Waking The Wounds

by Angela Kayne

  Chapter 5

  Happily Ever After

  Life was going okay, considering everything I had gone through. I was supporting my daughter, and myself and adjusting to my new found freedom. At some point, I reconnected with a friend from high school. She had her own apartment, in an apartment building in town. We started hanging out often and planning things together. It was fun reconnecting with an old friend, she was one of the few I had during high school.

  One time while we were hanging out, we heard a knock on the wall, so we knocked back. This little game went on a while until we finally met the guys who lived next door, the ones responsible for the knocking on the wall. We hung out several times, and went for coffee, casually as a group. They were nice guys, not the type of guys I was used to for sure. They were funny, kind, and had steady jobs. After several months of hanging out with them, I fell for one of them. He was so sweet, he had met my daughter and really liked her, even though he had the “no kids for me” attitude. He was responsible, supported himself, and most importantly he made me feel safe. We started dating and things got serious pretty quickly, probably much quicker than they should have. I fell very quickly for this man, but his kindness took some getting used to. There were wounded parts of me revealing themselves in ways neither he nor I were prepared for. I would flinch at times, when he simply moved too quickly behind me, or did something unexpected. Part of me was expecting to get hit, as I had been hit so many times before. In my mind I knew he was not a man who would ever hit me, but my heart just could not fully trust him.

  Within a few months, my daughter and I moved into his apartment with him and he asked me to marry him. We were married in May, it was a simple wedding with just family and friends, just five months after we started dating. I was four months pregnant with our daughter, she was born later in November healthy, beautiful, and perfect.

  Things were going great, I was finally getting my happily ever after. There was just one not so small problem, my husband was using pornography. I felt so torn, because he was so nice to me, and seemed like he cared deeply about me. But I wasn’t enough for him, or at least that’s how I felt. Initially he wasn’t secretive about it, I think he assumed I would be okay with it. And at first I said nothing, because I was afraid he would be upset or even break off our relationship. But I hated it, and how it made me feel. I felt like I had to compete, and prove to him I was just as pretty or willing to do whatever he wanted, only to end up feeling dirty, degraded, and rejected. I Left him know how it made me feel, and how degraded I felt when he expected things I was not comfortable with. I asked him several times to stop using porn. He’d say he was done, then I’d find porn hidden in various places. This was a pattern throughout the first few years of our marriage.

  Eventually I wore out on trying to fight a battle I believed I simply could not win and left it go, convinced I could just focus on our children, and pretend the porn problem had resolved itself. I would concede and accept his word that he was done once and for all. I would be the best wife and mother I could be, and this wouldn’t stop me, except I felt myself disliking sex more and more. I found it very difficult to empathise with his legitimate need, and easier to find and make every excuse to avoid what had become for me a task. I think because for so long sex had become my only value, and was proven to not be enough for the man I loved so much. I hated my body, and wanted to be thinner and prettier, but after having two babies it was and would always be flawed.

  I loved this man, and he had so many qualities I needed, he stepped up and handled things I didn’t know how to handle. I remained terrified of my ex husband, and didn’t know how to handle him coming to pick up our daughter for his visits, my husband made sure I didn’t have to. He protected me in ways no one else ever had. At that time I still very much saw myself through the eyes of my ex husband, my family, and everyone who had hurt me as a child. I didn’t recognise it yet, but anxiety and depression were quickly taking hold of my life. Fear still very much controlled who I was. During this new beginning, I should have experienced only joy but was still carrying so much fear and shame within me. And no matter what, I still had a great dark, twisting void that nothing could fill.

  And so I became a mother again, and this time this baby was completely loved by both of us from the very beginning. All of my inadequacies with my first daughter seemed non existent with this one. Nurturing her came easily, and I had a new found level of patience for the endless cycle of crying, feeding, and diapers. It hit me hard, realizing the contrast between the two, I became filled with guilt, and saw how flawed my relationship with my first daughter had been. I felt like I had failed her in a big way, and had to make it right by her, she deserved to be loved in the same way and I would make sure she was. From that point on I made every effort to strengthen my bond with her, I spent more time doing things with her, and kept at it until I was sure we were bonded the way we should have always been. I was so determined to do everything right this time, my children would be safe, and they would know they were loved, every day. They would never know the pain I had suffered as a child, and I would never repeat my parents mistakes. But what I didn’t, and couldn’t understand was that even if I never repeated their mistakes, I was doomed to still make mistakes that could, and would cause emotional harm to my children. Because in my still broken state, I had no wisdom to raise children, and no healthy support system was available to me for guidance during that time.

  My grandmother died when our youngest daughter was six months old. She had been moved to a nursing home the year before after suffering a stroke, then declined steadily until her death at the age of eighty-nine. This was and still is my only experience with the death of a family member. I went to her viewing and funeral, and while I felt sad, I didn’t feel a great loss the way others had. I wish I had been closer to her, because she was the only grandparent I would ever have in my life. But as disconnected as I felt from my parents, I felt it even more with her. Even so I believe the harsh reality of her being gone forever probably did affect me more than I realized at the time.

  Shortly after, I turned twenty-one and decided to start going to bars with my friends. Because you know, that void I mentioned earlier was still alive and well. I knew it was a bad idea from the very beginning, but I just had to go, I ignored my inner voice of reasoning. I kept going, soaking in the attention I received from strange men, drinking way too much, and driving home drunk after the bars were closed down. From one week to the next, I had to have that fix, my weekly night out with the girls. I wasn’t hurting anyone so what was the big deal? My husband clearly was wrong, and overreacting, he was trying to control me like the last one, and I would never be controlled again by anyone! I kept going, proving to him he couldn’t control me, and only thinking of myself until the last time I went to a bar.

  That night there was a guy who was obviously hitting on me, I allowed his attention and spent most of that evening dancing with him. I wasn’t even slightly attracted to him, but it didn’t matter because the attention felt good. When the bar closed he asked me to go back to his house with him, and I said yes. My friends tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn’t hear them. We left and stopped at a nearby gas station, he got out and went in to buy cigarettes. At the same time my friends pulled in beside us. In that moment I had clarity as to what I was about to do and quickly got out of his car and back in mine with my friends. I felt so relieved, that was so close! I immediately was reminded of a quote someone often had said to me, God always gives you a way out. I felt like surely He did that night, or I like to believe He did anyways.

  That was the last time I went to a bar, I carried the truth about that night for twenty-three years and never told my husband. Because, you know, nothing really happened, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. But I knew I should have told him, even if he left me. Again my fear of being rejected won over against doing the right thing. It was shortly after this when I gave my heart to Christ. I had been working
part time at a hotel cleaning rooms for a while. I worked with a very sweet , energetic older lady who constantly talked about her faith and how great her Jesus was and all He had done for her in her life. . She was always belting out christian songs too loudly with her headphones on, with no talent for singing. (OH MY GOSH! I’m becoming her! ) She treated me as a daughter and even came to my children’s birthday parties. She invited me to go to church with her one night. After it was over we sat in the car and prayed together, and I accepted Jesus as my savior. I left that job shortly after, and lost touch with her, I believe very much her purpose was to be the messenger of truth I needed at that time. I felt scared and excited both at the same time, I knew something had changed within me, it was time to get serious and be a good person. No more bars for me, and no more drinking, it was time to focus on my family, and put them first. I started going to church regularly, just me and the girls and a friend of mine who was single. My husband wasn’t interested in church or religion, so I went without him.

  All was going well, except for the added stress and tension brought into my new little family created by my daughters’ birth father. I wasn’t free from him yet, and wouldn’t be for many years to come. And worse yet, my daughter HAD to visit him. He had taken us to court for visits and was granted them, unsupervised. She went with him every other weekend, and I was powerless to do anything to stop it. She was so small, not even two years old when she started visiting him. At first she didn’t seem upset by his visits, but that all changed as she got older. By the time she reached the age of five, she was fighting visiting him. There were times she would hide, and I had no choice but to make her go with him, or be held in contempt of court. The visits only got harder for her, and more painful for me as her mother. She would come home eager to fill me in on all the awful details that occured during each visit. Most of what she had told me I myself experienced as well during the two years I was married to him. None of it seemed to make a difference in the eyes of the court. My hatred of him only grew, I would never forgive him for what he had done to me, and now he was hurting my daughter in many of the same ways, and I couldn't do a darn thing about it. Not for a lack of trying, he had a way of manipulating the system, and it always went his way. We had children and youth involved at one point too, we were told he just had a “different parenting style” and that we should just get used to it because until she was a teenager, there was nothing we could do. I felt completely helpless to protect her from him. The only thing I could do was to listen to her, and be the support she needed whenever she needed it.

  She visited him until she was eleven years old, until during the last visit he finally hit her. Of all the things he had put her through, this was the one thing he hadn’t done and we knew there was no tolerating this. Our lawyer filed a stay on his visitation rights and we got it, and an immediate court date. That day, for the first time, I sat face to face with him and testified about the abuse he had put me through years earlier. The judge finally listened, and his visitation was taken away. I believe it was that day that I finally understood the true definition of “happy tears”. Finally, we were free from him, she was free from him and would never be forced to see him again. As for me, even though I had testified against him that day, it wasn’t the confrontation I needed for me to heal. After that I certainly had no plans of ever forgiving him. I was still very fearful of him, and I hated him now more than ever.

  Yet still, the desire to overcome what I had been through was so strong within me, it drove me toward self improvement and being the best mother and wife I could be, with the tools I had been given. During these years in our marriage I tried hard to “look healthy” as a family. I grew obsessed with having a clean home, and made sure my girls had nice, clean clothes they could feel pretty wearing. I was so obsessed with cleanliness, that I couldn’t relax, and let my small children be children. They had to be clean, no puddles and dirt for them. I cleaned, and decorated, and crafted, and cooked, and earned the nickname “Martha Stewart” from my friends. It felt good being in control of these things, I thrived on order and perfection. I would finally be enough, I would be perfect, and everyone would see I was nothing like my parents, I was nothing like my mom who I looked so much like…. all the while still trying desperately to fill the void within me. I also grew obsessed with my own body image, and being attractive enough for my husband. Eventually I gave up trying as I only gained more and more weight. I told myself that if my husband didn’t care how much weight I gained why should I? But I just grew to hate my body even more.

  I was still struggling in some very big ways. I had major anxiety, especially around people. Meeting new people was completely overwhelming, even paralyzing for me. I found it very hard to even look people in the eyes when they spoke to me. It was so hard, it would take me about ten years of conscious effort to overcome this part of myself. I felt trapped and judged, like I wanted to hide, because I was used to hiding as a child as a mode of survival. My immediate reaction was to escape the situation, fight or flight, I chose flight every time. I perceived rejection from everyone, even before giving them a chance. When it came to confrontations, I just could not do it, even over small things, because I would absolutely be rejected yet again. All of this, these fear driven parts of me, I frequently excused by saying “I'm just an introvert, this is who I am” as if it just needed to be accepted, and could never change. I sabotaged any new relationships long before they were able to even begin. When I did try to connect with someone, I tried too hard, shared too much of myself, and was too needy. I had so much pain, so much to tell, and needed someone to hear my story. But what I found was very few people could handle me, I either pulled away completely or pushed people away by being too needy. It felt like the more I tried with people, the more I failed. My fear of rejection, and need for approval both kept me from building healthy relationships with other adults. So, what did I do? I decided I didn’t really need friends after all, I had one or two close friends, that was enough. I would stay focused on my family, and handle my life on my own, just as I always had done. People only added more drama, which I certainly didn’t need anyways. I was better off without any of that. I would continue to pour out my love on my family, and be the best person I could. Except, what I didn’t and couldn’t see, was that I was pouring from a broken vessel. I could only love them as much as I was able to love myself, and I was nowhere near loving or accepting anything about myself. This is the point at which I should have sought a great counselor, but did I do that? Of course not, I had my own back as always, I would handle this and everything else on my own. Asking for help meant showing weakness, and I was certainly not weak, I was anything but weak after all I had gone through… right? Little did I know, about twenty years later, I’d be on an amazing journey to victory with the help of a guy named Joseph.

  Chapter 6

  Striving For Greatness

  I became more and more driven to be a great mom, the mom I never had, that was my goal anyways. I tried to create good memories for them. We went on lots of day trips to zoos, museums, state parks, anything we could squeeze in during my husband’s days off that we could affordably do. I wanted them to have memories of events we did together as a family, that were really for them and not about my own hobbies and interests. We had family night, on Friday nights which at some point turned into a cultural celebration night. We’d choose a country, then make a meal, watch a movie, decorate for that particular country or culture. The girls seemed to enjoy doing this, and thinking of a different country as well as helping make the meals. We started our own family traditions, some stuck and some did not. Going out to eat was a common activity, we had favorite family restaurants where each of our children’s menu selections were known first hand by the wait staff.

  I wanted to be an exceptional parent, in all the ways I could think of based on what I never had. But at the same time I became overprotective, my kids were never going to be physically or sexually abused like I was, and I
felt like I couldn’t trust anyone if I couldn’t trust my own parents. I still had a relationship with them at this point, but they were not left alone with our children any more. They came to our home to visit and play cards, and for birthday parties and holidays. I naively thought, and hoped I could keep a relationship with them. As dysfunctional and messed up as I knew they were, they were still my parents and I loved them. And more importantly to me, our children loved them, and they were the only family our girls had. They had mellowed out quite a bit since raising me and were actually fun to be around. I could almost allow myself to believe they were not the same parents I once knew. At this point I still remained unaware that my dad had ever sexually abused anyone, so in my mind their other issues could be tolerated. Except for one small problem, any time they came around, I felt like a victim all over again. I felt like that little girl with no voice they neglected and abused so badly. I could never bring up anything that had happened without them shutting me down, and growing defensive. I was once again walking on nails, fearful of their anger and rejection.

  One time while they were over playing cards I had jokingly brought up to my dad about the time they took me to the grocery store. I had picked a lollipop up off the floor and put in in my mouth. He instantly backhanded me and gave me a bloody lip in the store, people saw it happen. He was so offended that I would even suggest he would ever have done such a thing. “I never hit you!” was his response. And in the big picture, I felt this was pretty minor on the list of offenses he had committed against me.