At Daddy’s Hands

by Jacob Paul Patchen

  She then demanded I come over tomorrow, or else. Terrified of what she might do to my sister I obeyed.

  I did as she asked. That was the first time she fingered me, to my confusion, disgust, and shock— I orgasmed for the first time and immediately after I felt like I would be sent to Hell for it.

  All I knew was that what she was doing was totally wrong— and I couldn’t make my body stop liking it. It was mortifying, and I spent several hours strung out that day wondering what kind of monster I was for responding to what she did to me. I shouldn’t have felt like that— it shouldn’t have felt GOOD! I was traumatized by the craving to feel it again, hating myself, loathing her, and hating my body for what it was doing to me.

  My mother finally had enough of Melissa’s bad behavior and forbade is to be friends with her any longer, much to my relief. Her torture of me lasted for some months, but due to my youth and inexperience, I’m not sure of the timeline.

  After Melissa and her family moved away, I had time to finally comprehend what had happened to me, and somehow even that young I knew it wasn’t my fault at all. I carried the shame of it for a long time, the feeling of being tainted or broken like I wasn’t ever going to be whole... but it didn’t stick around.

  I was blessed with a loving family who believed in Jesus, and through prayers and faith that God had so much good in store for me, I was able to hold my head up and build a life I loved that I was proud of. I didn’t tell my parents what had happened to me until I was twenty-one, by that point I was grown and living on my own with a great job and a steady boyfriend.

  When they asked me why I didn’t say anything and why didn’t I trust them to protect me my answer was simple— it would have ruined all our lives. They never would have looked at me the same, I would have been made to see counselors and therapists, and at the end of the day, this series of unfortunate events would have overtaken my life and all of theirs. I didn’t want that. I knew somehow by the grace of God I was smart enough and strong enough to overcome it alone. And I did.

  With God all things are possible, and I give HIM the glory for turning my private pain into a triumph.

  When I did confess to my mother what Melissa did, she cried of course, but she told me something startling...

  She had overheard once in our backyard the sounds of Melissa struggling in her house while the windows were open. She heard Melissa’s stepfather forcing himself on her. Mom called out to ask if she was alright and everything went silent.

  It’s my family’s opinion Melissa was being raped by her stepfather, with her mother’s permission. Because of this she then did the same to me as a power play— so she could feel as though she had control over something in her life. I’ve been able to forgive Melissa through this discovery and much prayer. I hope she’s well and happy wherever she is. She was a child too, and as the saying goes ‘hurt people, hurt people.’

  I just pray her hurting stopped as mine did.

  My abuse story is just a snapshot of a small time period, but it’s not my life story. It’s not even remotely one of the top ten most interesting things about me. It was something that happened that I was able to overcome with much prayer and faith in God and I have become stronger by having experienced it.

  - Leslie Alexander, 30’s, Delaware, Oh

  Abuse by definition is the mistreatment of people or animals in a mental, physical, sexual or emotional manner. For those of us though, who have experienced it firsthand, it means a great deal more.

  I have personally experienced abuse as, unfortunately, I’m sure many of us have. Abuse is lying to family, friends, and coworkers about obvious injuries. Abuse is crying silently inside because it doesn’t do any good to let the tears fall. Abuse is being convinced you’re not enough, that you are a burden rather than a blessing. Abuse is failing in school or at work and people thinking your lazy when in reality, you’re too busy trying to think of how to survive until the next day. Why didn’t I get help? Why didn’t I tell someone? Because as a child, I thought this was normal…. I thought this was normal. I thought I deserved it, that it was my fault.

  Please know THIS IS NOT NORMAL, THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT! Abuse happens when one person feels better about themselves when they have control of another.

  My father was an abusive acholic, my mother was a workaholic who was never around. Years later, when the truth finally came out, no one could believe that this blue-collar American family was ever broken. My parents both had excellent jobs, we had a beautiful home in a nice neighborhood, and we always seemed happy. Until that spring day when the truth finally came crashing out…

  It took many years of therapy to understand my abuse, to come to terms with the many horrible things that had happened to me and that I had no control. I’m now in my thirties, and while my father has not been in my life for a decade, the scars are still there, and it has affected me in many ways. I’m a very compassionate person, I feel because of the pain I have been through, I have a deeper empathy for any living creature. I’m also a victim of anxiety and depression, I have problems trusting and letting my walls down. I’m also single because of a perpetual fear of being owned by another human being.

  Don’t be afraid to get help, no one deserves to be abused in any way. You have no control over another human being’s feelings, actions or intentions but you do have control of yourself. Save yourself, you are more valuable than you will ever know.

  - K, Female, 20’s Morgantown WV

  I’ve come to believe love isn’t a feeling or a cluster of emotion. Love is all about the action you partake in. Allowing yourself to fall in love with another person involves courage. Although that person doesn’t know a love like yours, courage is choosing to fall in love anyway even if that means getting hurt and walking away less fortunate than you were when this whole love thing started out. To have courage is to be brave. When I think of the word courage, I think of jumping out of an airplane with a parachute but on an unexpected ride. You get on excited to reach your destination. Let your mind roam. A change in plans occur. Now your mind is racing, and all you can do is tell yourself you’re gonna die from jumping or die staying aboard. You’re thinking of all the terrible things that could happen when you feel a sudden nudge on your shoulder from the man behind you saying, “Hey kid, it’s time” and you have no time to think until you’re flying through the air never knowing what’ll happen or where you’ll land until it’s over. When it is, all you can think is “damn.”

  Courage and faith walk hand in hand, especially within the story I’m about to share. At first, this was love. He was my first everything. It was a kiss you at stop lights, in the middle of the aisle, all the way through the movie kind of love. A show you off to my friends, hold every door including the car door open for you, sing you every word to every song I know with his hand on my knee the whole ride kind of love. We were together for about three years. Around our second anniversary, he began drinking. At first, he was just a cocky drunk. He couldn’t be told anything, you couldn’t talk to him, and he was uncompliant. But as the seasons changed and time went by, he would leave our little apartment, and I couldn’t get a hold of him or find him anywhere as he had just started working for a seal coating and asphalt company where his coworkers and best friends were snorting cocaine and doing meth on the job site. I won’t ever forget the look on his face with tear filled eyes the day he busted through my door all upset about the drugs his friends had fallen in love with. I begged him to quit but not even two weeks passed, and the man I loved was a man I’d never met.

  The whites of his eyes were now a grayish yellow. His breath smelled like his mouth hadn’t been open in weeks; stale. He refused to come to bed with me as he’d fall asleep on the couch drunk and wake up every morning in a puddle of urine. He hated me for just being alive. I began to pray.
“God, if there is one thing in the world I need right now, it is you. Show me how to love this man enough to keep him alive and back to the Jake I fell in love with”. Eventually, I got him to come to a Sunday morning service with me. That took courage and faith. I was so afraid he wouldn’t bow his head for prayer, stand up for worship, and I figured he’d drop a cuss word at least once.

  It actually went well, but he never returned. It was about that time things got physical. The first time it was for no reason. He was drunk and happy. We play fought and all the sudden he froze; no sign of life. He snapped out of it and hit me as hard as he could in my ribs more than once and rose his knife to my throat. “There is no way out.” I don’t remember being angry, telling my friends, or even leaving. I just remember feeling like an embarrassed, weak little girl.

  The second time it was over our muddy dog and me not allowing her to ride with me to the dollar store. I was kicked in the back, thrown to the ground and locked out of my own house I, too, worked so hard for. Enough is enough. I blocked him on everything and left. He made over 20 different false numbers calling and texting me. One saying “I hope your family enjoys hide n seek. Your body will be placed in the trunk of every tree I pass.” My friend read the message as I drove and I saw the horror in her eyes and the color drain her face. I begged for help, and the officer said he was a basic secretary with a badge and was unable to fix this. I lost it. What did I have to do? Die?

  I continued to kill myself over a man who loved the high and drugs more than he could ever love me. I saw him at the bar with another girl after I had moved all my things back into our little home. I took a deep breath, and I ran inside screaming to the world of all the things he was doing to me. He spit in my face. My first reaction was to smack him. The bartender proceeded to call the police on me for assault. I realized when the cops swarmed the bar. I ran. I drove as fast as my little Buick could take me in hopes I could beat him home to pack my things with the help of a close friend. He beat me. “You’ve gotta go.” The calmest voice I’d ever heard. I turned to face a stranger that I soon realized was the man I loved. I didn’t recognize him. I sat unsettled. “We have to go.” I lifted one foot to run toward the door but was picked up, slammed down, kicked in the chest and winded more than three times. I was blocked in. Courage. I decided to rise to my feet and win this fight or to die trying. I fought as hard as I could in hopes to knock him down so I could run. It never worked. I was tripped, and my head was stomped in with steel-toed boots on our pretty little porch. I don’t know how I’m alive. All I know is God reached down and whispered “survive,” and I did. I lived.

  Courage was running for the car as he ran to the knives. Courage was going home to my mom’s knowing he could find me quickly and easily there. Courage is writing this knowing he now lives right beside me and speaks of the death of me, still, ten months later. Courage is making yourself unmovable. Being rebuilt on a solid foundation after just barely piecing yourself back together. It is taking the extra step without seeing where the rest of the path leads but trusting your movements. Be unmoved. Be brave. Have faith and love yourself. Courage is something, often times, we don’t see unless we are staring at it dead on in the rearview.

  - Lindsey Adkins,

  Newark, Ohio 20’s

  For two years, the physical and emotional abuse took a toll on me.

  The very first incident was when he had totaled my car. He was fine, but the paramedics said I was lucky to walk away. I had a large piece of glass stuck in my neck and as we waited for the squad he grabbed the shirt a passerby had taken off their back to stop the bleeding and grasped the glass part tighter into my throat, demanding I take credit for the accident because at this point I was taking a huge risk on my life, while I suffered through the pain.

  I was never okay with leaving due to being threatened constantly with my life.

  From bruises to taking my breath away by strangulation, I never gave up hope. Even sheltered from my family. Many times, I wondered if it would have been easier to end it all, but I knew I had to gather the strength to face any consequences of going for help because my life had to have more meaning than that.

  The thought was always there to go for help, every day of my life. Though the consequences always outweighed that until the final day.

  I have had my hand broken, thrown into walls, given black eyes, burned with cigarettes and just been emotionally torn down for no reason other than drugs and anger issues. He needed his fix, and I was his enabler because I chose to not get beat on, so I continued giving him my paychecks. However, it never lasted. His friends would talk to me, and I’d simply reply with one-word answers but regretted it later. There was no stopping him.

  Until the final end to the heartache:

  He had kicked my windshield (shattering it) and grabbed me by my throat while I watched my face turn colors in the rearview mirror. Thank god, I realized my car was still in drive and managed to escape his grasp. There were handprints on my neck for quite some time, but the marks never overpowered the emotional side of things.

  It’s never easy being in these relationships. It takes time to heal. I suffer from PTSD, anxiety and panic disorders now, 8 years later.

  Don’t be afraid to run.

  There are so many advantages to speaking up. It helps relieve built up betrayal, sadness, and anger. Though it isn’t an overnight fix and the trauma haunts you forever, you’ll find your inner peace and one day find the courage to forgive them, for your own sake.

  Haven of Hope was a godsend for me. They were strong when I was weak.

  There are places to go, people to protect you & things to benefit you.

  Fast forward to the present…

  I’m 26 years old with 3 beautiful girls, and though I still suffer from the emotional effects of that situation, my life has meaning. I have a purpose. My kids gave me hope for the future.

  Find your purpose.

  Your meaning.

  Your new beginning.

  - Dawn, 30’s, Cambridge, Ohio

  The Guidance counselor tells me a “Good union job down on the river” might be the best choice for me. I have also decided that vocational school and the drive back and forth are not the way to go either as the electronics course didn’t cover anything except the installation of car stereos and basic multimeter use, so I approach the school to return to normal classes. They protest but agree to allow it to happen as long as they pick my course load and schedule. What I didn’t know is, if they planned to not give me my diploma at the end at all and buried me in classes. Summer rolls around, and I’m shipped off to wrestling camp in Ann Arbor, Michigan. They were good to me there. Not mean at all. We worked hard but, it was actually a nice place to be.

  12th grade. Alright, last run at this. Just as a side note, and to add insult to injury, in the midst of all this I’m figuring out that I’m attracted to guys and have a buddy I mess around with pretty regularly. So, that screws with my head even more. So, now I’m buried in classes. Spanish II, US History, World History, Geometry, Senior English, Government, Band, and Typing. Now throw in a job and wrestling. I’m barely staying afloat. My grades are shit. C’s and D’s mostly. I’m failing Spanish II and Geometry in the second grading period. I am now academically ineligible to be on the team. The coach has no choice but to kick me out. The result of this chain of events taught me the meaning of hatred. So, the news arrives at home. Dad is at school the next day in the principal’s office. They agree to drop Spanish II from my schedule. I can graduate without it. Everything else stays. I remain ineligible for the next grading period, but that doesn’t save me for the rest of the season. There are still two or three meets and the end of season tournaments after the next grading period.

  Then I’m dragged in front of the coach with dad,
and they agree to continue to allow me to practice with the team, although I cannot attend any meet in uniform. I just wanted to stay home and do my homework. NO. YOU WILL NOT BE A QUITTER. YOU WILL FINISH THIS. The next day, as per normal, the blood runs cold, practice begins. They used me for shark bait. (Shark bait means to have to wrestle everyone on the team for 1 minute, climbing 1 weight class each minute, until you drop from exhaustion or die). The assistant coach who was a former wrestler from a couple years before decided to get his two cents in at the end. Barely able to stand he beats me to the floor and grinds my face into the mat and asks me “why are you still here you faggot assed pussy retard” over and over.

  I went home that night and threw all my gear at dad and cussed him like a sailor through the tears. Mom gets a little red and says she wants this son-of-a-bitches job. Dad goes to school the next day and gets in screaming match with the coach and the principal. It is agreed that this assistant will not speak or address me in any way and won’t lay a hand on me. Practice continues. Grading period ends, and I’m now eligible due to the fact that I’m pounded for 2 hours a night with additional geometry homework that dad assigns himself. I have to wrestle off with the only other senior on the team for my place. I feel bad for the both of us. It was bloody and hateful. It was one of the few times I felt real motivation to win because the alternative was worse. In the end, I prevailed at 152 and Ben went to 160 even though we were the same size. I think I won 1 match and lost one before the Sectional tournaments.

  Sectionals. I had planned to end it all there but ended up getting 3rd by mistake. My hair had gotten pretty long by this point, and I discovered that hair pulling even by accident could get you a point and win a match so, it was a weapon for my survival. That’s what happened, and it turned the match and managed to place 3rd. So, shit. One more. One more week. Nobody’s harassing me, beating me, threatening me, or otherwise giving me a hard time. District tournament arrives. I go and read the bracket. I luck out and catch my opponent in the hallway about 15 minutes beforehand. We’ve sparred a couple of times in the past, we’re even. I tell him I’m tired and I want him to succeed. He wants this far more than I do. I only ask that he not intentionally injure me and the match is his. He agrees. The match proceeds as planned. He wins by 3 or 4 points, I can’t even remember. I whispered thank you to him as we left the mat. I gained 15 pounds in less than 48 hours. Mostly water from dehydration.