Waking The Wounds

by Angela Kayne

  WAKING

  THE

  WOUNDS

  ANGELA KAYNE

  WAKING THE WOUNDS

  Written by ANGELA KAYNE

  Copyright © 2018 by ANGELA HOLLIDAY

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except as permitted by U.S. Copyright law.

  First Edition

  Published in 2018 by ANGELA KAYNE

  Printed in the United States of America

  A note from the author

  This book was written for the sole purpose of helping others who may relate to my story, and to offer insight to those who love someone who was a victim of childhood physical and sexual abuse. I’ve chosen to hold nothing back. This is not because I wish to bring shame, humiliation, and judgement upon my past abusers. Im telling my story in hopes that by me sharing my most painful truth, it will empower others to finally confront and speak their own truth no matter how dark and shameful it may be.

  Table of Contents

  Forward

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  A Perfect World

  Chapter 2

  My Reality

  Chapter 3

  Education

  Chapter 4

  Someone To Love Me

  Chapter 5

  Happily Ever After

  Chapter 6

  Striving For Greatness

  Chapter 7

  Troubled Waters

  Chapter 8

  Waking The Wounds

  Fear

  Forward

  I saw a beautiful, nicely dressed woman the that appeared a bit nervous as Joseph Herbst, Executive Administrator for Bethesda Family Services introduced us. In conversation I was drawn to the quiet peace Angela exuded as she shared her story of deep betrayal and rejection she experienced through her childhood and early adulthood. To know God’s love for her after walking that treacherous path of humiliation and shame meant she’d already experienced transformation. I cried angry tears at the injustice committed against her and yet realized she’d already forgiven-not freeing her abusers from responsibility and justice, but from hateful revenge and consequently breaking chains within her own life and experiencing blessed freedom.

  We are women that have both experienced rejection and betrayal, but the similarities in our stories ends there. Hers was one of intentional abuse and pain and mine was unintentional wounding and hurt.

  As Angela tells her gripping story of her dark walk from one nightmare to another, focus on the steps she took to experience true freedom. This is the story of a little girl, desperately neglected and abused, calling us all to be more aware of our surroundings as a reminder that her case is unfortunately not singular; to promote us to action on behalf of those innocent in ny way we can. This is also the story of a mother, still a child herself, reminding us to pursue those that are seeking hope and love as wounded children in adult bodies. The difficult journey continued on for Angela because the little girl had never had a voice and was burdened by shame that wasn’t hers to carry. To all those who have walked in her shoes, and to all those whose hearts break for them, you will find hope written on these pages. Like a treasure map, be prepared to climb the steep hills of validation and confrontation of raw pain, and know that in walking with Angela step-by-step on the same brave path, you will find that peace that passes understanding is waiting in the valley just beyond. Keep climbing.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you Joseph for helping me heal my broken wings,

  and for being patient while I learn how to fly.

  To my amazing friends, thank you for believing in me

  and loving me through my worst storms, and for

  reminding me who I am and to whom I belong.

  Thank you to my beautiful children, you’re the reason

  I choose every day to keep fighting.

  John 8:32 Then you will know the truth,

  and the truth will set you free

  Preface

  For some of us, perhaps not all of us, there will come a time in our lives when we come face to face with our deepest, darkest pain. Those parts of us we try so hard to move past and forget exist. We think if we just keep moving forward, striving to be better, determined to leave it all behind us, that somehow the wounds will just go away, or that we can forget what happened. Some of us move far away in an attempt to outrun anything that reminds us of painful events. We become blinded, unable to see the infection that still remains deep within us, unwilling to touch even the very surface because the pain that lies beneath is so great it paralyzes us. We become bitter, and filled with rage, both seen and unseen, angry at those who have so deeply wounded us. We grow more and more determined to never give them forgiveness, because no way can we let them off the hook for what they’ve done. And then for some of us we even become convinced there were never any wounds at all, what happened to us wasn’t a big deal, I mean look around at what other people are going through. After all, the person who did the thing that didn’t really hurt me loved me...right? What right do I have to judge those closest to me, I owe them nothing but respect and gratitude for providing for me, and taking care of me, because they did the best they could right? No, I should be grateful because I could have had it so much worse than I did. Whatever the lie we tell ourselves, the truth is we never grieve, we never cleanse our infected wounds, because it simply hurts too much. We never confront those who have hurt us in the worst ways, we never give a voice to the child within us who was so deeply wounded, the child who carried devastatingly painful secrets of physical or sexual abuse at the hands of those who were supposed to protect us. Or we felt invisible, rejected, unheard, unwanted, unloved, like we simply were not enough for those we loved the most. For me, I stopped running and came face to face with my deepest wounds at the age of 42. This is my story. I share this humbly, hopeful that my truth can be useful to someone out there struggling to overcome, may this give you hope that you can finally experience lasting freedom from your deepest wounds.

  Chapter 1

  A Perfect World

  My story begins in the backwoods of Central Pa, long before technology and social media took over, when black and white floor model television sets and rotary phones were common in most homes. It was a time when the expected activity for kids was to be outside playing, during all four seasons with few exceptions. Most parents at that time held a false sense of security, unaware that evil existed, even in remote country areas where doors remained unlocked, and crime of any sort just didn’t happen. I was the only girl in my family, a barefoot tomboy nicknamed “Angie Baby” by my father. With my long curly hair that had a mind all it’s own, and scraped up knees, I fit the tomboy role quite well.

  My mind was always filled with the next adventure for my little brother and I. The country life provided endless opportunities for creative young minds to explore every imagination they had. We of course played the common games for that time like tag, hide and seek, and kickball, but we were much more interested in building things. Teepees were the chosen project, especially after a storm, this meant lots more branches and sticks to work with. Trees were not only great for climbing barefoot as high as we could, they created a nice stable base for our teepees. Yes, we were cowboys and indians my little brother and I. During the summer it was normal for us to spend the entire day from the first glimpse of the morning sun until the stars came out at night still caught up in our adventures. We had bikes, pieced together from other bikes long since forgotten and discarded, recreated into something which were by our imagination, simply amazin
g. We rode our bikes all year long, nothing could keep us from the thrill of speed, except of course a stubbed toe on the pavement while riding barefoot.

  When the summer heat and humidity became too much, we went swimming in the nearby creek, after our summer chores were done. We raised chickens for their eggs I assume, as I can’t recall ever killing and eating them. I so much disliked their constant motion, and the unexpected attacks from the rooster who was appropriately named “Cocky”. My parents kept a huge garden, and planted all sorts of vegetables, and berry bushes. We were responsible for much of the watering and weeding, and harvesting, which was all fine until I saw a snake, and they sure loved the garden. Snakes had the power to ruin any chore, or awesome adventure we were caught up in. Mowing the grass was often cut short with me fleeing and the mower left running until it ran itself out of gas.

  We had a small swing set in the yard, which only really served as yet another way to fill that need for a thrill. We’d swing as high as we could only to jump off at the highest point, ultimately injuring ourselves more times than not. And the sliding board was much more fun climbing/running up then sliding down. Back then we had an ice cream truck, Schwan’s Ice Cream, come all the way out to our house during the summer. My grandmother would treat us to the popsicle of our choice, and sometimes we drove to a nearby ice cream place for a slush puppy or a hand dipped ice cream cone. We went to local fireworks every Fourth of July, and we chased lightning bugs until the end of summer, capturing them in glass jars with holes in the lids.

  After summer faded, and the leaves revealed their true colors, mom would make jams and preserves from the berries we harvested. They were sealed with wax in little glass jars, and stored on shelves for the winter ahead.And when the leaves fell, creating a magical carpet of color, we made leaf piles as high as we could, just for jumping in. And then halloween came, with it’s plastic masks reflecting characters popular at the time, for me I of course chose Princess Leia. Our parents would load us into the car with plastic buckets, then we’d make our rounds to visit some nearby relatives, and local stores to collect our treats.

  And then winter would arrive in all it’s glory, with all that great Pennsylvania snow. Back then it seemed like we had snow all winter long and lots of it. For two kids with only the next adventure on their minds this was an amazing wonderland. We spent our winters sledding and sliding, building snowmen, and lots of snowball fights with our brothers. At times the neighbor kids would join the fun, really only taking part to inflict as much pain on us as possible. Snow days were so few back then, they were really something to celebrate if you were a kid that loved snow as much as we did. On the worst days when we were forced to stay indoors, we’d get lost in the television world of Hatchy Milatchy and Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.

  With such a picture painted of the childhood I had, one may wonder what could have been wrong. If only this world of lightning bugs and ice cream trucks could have been the whole picture of my childhood, if it only could have stopped there, if only. The truth is there was a darkness that drowned out any illusion I may have held of ever having a wonderful childhood. All of those days of cowboys and indians, barefeet adventures, and endless hours of matchbox cars and dirt tracks were shadowed by the stark contrast, which was my reality. That darkness was ever present, within the very foundation of the world I knew. Here is the rest of my story.

  Chapter 2

  My Reality

  It was during those days outside with my little brother that some of the worst possible things happened to me, things I would bury so deep within myself, that would shape who I was for many years to come. It would be another thirty something years until I would finally confront and overcome the pain left behind from these events.

  The ever present darkness I mentioned came from my older brother. As far back as I can remember, he was sexually molesting me, almost all of the time it occurred outside away from the watchful eye of my parents. I'm not sure how old I was when it began, or how often it happened, I just knew it as a normal part of my childhood. I don’t remember trying to tell my parents during the first early years of his abuse, I simply did not know it was wrong.

  I believe the first time I told mom was after he tried to penetrate me with a stick while outside playing, I think I was around five at the time. I remember it hurt, I went running inside and told mom what he had done, I can’t say for sure whether he was punished after that, but the sexual molestation from him continued until I was eleven years old. “Let’s go perform” was the usual signal from him. I had no idea how to tell him no, or that I should even say no. He seemed so much bigger and stronger than I was, and I feared him more and more the older I got. He became physically abusive toward me, and would hit me often, usually the same spot over and over to inflict the most pain and bruising. My parents never seemed to notice, so I assumed they didn’t care. I began to feel unseen by them, and so I made an effort to become invisible.

  During those early years, I spent most of my time at home at our little house in the country. Mom didn’t drive a car back then, so me and my younger brother stayed home with her and my grandmother while dad went to work. My two older brothers went to public school, so my younger brother and I spent most of our time playing outside during the week.

  My parents took us to church a few times a year, mainly just on holidays. It was an uncomfortable experience for me because I had to wear those lacy, scratchy, dresses bought specifically for the occasion. Those were the only times I remember being expected to look and act like a girl. God was never spoken of in our home, except at times from my grandmother in an attempt to scare us kids into better behavior. I suppose we needed someone to point out our sin, and let us know that hell awaited us if we didn’t turn from our wickedness. She was a cold, authoritative presence in our lives, and in my eyes her only redeeming quality was her eagerness to give me quarters for a pepsi from vending machines during our outings.

  On weekends, she and the rest of our gang would pack into our big green station wagon with the rear facing jump seat, which was regrettably always my spot. My parents had a specific weekend ritual, that would remain unchanged for many years to come. We went to an auction Friday nights, bowling Saturdays, and a flea market on Sundays. Saturday mornings were spent watching the Smurf’s with a bowl of frosted flakes. There was nothing better than that mushroom village of tiny blue people, who always managed to outwit the evil Gargamel and his malicious cat, Azrael.

  We were extremely poor, and our house showed it. With its small front porch leaning, and it’s once shingled exterior, it now looked much more like a shack. It showed no care from its owners, and very much fit the stereotype of a white trash, redneck family dwelling. There were weeds overgrown, at times as tall as us kids, and rusted station wagons that had died many years previously now served as storage containers full of abandoned and forgotten things. We had dogs out back behind the house, tied up to dog houses made from old floor model tv’s with the insides removed. In the backyard also stood an outhouse, that hadn’t been used in many years. Now it just sat as a reminder of its’ purpose it once held, and barely made it through the harsh winter storms. The house was very small, much too small for eight people. My grandfather had built it himself many years before he died in 1975, the year I was born. It had a living room, kitchen, and three small bedrooms. Only two of the bedrooms were used, one was for storage.

  Our house never felt like a home should feel, I don’t recall feeling safe or comfortable there. From my earliest memories, it was always very dirty, cluttered, and noisy. There was constant yelling and fighting, and the large floor model television turned up way too loud by dad in an effort to drown out the yelling so he could hear his ball game. It was a symphony of chaos that never seemed to end, unless of course dad snapped, and let out his rage, then it was terrifyingly quiet and still afterwards. I very much internalized my surroundings as a child. I felt invisible and dirty amidst all the clutter and filth, and unheard and drowned o
ut by all the noise.

  Dad was a hoarder to the extreme, and I think perhaps mom just gave up on trying to keep up with all the mess, plus the task of raising five children. Most of the time the living room was so cluttered we barely had a path cleared to walk through, this was the room my brothers and I were supposed to play in when we were forced to stay indoors. The kitchen wasn’t any better, it always smelled really bad, and was very cluttered and filthy. It was on the kitchen floor, where two of my brothers and I slept for many years until my parents bought a trailer when I was age eleven. My oldest brother shared a bedroom with my grandmother where he slept in a crib until he was sixteen years old. My other older brother (my abuser) and my younger brother and I slept on the linoleum floor around the table, we each had a blanket and a pillow. I remember the floor got really cold during the winters, but I got used to it. I don’t remember ever complaining, or asking for a bed, it was just normal for us. There were times I woke up screaming because maggots were crawling on me. Mom would get up and sweep them up with a broom, but never remove the source. She had been storing the dirty dishes under the kitchen table where we slept. I remember having nightmares often as a small child, usually about bugs crawling on me, snakes, or falling.Those nightmares were so vivid I can still remember them today.