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Domestic Violence Aftermath--Part I
Perhaps my last article concerning domestic violence was a tease in that I mentioned that I had been a victim. Yet, my article centered on the frustrations associated with attempting to work in an organizational framework toward the objective of reducing its incidence. This time, I am forced to get into more detail regarding my own experiences, as a child, to explain their impact on my life, those around me, and those who have endured similar circumstances. Having heard some of these particulars, as well as the misery associated with them, I am hoping that a drum beat for change will emerge, especially to the extent that it can be used to prevent similar occurrences. Never silence, or attempt to silence, the drums! (That’s what helps keep the abusers in business.) #While my abuse was primarily psychological, I can assure you, as does the conventional literature on the subject, that it had every bit as much impact on me, as if I were beaten or sexually assaulted. In fact, one thing I marvel at in conferring with other abuse victims is that no matter what form the abuse takes, whether it be beating, rape, incest, or, as in my case, psychological, the aftermath is very much the same, as per the descriptions and testimonies I’ve heard. Nevertheless, in this article, I will only speak of my own experience. The primary consequences for me have to do with the issue of trust. I have an extremely difficult time trusting anyone. This has been demonstrated to me and pointed out on numerous occasions and in many contexts over the course of several decades. It has sabotaged, perhaps destroyed, relationships and work experiences and opportunities that might otherwise have been successful and advantageous to my happiness and relative prosperity. Before delving into the disadvantages of having a much higher than normal level of mistrust for others, let me hasten to add that there are consolations and benefits. But they are lesser ones that I would give up, retroactively, in a second, assuming I could have done so, at a younger age, when most of the potential bounties of life still lay before me. My mother was the abuser. My father was an enabler. My mom was abjectly selfish. Usually, parents, or so I observe in myself and hear from others, put the interests of their children ahead of their own. She came first vis-à-vis anyone and everyone in her life. It wasn’t limited to me. One quick example of my own measure of experience with her would be, when not getting enough to eat as a teenager, I went out in the evening and bought food from money I had earned. When I returned, she expected me to share and badgered me until I did. Yes, she had the money to prevent this, perhaps by not loading her home with expensive antiques. Those antiques set there in our household for many years, each its own emblem of the proposition that those decorations were more important to her than her family—extending beyond me-- and its well being. The selfishness fueled the abuse. It was a part of it, but I don’t consider it to have been the abuse per se. Probably the most central component of her abuse was deceit. My mother always lived a fine line between reality and imagined reality. Then, she’d keep modifying her representations of facts, either to suit her purposes or her fears. For an adult, one might shrug his or her shoulders at some of her fantasies, professed to be realities, and go, “That’s funny!” But to a small child for whom one’s mother is one’s universe, it was emotionally crippling. The most poignant example I can remember was in my late childhood, early adolescence. I had saved twenty-four dollars through gifts, collecting pop bottles, doing odd jobs, etc. In those days, twenty-four dollars was a small fortune and it was all the money I had. So, when she asked whether or not she could borrow it, I was elated. I thought, she must be so proud of me! Much praise ensued for the balance of that day, until my mother made whatever purchase she had in mind for herself. Then, the comments faded. I waited, thinking, I wonder when she plans to repay me? After a few weeks, I asked. She replied, “What money? I never borrowed any money from you!” When I say, “I’d trust you about as much as I would my own mother,” that particular cliché takes on a whole new meaning. This non-trusting frame of reference has served me well in negotiations with other lawyers, or in business deals. But it has not served me well in situations which require teamwork and confidence in other people. My mindset is that sooner or later—inevitably--in some way or another, I will be betrayed. And before I do end up trusting anyone, lots of independent verification must support it over a long period of time—years. Some people, for example, at book signings have said, “Just get over it [and quit whining].” The problem with that is that it’s engrained. These are not conclusions I come to from a clean slate. They are expectations formed in my brain, probably in the primitive sections that are programmed before one ever leaves one’s household alone. And, they are insidious. Usually, I am not aware of this undermining of trust as it is forming and building momentum. Often, it’s only in retrospect that I find that more trust was called for by a given set of circumstances than I was able to give at the time. This has often served me well as a lawyer, where we’re not out to make friends. But, it has been a colossal handicap in relating to people in other ways. Often, in retrospect, I believe my mother had a motive in twisting reality to suit her desires. Other times I would say that her reality was born out of fear. The impact from either perspective was destructive and the fact that I couldn’t always tell the difference made it worse. Either way, the result was to rob me of my self-esteem, confidence and make me a very outspoken advocate for truth, as I understand it, irrespective of the social context. This has helped, but hurt me, as well. For example, I have little affinity for tact. There were times when she’d tell me it hadn’t been raining, when it had, or that Mrs. McBride hadn’t driven over in a new Chevy, when she did. Whatever it was she maintained, I couldn’t count on it either being true, or even staying the same for more than a day, or an hour, in some instances. She had a habit of changing her factual representations to suit changing circumstances. Before I married my first wife, she wrote and said she didn’t like her. Then, as time went on she would say, “I never said I didn’t like her.” My dad was of no use. He always defended and sided with my mother. When I went outside the household to near relatives, who had to have had some inkling of what was going on, their counsel 99 times out of 100, no 999 times out of 1,000, was “Dan, you just have to learn to be more patient with her.” And, I was ten-years old. They (my relatives) would occasionally hint about some of her bizarre realties and imply that she might a little te’ched, thus deserving even more empathy. But, if anyone were to stop to ponder and admit it, she was clever and diabolical, as well. This is a juncture where an intervention might have been a life saver. If I weren’t as tough as I’ve become, which also has its downsides, I believe I’d be crazy now. Taking me away from my parents at that point was probably unrealistic, given the lack of sophistication of state child protection agencies, even today. But that would have been a godsend of infinite proportions. Short of that, if someone had just said this to me, “Dan, there’s nothing wrong with you. Your mother is difficult. Everyone knows that. She presents problems that are not normal and that no child should have to endure. Yet, you will. It’s going to be tough, but it will make you a stronger person. God doesn’t send us problems we are unable to endure. “Be strong! Have confidence in yourself! And, when you get older, you’ll be able to leave her and never look back! This is not a lifetime sentence.” Instead what I always heard were an enumeration of her needs and what a “good” boy, showing his mother the proper deference and respect (another issue within the abuse), would do to help meet them. That in turn left me with tons of self doubt and internal conflict, which remained two more mountains I had to climb to preserve a. my sanity, and b. my best chances for happiness. For many of our adult years, she kept me at odds with my sister by telling each of us independently, falsehoods about things the other had said, believed, or were planning to the other’s detriment. Divide and conquer was her ploy, because she was dependent on each of us in different ways. And, if she hadn’t kept us divided, the cat keepers (the two of us) wouldn’t have tolerated her treatment of the mice (referring again to my sister and me). As adults—once onto her schemes, we can slough these things off and laugh at them. But, during those years when your mother is your whole universe, it’s impossible. I can see I’m already at my word limit, so I’m going to have to postpone the effects of:
Some of the other qualities she left me with, such as a lack of self-confidence, low self-esteem and social ineptitude are aspects of the abuse that I’ve been able to deal with more effectively than the trust element. But, if there’s a sufficient interest among my readers, I’ll cover those aspects in more detail later. You are also welcome to share your own life experiences, either in the comments section below (anonymously, if you wish), or directly by email: dan@danconnor.com . I am amazed and touched by the many replies I get, sharing consequences and experiences similar to my own. Together we can build hope and courage for the future, while helping others in the process. Meanwhile, here’s a little taste of my youth in the form of a poem, called, I Can Still Remember.
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