. They are what has shaped me to become the gentle, loving, kind and still sometimes fearful person, because I understand the pain of so many others.