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Domestic Violence, Hope, Uncategorized

Why I Didn’t Leave

Why I didn’t leave. That is the question that haunts me, and increases the anxiety that was left behind. Why didn’t I just go? I didn’t even love him, so why would I stay? I wrestle with these thoughts, some days more than others. And, recently, I learned that it wasn’t my fault.  

I did try to leave on a couple of occasions, and each time ended with some of the worst physical violence that I had ever experienced. And my children witnessed it. As babies, and with eyes of innocence. They saw and heard as their mommy was beaten. They heard their daddy threaten to kill mommy, while he told me they didn’t love me. At two and four years old they had to defend me. They had to save me. lrg_dsc00994

When I replay those times in my mind, I wish I had the strength to call his bluff. I wish that I would have taken my babies, and saved them, instead of them saving me. I wish that I could have made their memories happy, and not be haunted with the thoughts that not even adults should have to carry.

Knowing what they went through and what they saw make it hard not to blame myself.  Those thoughts made me feel like a bad mother. They made it hard to see that I was not part of the problem. We were all surviving, and I truly believed that if I left, I would have been killed.

Before my first child was even born, he told me he would take my baby from me, and never allow me to see him. I believed him. He told me his family had money, and they would take me to court to prove I was unfit. I believed him. I did not have family to turn to. I did not have money to hire a lawyer. I believed him. I believed him when he said he was going to kill me. I believed him when he said no one would miss me. I believed him when he said I was worthless. I believed he would kill me, and my children would be left in his care.

It was all part of the power and control that abusers use. I didn’t know it was all a part of his plan, to make me so weak that I couldn’t fight back. I didn’t know that with every hateful, hurtful word, he was crushing my spirit. I didn’t know how much power the fear held over me. It was just life. It was all I knew, in turn, becoming all my children knew.

I apologized to my children for not leaving sooner. They told me it wasn’t my fault. Each one of them, at different times. I didn’t want them to save me any longer. I didn’t want them to take the guilt away.  They told me, each in their own way, that it wasn’t my fault. That they didn’t blame me for what happened, or for staying longer than we should have. They blame him.

“Mom, he was the one that hurt us.”

“Mommy, he was the one that was so mean.”

“He hurt you. And us. He was bigger, and stronger.”

“Mom, you got us out. You are the reason we are safe now.”

“You are my protector.”

“Thank you for never leaving us.”

“Thank you for loving us.”

Their words bring me comfort. Hearing how they are able to process the past, and learn from the fear, and pain lets me see I am doing something right. I am a good mom. They love me, and trust me. And, I am their protector. I will have their backs no matter what. Day by day, we each heal a little more. The broken parts become smoothed over, and we are stronger for it.

lrg_dsc00983 The next time you say, “Why won’t she just leave?” Please remember you don’t know the whole story. You do not know all of the details. If she leaves, he might kill her. If she leaves, he may hurt her children, or pets, or family. If she leaves, she may not have anywhere to go. If she leaves him, she may not have any money for the things she or the children need. If she leaves him, she still may not be safe. You cannot judge a person when you have not been in their situation.

Please remember, she is doing her best. She is trying harder than most, just to survive. Every. Single. Day.

Be patient.

Be kind.

She is stronger than she knows.

 

 

Love, Tom Petty, Uncategorized

Dear Tom Petty

29790939_2116556518361810_3824043330497413120_nDear Tom Petty,

A year ago today, you took your last breath. My mind hasn’t been able to process the pain yet. I can’t bring myself to believe it. Thankfully, your music is here for us all, to help lessen the pain.

I don’t know why you were taken so young, when you still had so much to give…to your family, and your fans. The magic of your words saved so many people, and they will continue to save so many more. The right words at the right time, there is nothing one of your songs cannot cure.

Thank you for the hope your words bring me. Thank you for the love you shared. Thank you for always being a friend, especially during the times when I felt like there was no one else. Thank you for keeping me alive…for the song, and for the actual act of giving me a reason to continue on through some of the toughest days. Thank you for helping me believe that something good is coming. Thank you for giving me the strength to not back down. Thank you for everything.

With So Much Love,

Jessica

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Tom Petty has been my religion…for lack of a better word. When I felt like I was let down by God I found Tom. His music brings me peace, to spiritual places. When I hurt I listen to his music, when I am sad, or angry or happy I turn to his words.  I leave my gratitude for the man who saved my life so many times. With Tom I was never alone.

❤️I am grateful I found his music when I was 14.
❤️I am grateful his music was there when I felt like no one else was.
❤️I am grateful I was able to see him live in 2012, and for the healing that show alone gave me.
❤️I am grateful I was able to see him live in 2013 and in 2014 at Fenway park.
❤️I am grateful that I was able to see Mudcrutch in 2016.
❤️I am grateful I got to see him 5 times his final tour, twice in the front row.
❤️I am grateful for the moments of eye contact and the smile and the pick from the first Philly show.
❤️I am grateful for all of the friends I have made through TPN. Music brings people together.
❤️I am grateful Tom found true love after so much heartache and I am grateful I was able to see the love shared between him and Dana.
❤️I am grateful he has so many people who love him.
❤️I am grateful we have his music to lean on.❤️

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Child abuse, Depression, Domestic Violence, Uncategorized

Domestic Violence Awareness Month

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Although, I am aware every single day. I am on edge from the PTSD at times I least expect it. A loud noise, people yelling, an angry expression can be the trigger. A feeling comes over me, and I fear for my safety. I scan parking lots as I walk to my car, waiting for death that was promised.

It is not something that just goes away. Good days can be stolen in an instant when a memory pops up. Anxiety creeps in, and there is nothing that can quiet the mind. My heart races, as I wonder why I wasn’t one of the statistics…but I know there is still time. When an unpredictable abuser, who was never held accountable for his actions roams the streets, his death wish for me could be a when, and not if.

Thoughts like this, make Domestic Violence part of what shaped me into who I am. Fear from childhood, wondering when my dad was going to kill my mom, and I continued to be fed by threats from my ex husband. I have expected my murder since I was four years old. Before I even knew what death was. It is a miracle that I am still alive, and I am determined to be the change. The change for my children. The change for others who want to be free. The change for me.

Alone, the world is a scary place. Together, we can get through anything.

You are not alone.

From The Monster That Ate My Mommy:

Chapter 29

A couple of years into the job, I found out I was pregnant with baby number three. Chuck and I continued to fight, but that was the norm now. We couldn’t have a conversation without calling each other names or yelling. Ian was four and Emerson was two. Chuck only occasionally put his hands on me now. Most of the abuse was emotional.

Until I was nine months pregnant. Chuck spent the day belittling me. “You’re a fat whore. No one has ever loved you. Your own mother hates you. You’re just a piece of shit.”

After hours of listening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had the cordless phone in my hand from my daily call to Gram, and without thinking, I threw it at Chuck’s bare back. I wanted him to stop talking. I was nine months pregnant, my husband was verbally abusing me, and my hormones were raging. I wanted him to leave me alone.

He spun around and yelled, “You’re gonna pay for that, you stupid, fat whore!”

Ian and Emerson were in the living room, and they stopped playing as he ran to me. I ran past him into the living room to get the kids to a safe spot, but as I got into the living room, Chuck pushed me into the changing table. When I didn’t fall, he pushed me again, harder. I stumbled and landed on the floor in the kids’ playroom as Ian yelled, “Daddy, no! Stop, Daddy!”

On the floor, I held my stomach. Chuck came over and kicked me over and over again in the back. He kicked me harder each time his foot made contact. Ian ran over to try to make him stop. I fought back the tears because I didn’t want Ian to be afraid. Emerson stood in the corner of the living room, crying as she watched her father continue to yell at me. I needed help. I managed to get to my feet and walked to the phone. When Chuck saw what I was doing, he ripped the phone out of the wall and threw it. “What the fuck do you think you are doing? You’re not calling anyone.” He pushed me into the doorway to the upstairs, pushing me so hard my body broke the door. The kids both watched and cried. We were all at his mercy.

Chuck pulled me up out from the broken door and dragged me into the kitchen by my hair. He tried to smash my head onto the hot wood stove. I couldn’t let my face hit the stove. I somehow managed to brace myself in the door frame of the bathroom that was in front of the wood stove. He took my head, bounced it off the door jam, and yelled, “I am going to kill you!”

The kids followed us into the kitchen. Their screams filled the house. Ian yelled, “Let her go! Let Mommy go!”

Chuck didn’t let me go. He grabbed me by the neck and pushed me into the wall as he yelled, “You are dead! I am going to kill you and hide your body.”

“Daddy! Please don’t kill Mommy. Please, Daddy, please.” Ian’s pleas didn’t stop him.

Chuck continued to yell, “You are dead, you fucking whore. You are dead! The kids won’t care if you’re dead. They don’t even love you.”

“Daddy, no! Daddy, we love Mommy. Daddy, no.” Ian pleaded with him.

Chuck finally let go of me, and the kids ran over to me. Emerson hugged my legs, and Ian stood guard. Chuck was angry they were so upset. “Stop your fuckin’ crying. God damn it…make the little fuckers stop.”

I held them close to keep Chuck away from them. Chuck paced the kitchen as they continued to cry. “Get the fuck over it!”

My whole body hurt. The baby stopped moving. I was scared he had killed the baby inside of me. I sat in the living room with Ian and Emerson in my lap, and I cried with them. Chuck sat on the couch to watch us. “I need to go to the hospital…the baby isn’t moving.”

“You’re not going anywhere. You just want to get me in trouble.”

“No…I’m scared the baby’s hurt.”

“You’re fine, the baby’s fine.”

 My body was covered in bruises. It hurt to sit down. After a while, the baby did move, and Chuck reminded me he was right, there was nothing wrong. He told me again if I told anyone what happened he’d kill me and take the kids. He said he would cut the baby out of me and take it too. I couldn’t leave them. I couldn’t let him kill me and leave them with him.

At my doctor’s appointment, a nurse asked about the bruises. I said I had fallen down the stairs. I hoped they wouldn’t believe me, but they didn’t ask again. She told me it was selfish of me not to come in right after the fall. I felt like I’d failed this baby too, just like I failed at everything.

After that day, my dislike for Chuck grew to hate. I hated him for all he had done to me. I hated him for all he did to my kids. I hated him for all he pretended to be. I hated him for all the hope he stole from me. I hated him for everything. We’d been together for six years, and I still hadn’t told him I loved him. Now there was no way he’d ever hear me speak those words.

#WhyIDidntReport, Rape, Sexual abuse, sexual assault, Uncategorized

There Were Seven

lrg_dsc01009-1There were seven. Seven people who sexually assaulted me throughout my life. Not all were men. None were strangers. Not one of them was ever held accountable. Some have never been reported, not even to my closest friends –and probably never will be. Some happened decades ago. The first happened before I was a year old.

Just because they were not reported, does not mean they did not happen. It does not mean they did not alter my life. It does not mean that things were not stolen from me. It does not mean that I am a liar. Every survivor of sexual assault has a right to their story. Every survivor has a right to report when they are ready, or not at all.

Every survivor matters. 

You matter.

You are believed.

You are trusted.

You are strong.

You are not alone.

You are loved.

Depression, Grief and Loss, poetry, Uncategorized

I’m Sick

I’m sick of caring what everyone else thinks.

I’m sick of being ignored by the people who used to care about me.

I’m sick of perpetrators playing the victim.

I’m sick of the unsaid things that linger in my mind.

I’m sick of the days bleeding into each other.

I’m sick of how quickly negativity spreads.

I’m sick of being the adult in all situations.

I’m sick of people hurting others, and never having to pay.

I’m sick of the anger.

I’m sick of watching while others hurt.

I’m sick of the noise that takes over the quiet space.

I’m sick of not knowing what is to come.

I’m sick of not having anything to grab onto.

I’m sick of twenty-five years turning to silence.

I’m sick of depending on people who don’t really care.

I’m sick of humanity becoming anything, but human.

I’m sick of the hate.

I’m sick of waiting for things to change.

I’m sick of it.

healing, Hope, poetry, Uncategorized

Vulnerability

I’m naked, and bare.

There is nothing left of me to expose.

The secrets I held so dear,

are leaping off of pages,

from eyes to ears.

There is no more hiding.

My inside cringes when I realize what you know.

I can’t take change it now.

I can’t take it back.

Vulnerability takes hold,

And I learn not to push people away.

I pull them close,

And share all that hasn’t been exposed.

Be free.

Be true.

Be you.

Vulnerability is strength.

Vulnerability is pure.

Vulnerability is authentic.

Trust in the power of vulnerability.

Onsite, Uncategorized

Perfection

lrg_dsc00977Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence. — Vince Lombardi

I heard about this concept when I was at Onsite. I had spent my whole life chasing perfectionism…which undoubtedly leaded to many feelings of being unworthy. Perfection is almost always out of reach. It was what I chased after, and never got close enough to. What I didn’t know then was, it was all leading me to excellence.

Excellence.

Excellence leaves room to be human. It gives way to the idea that things happen. Life might not be what I had hoped for, but there is still good to be taken away. I might not have graduated with a 4.0 from the graduate program…but I did overcome a lot of awful things while completing my Master’s degree…and still managed to earn a 3.86.

It has always been easy for me to say…thank you…but…it should have done better. Yes, but…I could have tried harder. All that time I pushed away the compliments and hung on tight to the failures I saw. They were comfortable. They were what proved to me that I wasn’t good enough.

Learning to embrace excellence helps me let go of unrealistic goals I will never reach. It helps me enjoy the life that is before me. It takes the pressure off, and I can see things differently. It takes away the need to control things that are out of my control.

Excellence still takes hard work and determination. Excellence is worthy of praise. I will strive for excellence, and let go of perfectionism. And I will set attainable goals.

Leaving perfectionism behind, one stressful act at a time.