Last July, after spending a week in the hospital due to Postpartum Depression (PPD), I was also diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). My psychiatrist added this diagnosis due to intense feelings that I needed to protect my children and strong fear when they were away from me. I also became startled easily and had recurring bad dreams. After discussing part of my history, he definitely felt that I have PTSD and my intense birth experience with Abby, along with the PPD, triggered the return of PTSD symptoms. I've been thinking a lot about different traumatic experiences from my childhood, especially after recently losing my mother and grandmother.
While looking for pictures for my grandmother's memorial DVD, I came across this picture...
I debated whether or not to share that picture. Eventually I decided it is important for people to see it. Some people may not agree with my decision, but this is my story to tell.
My mother was abused by my stepfather and I witnessed a lot of the abuse. When I was in 5th grade they took me away from my grandparents and we lived in Missouri for a year. My grandparents had no idea where I was until they hired a private investigator to find us. (I will share more about that story another time.) At first, things were fun (I thought my grandparents knew where we were.) After a few months all Hell broke loose. My stepfather, Daryle, could be a nice guy, but when he was angry he was pure EVIL. I saw him beat her with a bicycle chain, throw a chair across the room and knock her out cold, punch and kick her until she was unconscious...many times I thought she was dead, but somehow she survived. I just knew he would kill her one day....but he didn't. She died in September (2014) from Lung Cancer.
As a teacher, I look at my 5th graders and my heart breaks because I am sure that some of them are experiencing things that no child should have to endure. I was that 5th grader. I was usually shy and quiet, I always followed the rules. I also loved my mama. I had opportunities to leave that situation, but I wanted to be with her, to try to protect her. I was afraid of how bad he would beat her if I weren't there to try to stop him. He only hit me one time. He was beating my mom and I started pounding on his back to make him stop. He turned around and backhanded me, knocking me to the floor. I was just so glad that he stopped beating her.
The purpose of this story is not to blame or shame my mother. I am writing this because people need to see her face...the face of an abused and broken woman. These faces shouldn't be hidden. Maybe by seeing her face conversations can start about ways to end domestic violence and support the victims and their families.
I am ending this post because I'm afraid I will start to ramble. Please know that I am very open about my past and will answer any questions that you have...feel free to leave a comment or send me a private message.
