The abuser received 36 years in prison, the longest sentence given to someone who abused (but did not kill) his wife in New York.
The judge viewed the visual evidence afforded by the tape, and finally saw what happens behind closed doors. Many other judges won’t see it. If you know a judge, send him/her a link to this video. They all need to know who they’re putting back into the home when they do not sentence the offender.
Kids OFTEN see the abuse happen. It just so happens that this abusive dumbass made his 13 year old son record the abuse session. He expects his son to take part in the verbal abuse, and the son complies. Not the kid’s fault. Just like it wasn’t my son’s fault that he was pulled into it the last night it happened at my house.
I am 14. I have opened my window, rotating it out just enough to see his headlights reflect in it when he turns down his driveway. I want him to return home, want him to come tapping on my window. I want to be his girlfriend.
He is the boy who raped me, on his couch, in only a few minutes, weeks before. But I didn’t want to call it rape. I wanted to call it love.
I wanted to have sex with him over and over and over again until I convinced myself that he was my first true love. For a few weeks that summer, I succeeded in doing that – at least most of the time.
Shame, dread, revulsion, … those feelings welled inside of me in between the taps on the window. The feelings’ poisonous nature sloshed around in my guts, eating and corroding my belly from the inside. Hyper-alert, unable to sleep, almost obsessive, I felt compelled to avenge my rape by pretending to control its circumstances; I couldn’t go back and control, re-do, what happened on the couch, but I could control whether it happened again, or again, or again. Continue reading
My memories are like an old thriller that keeps replaying the same scenes when I go back and try to rethink it. I often catch myself trying to justify my childhood. When I think back to the horrible events that have happened over the years, I can tell you I’m grateful for my life today. I love who I have become. Although I can’t change my past I can understand it. Writing this will be the first time I have come clean, another way of putting it behind me. I’ve wanted to let this out for some time now.
My name is Joe. As a young boy, I lived with my mom and dad and my sister. My sister was my closest friend. She was part of me as I was part of her. Dad abused my mom, sister, and me. My dad, who I thought was a normal average father and husband.
In 1975, I was five and my sister was three. We had money at this time of my life because my dad held a good job and important job. I remember being proud of what my dad did for work. I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I wanted to be just like him.
He had come from a hard childhood, in an out of foster homes and being abused by his parents. Alcohol played a big role in Dad’s life. He drank while he was a young man and he still does. He also liked guns. My sister and I grew up under the threat of guns an booze. Continue reading
So…last weekend there was a touching scene between my son and his father on my front porch. There was a hug and Will said ”You look good, son!” Will looked genuinely happy to see Marc, and vise-verse.
Fast forward to today when I, in my brilliance, decide to call Will. I tell him that Marc feels depressed and it is a good time to run over to my house and ask Marc if he’d like to go out and get some sunshine. The scene on the porch encouraged my suggestion.
(La dee da, Kellie hums to herself, I’m doing a good thing for my boy by communicating with my horrible – oops, I mean, Marc’s father, la dee da la dee da!) Hey – don’t knock it. It was a nice fantasy while it lasted. Continue reading
Well, I’ve finally learned my lesson. Amy must leave my home; she is a detriment to my son’s recovery.
Amy’s sweet demeanor helps me to love her. Her abusive past, her uncaring (unfit) parents, her drug addiction and codependent behavior make me want to help her grow strong and healthy.
I want to fix her. I want my codependent nature to work for someone for a change. It is time for me to realize that anytime I try to fix someone or their situation, I only hurt myself and all the other people I love.
I do not think my relationship to Amy was codependent-related in the beginning. I saw a young woman, desperate for a chance to prove herself, begging for an opportunity to flourish. I knew that she could do that in my home, and despite the odds, I gave her that chance. Continue reading
A post I left out of the mix due to the divorce proceedings. This post dates about 6 months into our separation.
June 6, 2010
So the past few weeks with Will have gone pretty smoothly. We’ve had some pretty cool conversations considering what we’re going through and how we’re at odds over SO many aspects of custody and finances. Actually, I don’t know how at odds we are about the finances; we haven’t moved out of the custody phase yet. He refuses to negotiate finances until I agree to his custody demands.
I’m on pins and needles waiting to hear back from a treatment center for my son, Marc. I found an inpatient program that allows him to continue his education without withdrawing… He’s 3 credits short of graduation, and the programs I’ve found in this state expect him to withdraw from school to attend.
As for Amy, his girlfriend, I’m having more difficulty. The school officials are working hard to find a placement for her. I cannot do it because I’m not a legal guardian.
(Oh – did I tell you that after her suicide attempt, her parents dropped her off on my doorstep?)
These two kids need help that I am unable to give. Keep us in your prayers as we (me, my friends/family, and the school) look for a door that won’t slam shut in the kids’ faces.
I guess these two aren’t “bad off” enough to qualify for quality care. Marijuana, DXM and alcohol dependence isn’t enough to qualify them for rehab?! Come on, you’ve gotta be kidding me!
These kids have no IDEA what it is going to take to stay drug-free after the initial desire wears thin. They need help, and will need help in the future.
I KNOW that rehab will teach them life skills that their abusive families weren’t able to teach (my family included!).
“I don’t love you, I barely respect you, and I hope the last words you hear me say are Fuck You!”
I love my son. His words did not send me into a tailspin. I didn’t cry because of what he said, I cry because of the example I’ve allowed him to absorb.
It’s not my fault, but it is my problem.
Fortunately, he recognizes his temper and anger problems. He’s willing to get help.
Keep him in your thoughts as we regain our footing in this tumultuous post-abuse recovery.
A few months after I’d left Will, I had worked through the grief stage and moved into such a euphoric state that I thought it would never end. I thought to myself, “So this is what I’ve been missing all these years!” and with a smile and artsy flourish of my wrist, I chucked my last 11 anti-depressants into the trash.
Here it is, almost a year later, and I feel a familiar numbness settling into my joints, radiating outward. I bet you can see it, murky and olive green, if you look hard enough.
Well, in hindsight, I guess I had a good run.
Over the past year, several good things happened for me: Continue reading
Amanda – A college class started looking into how abuse impacts a life. I related to a lot of the results of abuse and started doing my own research into verbal abuse.
Recent Comments