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A Non-Profit Organization for Child Abuse Survivors Learning to Thrive

Stories of Recovery

Every Person Has a Story – Tarese’s Story

Hello, I just wanted to reach out and send you a message.

I am an adult survivor of Childhood abuse. I suffered extreme depression, I was a self-harmer, and I suffered from an eating disorder. I never thought hope was possible, I never thought I would be able to live a normal life, or even achieve any dreams. I started my journey of healing quite a number of years ago. It has taken me many years to begin to find hope and to achieve some healing in my life. I never thought it would be possible, but I have. I have come through the other side and proven to others and more importantly myself that it is possible.

I want to speak out about what happened. I no longer want to be silent. I want my story to encourage others. I know all too well what it’s like to be in a dark place, to believe there is no hope. I want to be able to encourage those who are still in a dark place, who still struggle. That it is possible. Yes, it is alot of work and it is hard. But it is so worth it. If I can encourage but one person with my story, then it will be worth it.

There is hope. Life is possible. You are stronger than you think. You are alive for a reason.

Thank you for reading.

Regards,
Tarese Klemens

An Author’s Dark Past as Inspiration

An Author’s Dark Past as Inspiration

By Nicole Arlyn

I’m writing this from my kitchen in Brooklyn. It’s nearly December, and the afternoon is dark, cold and rainy. My baby boy is asleep in the next room. I’m making tea, trying not to clank around too much and wake him.

I used to get up, make tea, and write all morning starting at 6:00 a.m. Every day was like that. I’d get right into work writing—no phone calls, no emails, no people. I’d put a little makeup on, take a sip of tea and a breath, and then I was off into fantasy, into words and visions and adventure. Into life. Off writing for eighteen hours with a break in the middle for walks or the gym.

It took me seven years to write the Sadie books. They started out as one massive, handwritten manuscript that filled an entire suitcase and many notebooks full of backstories and character biographies and poems, doodles, and other books—all intertwined.

And now… My life has so completely changed from being the single, no-responsibility-for-others actress/writer woman with a pen in her hand and a suitcase who goes all over and writes all over. Now I have a home in Brooklyn with a baby snoring away in the room beside the kitchen.

And now that they’re all out there—all twenty-six novellas—it makes me wonder, “Am I okay now? Have I finally healed?”

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(caution – may trigger)

In my home town on Long Island, it was really important to fit in. It was really important to have friends and a normal home life. To be like everyone else. I kept it hidden, this strange thing I was.

I had visions. The first time I remember experiencing this was one night when my parents were violently throwing plates and screaming at each other in the kitchen. My mother was screaming that my father was cheating on her and that she was throwing him out of the house. I had a fever that day and listened from my bed, under the covers. Though my head felt clogged, my heart raced. I knew my father was leaving us—this time for good.

But then suddenly through their fighting came a sound like music, the most harmonious melodic chorus of angels singing, coming closer and closer and saturating the room with this beautiful sound. It swept through me. It was so loud and full that I started to feel good despite the fever, like I was made of air. Like I was spirit. I felt love through that sound. And beauty. I knew I belonged to it and where it came from. And I knew, sure as hell, that I did not belong to the fighting.

When I was about nine years old, my then-divorced mother remarried a man I considered a monster. He was emotionally shut down, very cold and distant, and yet when he drank, he came alive. And he drank a lot. A lot of vodka, specifically. He moved in with my mother, my brother, and I, moved into our little white house and I was very scared of him. He was a big guy with red hair on a balding head and bad skin. He was like a broken pipe spouting sewage into our sweet, clean home. Hairy and mad. Mad all the time for one reason or another. He always looked at me funny—well, when he did look at me, which wasn’t often.

My room faced the front of the house. He used to come in there in his fucking white undies, look out the window, and stare toward the streetlamp. The light coming in would silhouette him so he looked like a monster in my eyes. And I would peek out from the fortress of pillows I kept around me, smelling his hissing vodka-breath and listening to his abuse.

“Who’s paying the bills around here, brat? I own you. You’re a brat. You’re spoiled. Are your tits ever gonna develop?” He would say all that as if it were a private thing between us.

He would come close and sit on the edge of my bed, and I’d feel the mattress sink under his weight. One time he grabbed my foot. It was harmless enough, but that one touch scared me so much that The Sugarspear Chronicles blossomed from it. Just his breath and that one touch. It was all inspired by that night, that threat, and the many nights and threats that followed. The terror riveted my imagination and sent it running, running off into the sky.

Off into the sky and off into many dark places I went, living my life recklessly and insecurely for years to come. I made things look okay on the outside, just like my mother taught me. I made myself look attractive, had lots of friends and talents, danced, acted, wrote. But writing was the strongest place where I could truly express truth, even if only in glimmers. Now when I look deeply, I see that I was often behaving erratically and rebelling due to the pain I felt from my father leaving me, and then how, because of that, I landed in the hands of this monster. I was searching for ways to fill that emptiness inside. That hole.

When I was going to school in Paris in my early twenties, I was crazy into my sexuality and one-night stands and all kinds of destructive escapades. When I was back living in the East Village, I got involved in the drug scene. So after trying to destroy myself across two continents, I ended up waiting tables and going to acting school, and that was when I picked up and moved to LA. There I rediscovered the passion I’d had for writing, the same one I had when I was that little girl writing every day in her backyard under the weeping willow tree.

Eventually I realized I needed to focus on writing the books wholeheartedly, without anything else going on. I disappeared to a flat in Devon, England, to write. It was peaceful there and serene every day, a green valley on the estuary of Salcombe, a wee town on the edge of Cornwall. I took walks and listened. My mind brought me visions of mighty angels flying around amidst chickens and sheep and moors. I often sat at the edge of the English Channel, writing.

I stayed up all night in my kitchen with the black, English fields outside my window, and I woke up each morning to cows mooing. It was bliss and still is. I felt I was born to do this job; it’s as easy and comforting as slipping on socks. I could finally search and discover and dig out what was inside: A girl named Sadie Sugarspear.

Nicole Arlyn

 

 

 

Commitment to Recovery

By Pete Walker, M.A., MFT (Therapy for and recovery from childhood trauma, abuse and/or neglect)

“… with my blessings to all survivors who through no fault of their own got a bad deal from the parenting deck, and deserve limitless help and grace in recovering from the terrible losses they suffered.”

I believe the foundation of my recovery work is in all the time and energy I have put into reawakening my instincts of self-compassion and self-protection. I have a fierce commitment to being loyal to myself – to being like a kind mother and a protective father to myself no matter what.

As my own recovery deepens, I notice that whenever it needs a boost, I frequently find myself invoking my inner child visually as sitting on my lap, and I tell him much I love him. I often feel myself wishing I could go back into the past in a time machine and rescue him – and bring him back to live with me in the present. I tell him there’s always a place in my heart for him, and that whenever he is suffering or struggling with some difficult aspect of an emotional flashback, I love him even more and feel a huge desire to go back in time and protect him from the outrageous unfairness he experienced.

Many Blessings,

Pete

The Story of Chiquitta – Suffering in Silence No More

This is a true and personal story of my life from victim to survivor.  Not everyone knows my story, therefore I shall be known as “Chiquitta”.

I was born in Canada but my parents came from Guyana, a country in South America.  They came to Canada for a better life asacid attacks were occurring in their homeland.  My parents have an age difference of 13 years with my father being a lot older than my mother.  My mother was a housewife who later worked at a bank.  My father was a high school teacher.

I have 2 brothers, 1 sister and am the oldest daughter in the family. This was a curse; my parents were extremely strict with me and rules had to be followed.  My brothers and little sister were given the rights and freedom to do whatever they pleased.  The teachers would call me “a pleasure to teach”, for I was a quiet student.  However, in reality, I was shy and scared to speak up due to an abusive home life.  My father was an alcoholic; putting liquor in his morning coffee, drinking a case of beer during the week and a bottle of rum on the weekend. It got to be a routine; with my father binge drinking on Fridays and my mother packing her bags to leave us kids behind, so she could go to my grandmother’s house to seek refuge.  She would return to false promises made by my father once again; until the next time, which was every weekend.

Visits from the police were a regular occurrence at my house, as well as talk of divorce. My father would take the boys and my mother would take the girls.  When my father drank alcohol, he became a monster like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  Hence, I grew up with fear and insecurity.  I was mentally, emotionally and physically abused by all family members in my household.  My father would take off his leather belt to threaten to beat me, or my mother would take a wooden handed paddle with her in her handbag when we went out of the house… just in case she needed to use it on me.  Why me?  Why not the other siblings?  My mother later told me that she had no choice but to “put up” with my father’s abuse.  Where was she to go with no job, no money of her own and four children to look after?   In retrospect she had my grandmother, but there was a bad stigma connected with it.  People would talk, and what would they say?   My father demanded perfection everywhere.  Outside looking in, we looked like a perfect family but little did the public world know that living hell reigned.  School was the only stability in my life.   I had no friends and was petrified to make any, for I never knew what was waiting home for me.

I later ventured outside of my house in search of a peaceful, happy, normal life.  Instead I was further abused; sexually molested by my family doctor, my cousin on my father’s side of the family, and my cousin on my mother’s side of the family.  The cousin on my mother’s side of the family sexually molested me when I was 11 – 12 years old.   When I was 12 years old he raped me. I still remember the sight of blood running down my thighs.   I fought so hard, but it wasn’t enough.  What was an innocent game of hide and seek was his opportunity to touch and hurt me.  After he had his “turn” with me, his friends would have their “turn”.  I had nowhere to go for help.   I wanted to call the police and put my cousin in jail but, with the abuse going on inside my own house, my father would be the one behind bars, and, however worse my situation was, it would have been even worse for my mother, my siblings, and me.   All the abuse took place in the dark. Up until today, the dark still scares me to death.

By the time I became a teenager I developed anorexia and bulimia. First I would starve myself then “pig out” then relieve myself with extreme exercise or laxatives, never throwing up.  This vicious cycle started at the same time that I was being sexually molested by my cousin. Later on, in my senior year of high school, I was bullied and physically threatened by a girl who did not like me at first sight because I was not of white skin. She was mixed race and she was being bullied herself by others; thus I believe she took out her anger and hatred on me.  It so happened that her mother was an associate of my uncle’s in the real estate business.  My uncle intervened, the girl apologized to me and later she was transferred to another school.

During my adult years I started associating with the “wrong crowds” of people.  I became promiscuous, starting drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, in order to escape reality and cope with the abuse going on inside my house.  It was also during this time in my life that I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression.  This depression led to several suicide attempts.

I got pregnant, had an abortion and later ran away from home hoping never to return.  I had been gone for about a week when I realized that I had an orthodontic appointment.  That is when I saw my parents.

They started chasing me.  I went home with them only to be made false promises, just like my dad made to my mom every time he drank alcohol and raised hell.  Too many times I heard, “I am sorry” and “We will change” but it was just talk.  Nothing did change.

Later that week I came home from a party to find my parents waiting up for me.  I was choked and almost strangled to death by my father.  If not for my brothers rescuing me, like they used to rescue my mother, I would now be dead.

I then moved out of the family house to my own apartment, where I felt free.  I started binge drinking and would invite men over to have sex with me and get drunk. On occasion, I would drink so much that I blacked out. The next morning I would realize that something sexual had occurred because of the used condoms around my bed and the ropes tied to the bed posts and to my wrists.  I had been gang raped, vaginally and anally. The condoms, excruciating pain, blood and soreness were the proof.

I then moved to a city within Canada where there were jobs aplenty for secretaries.  My parents moved to be near my older brother.  I had no choice but to leave my past behind.  I was not going with my parents; I had endured enough abuse as it was.  My sister moved with my parents.  My remaining younger brother stayed behind.  Not only did I find a job and a place of my own but I found my future spouse.   I got married but a couple of years later I unfortunately had a miscarriage.  I never wanted to have children when I got married; but never knew why. Three years after the miscarriage I had a daughter and then, two years later, I had a son.  My children are the lights of my life that give me the will to live when at times it feels like there is none.

I then cheated on my husband and had several affairs, both in person and on the internet.  Enough was enough.  My husband and kids were on the verge of leaving me and my abusive behaviors behind for good.

Thanks to therapy over the years, I have managed to almost completely heal from all the abuse that I suffered.  The best decision that I made was to move away and start life over again away from my parents.  As far as my male cousin is concerned; he married, became abusive to his family and is currently in a wheelchair in a drug/rehab center.  Karma says, “What goes around comes around” and for all that has happened to him he truly deserves.

My father has never apologized for his abusive behavior to any of us.  He is an old man now.  Chances are that he never sought help and never will.  I never had the precious gift of virginity to give my spouse for it was taken from me.   Thanks to therapy, and the support of other incest survivors, I know that there is hope, joy and life.  The only good lesson that I have learned about my past is not to do what was done to me, but to do right by family and friends.  Yes I have had my ups and downs but for the most part, it is positive.  I thank God for giving me such a normal life now, so much so that I pinch myself from time to time and wonder if it is actually real.

Thanks for reading my story.

Just know that if I can go from being a victim to a survivor, anyone can!

Abuse Will Not Define Me

I was born in Melrose Park, Illinois on a cold day in November 1978 to a young woman not willing or ready to have a child.  I would be told later in life that I was supposed to be an abortion, but the hospital called my grandma instead of my mother to give her news of the pregnancy; thus my mother was “forced” to have me.  Looking back now, I think I spent my childhood paying the price for a hospital nurse dialing the wrong number.

 

Excerpt from Why Me? by Sarah Burleton, CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2012

           

My name is Sarah Burleton and I am the New York Times Bestselling author of my child abuse memoir, Why Me, and the spokesperson for Prevent Child Abuse Illinois. Looking at me now, one would never guess that I endured such a horrific childhood; a childhood full of extreme physical beatings and mental abuse at the hands of my own mother. One would never guess that my own mother pushed me into an electric fence and watched me writhe on the ground in agony. One would never guess that my beloved animals were murdered cruelly at the hands of my mother for her own sick enjoyment. And one would never guess that not once in my life did I hear my mother say the words “I Love You” or feel her arms wrapped around me in a loving, warm, motherly embrace.

One would never guess this about me and my life because I made the conscious choice at a very young age to not let my child abuse define me. I refused to walk around like a victim and wear my child abuse as a badge for the world to see and pity me for. As many of you can relate, the last thing a child abuse victim wants is pity from people who have no idea what we have had to endure.  We don’t want anyone to know what we have been through because there is a shame attached to child abuse, a sense of self-blame as if we deserved to be beaten or called names. Personally, I would bottle my emotions up inside and put on a tough façade to everyone around me, masking my true feelings of pain with sarcasm and aloofness.

When it became too much for me to bottle up my emotions any more I opened my laptop and poured out my life story into a Word document, self-published it and fell over the day I found out my little book had made the NY Times. Being on the list was great; however the most rewarding part of my job has been traveling and speaking to adult survivors, CPS workers and foster children. I realize that there are many of “us” out there, thousands of us who have been hurt by people who were supposed to love and protect us the most. But I’m here to tell you that we are not victims; we are survivors. We are here today because of our will to survive and our determination to overcome the demons from our childhood. Each of us has the power to use our horrible pasts as stepping stones to our bright, positive futures and as examples of how not to act. Every story matters and every voice should be heard. I love you all.

Edit: October 12, 2016

Please note that this article was first published here on isurvive and later on GoodTherapy.org

http://www.goodtherapy.org/blog/why-me-a-story-of-physical-and-mental-abuse-in-childhood-050914