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I will now
dive just a bit deeper into my childhood story of abuse by beginning with my
first eye witnessed account of domestic violence that was soon to be an
everyday occurrence when I was only four years old. I was watching television
in the living room and heard my parents arguing in the adjacent kitchen. Suddenly,
there was this loud popping noise and I heard my mother scream out and when I
turned my head, to my horror, the entire kitchen floor was filled with blood. I
remember thinking that my father had just killed my mother because of the large
amount of blood. What I did not know then was that he had broken her nose, but
the puddle of blood is still an image etched in my mind.
My father
loved to inflict physical abuse on my Mother, my sister and I, whereas he never
touched my other sister and brother. Hardly ever yelled at them and I don’t
remember them ever getting into any kind of trouble. My father’s beatings were
so relentless that they often left each of us with the inability to move or
walk. We would have massive bruises, welts, cuts, and occasionally cracked or
broken bones. He had no shut off valve and his fits of rage were always
escalated by alcohol.
He almost
always used objects in his abuse. They were usually anything that was in close proximity
to the altercation. He would use his hands; fists; feet; boots; stick; belt;
broom; chunk of wood; truck or gun. I once read in an
online article somewhere that one single act of physical, emotional, or sexual
abuse on a child is enough to cause long-term trauma and do permanent
psychological damage. I experienced fourteen years of sustained long-term abuse. There is significant physical harm in
the use of objects because the abuser is unaware of the force of the blow he is
inflicting. The abuse can last for longer periods because the impact is not
hurting the attacker! I had many non-accidental injuries growing up, and I
often wonder why nobody ever noticed or spoke out about them, especially the
teachers at school. That is a whole other subject in and of itself. Nobody ever
intervened and most everyone knew, including my grandparents and extended
family.
Another object he used to inflict permanent emotional distress and absolute
panic was his shotgun. When my mother, Marie, or I darted for that door and
started running, sometimes the asshole was lazy and did not give chase. He
would just grab the shotgun, which was usually loaded by the front door, and
start shooting toward us. Of course your back was turned in the other
direction, so you only knew that you were the object of target practice when
you heard the shots being fired! There is no greater source of anxiety than
having a gun pointed at you—as I saw him do to my mother on several
occasions—or when you are running for your life with your back turned and
hearing buckshot’s whizzing past your ears and hitting those objects that
you’re passing by.
One of his favorite objects to use was his frigging truck. When the
gun was not loaded and he did not feel like chasing after us because we had a
substantial lead, he would just jump in his truck and try to run us down,
revving his engine and coming up to only a few feet away from us! I cannot
recall the countless times I would be downtown and he would try to catch me,
and I would start running up the hill toward the house and he would be revving
that damn engine again. He was only about three feet away from me, close enough
that I could see the headlights out of the corner of my eye. I knew I could not
slip or fall then. If I did he would not have the reaction time to slam on the
brakes, and I always feared he would run me over, so I was forced to run as
fast as I could out of fear and pure adrenaline, despite being utterly exhausted.
I would dart left and then right, up embankments and through bushes and brush,
and he would be right behind me, never taking me out of his sights. It was a
mile run, all uphill, and by the time I reached a place where I could safely
get out of his path and where the truck could not go, I would be
hyperventilating. I would fall to the ground and lie there on the verge of
passing out from sheer panic and exhaustion until I regained my breath! A lot
of these occurrences happened when he had been drinking or was drunk and in one
of the lunatic moods where he had no perception as to how close he was or how
fast he was pushing you to run. As I lay on the ground, I would be relieved
that I had survived another one of his games, but I would cry, out of panic and
fear, and feel so very alone, helpless to change my life.
These are the games I played with my father while growing up. “Do you wanna play?”
These are only a few “snap shots” into the physical, emotional and
psychological games my father liked to play. There are many more instances
listed in my book. There were countless sleepless nights. Nights spent in
hiding outside in the woods, the cornfield, behind a building or under a pile
of brush. Where I was alone, terrified and felt utter despair. In those times of
trauma and fear so incomprehensible while hiding my constant prayer would be,
“Please Lord, don’t let him find me, Please Lord don’t let him find me.” This
was my childhood national anthem. On those nights I would try to figure out why
my father hated me so much, praying to God, “What did I ever do to deserve all
of this?” “Where are you Lord?” “Does anybody care?” I would secretly wonder to
myself whether this cycle would ever end and whether I would survive my
childhood.
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Check back next week for more from CW!
CW Seymore lives quietly in Florida working with area youth and is available for guest speaking engagements via website and email. Please visit shardsofglasssecwseymore.com for inspirational quotes, blogs, helpful resources, and links in aiding the recovery of the abused.
This photo was graciously authorized for my inclusion in the book by D. Sharon Pruitt. This picture most accurately depicts the horror I often felt as a child. This journey has been tremendously difficult! Recalling the past and reliving the intense fear and pain associated with each memory was emotionally draining awakening my many "Triggers" and sending them into overdrive causing severe panic attacks, anger and intense anxiety. This book is healing for me ending the silence and one step closer to my Higher Calling the Lord has planned for my life. My greatest of all hope, is that these stories and vivid accounts will help other Survivors find hope, healing and comfort in knowing they are not alone! This book is for all those who have suffered in silence at the hands of a Guardian or Protector where Domestic Abuse; extreme Physical Abuse; Verbal Degradation; Mental Anguish, Rape and Sexual Molestation resided. CW Seymore has written Shards of Glass under a pen name to protect her family.
Please visit http://www.shardsofglasscwseymore.com to learn more or get your copy of her book.
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