It bears repeating that unwanted pregnancy is one hundred percent avoidable and abortion benefits no one. Don’t put yourself in the position to have to make that “choice.” And despite any pressures you feel, don’t take sex lightly! A woman’s body is a sacred vessel, and when we’re young, we don’t understand the gravity of that fact. Especially in today’s world, I see many young women disrespect themselves through “sexting,” using crass language, showing too much of their bodies with the clothes they wear and sleeping around. Respect yourself now and always—you are in the driver’s seat for having it, or giving it away. Just understand you and your body are some of your most valuable resources.
Abuse
I experienced different kinds of abuse in my youth, most notably the physical and verbal varieties. The worst—psychically—was inflicted by my father. His behavior frequently frightened me, although he was also loving, generous and entertaining. Like an active volcano, his anger always bubbled just under the surface, waiting to erupt. I never knew when it would happen, just that it would, and the chips would fall where they may.
In my early years, he would remove the leather belt around his waist and inflict its biting strap against my skin as punishment for wrongdoings. I learned to run whenever he began to unbuckle, forcing him to chase me down. Perhaps that made things worse in the process, but I was deathly afraid of the pain. He always caught me. His temper was unpredictable, and he always seemed so full of rage that I never knew how each punishment would play out. I wasn’t sure if he was in control of himself or not, and I still feel stressed around someone who exhibits volatile anger for this reason.
As I grew up, my father presented as perpetually unhappy, depressed and often mad at the world. He slowly receded from society, becoming increasingly intolerant as the years went by, and we grew further apart than ever by my high school years when he was perplexed by my good nature and ultra-social lifestyle. It was a challenge, probably for both of us.
Although his physical abuse took a hiatus in my middle school years, (but not the verbal, and not the threat of more lurking under the surface), he beat me severely ten days before my eighteenth birthday, reminding me unequivocally of who was boss. I recall irritating him—those were my eye-rolling-is-your-lecture-over-yet days—but there is never any excuse for beating a child. Like rape, the victim has absolutely no part in it, but that’s hard to figure out while it’s happening to you.
It was a vicious attack in which I firmly believed he’d gone out of his right mind. He’d also been drinking alcohol, a precursor my volcanic father might blow. In the end, after twenty minutes or more of physical abuse, I was prone on the floor, and he was holding my head in his hands, pounding my skull, over and over. In that moment, I realized I should do anything to make it stop as no one else was going to. Somehow, I figured that out, and he released me.
Like Anna, I scrambled to my feet, ran to my room, hyperventilated then fled the scene the instant I could gather my thoughts and escape. A friend picked me up and took me to the only place I would find solace: in the arms of my then ex-boyfriend. He held me through the night—waking me now and again to check on me in case I had a concussion—and I felt as safe as I could for having been through something so devastating.
The following day, in my true-life drama, a friend took me to the hospital to see a private doctor by whom she was employed. I begged the physician not to report the child abuse after she correctly analyzed the black eyes and bruised body. I feared for my life, and ironically, for that of my father’s. There is just no way to explain how confusing, conflicting and scary that combination is, to know and love your abuser, not to mention count on him for your personal safety and security. The abuse did not get reported and to this day, I question whether that was a good thing.
I stayed with a friend for another couple of days, but I felt lost, and didn’t know how to proceed. I was not in any shape to begin living life on my own. I was in my first year of college but commuting from home. I had no real savings. I didn’t even have my own car. My best idea was to move in with my ex-boyfriend, but anyone could see that was a dumb notion destined to fail. I finally phoned home and my parents convinced me to meet and discuss the matter with them in person. When that occurred, I was given an ultimatum: they would support me if I stayed at home, but I was on my own if I left. Not much of a choice. I felt forced to return, despite my fear and downright skittishness around my father.
In the end, my father got off scot-free, never acknowledging or apologizing for his actions. Likely never even realizing he should have or could have gone to jail. Like my rapist, he acted as if nothing had happened, and it was another beginning of the end for me. All trust was lost.
It took a herculean amount of work around this topic to heal, and it has been many years since I engaged in a relationship with my father. I stopped communication shortly after I married because he wouldn’t change his abusive behavior, and I was no longer willing to continue being his victim or put any of my children in harm’s way.
I am at peace with my decision, and feel no remorse nor harbor any anger. I have often sent my father well wishes via the universe.
