I chose many abusive boyfriends before I got married. Or rather they chose me and I accepted. I accepted anything. I rode the wave of abuse. In and out and in and out. Abuse is such a wave. In with the abuse, out with the silence, in with the flowers, out with the yelling, in with the abuse, out with the destruction. Every day a wave. I LET them. I didn’t KNOW that I deserved a different life. I didn’t KNOW there was a different life. I had not felt the love of a man that did not involve pain so I was sentenced to a life of imprisonment. Nowhere in me was there a voice that said, “Get out! Run! He is bad!” Abuse had squashed my instinct. Abuse had set up this lifestyle. Abuse had put me behind bars and I was locked in.
The jail cell opened. Another was let in and I said, ” Oh hello, how are you today, let me offer my undying love to you!” Once he kicked me, tried to shoot me, forced me to do things against my will, he let himself out. They ended in a bang, all of them. But another would come right behind them. Before the door even closed another hand was reaching through the bars and I was grabbing it. “Hello, I need to be loved, want to love me? Ok, I will give you a chance.” I was a follower. I became exactly what they wanted me to be. I knew how to be an object. I knew how it felt to be molded into a new person. When I was a little girl I went in with one mold and came out with another. I got pressed into a new mold quite frequently and pulled out a completely different person. So these boyfriends just followed a pattern that I knew. I had no self. I was an empty molded shell of a person. I became what they wanted me to be and therefore never knew who myself was at all.
One of my boyfriends was particularly bad. He had been abused himself. I felt for him. And anytime I felt for them I became FOR them. This guy loved poop. He loved looking at poop. He loved taking pictures of poop. Yep…no red flags. No where in my mind did I say, ” You are obsessed with poop?” He was obsessed with his own penis. Had to hold it all day long. He screwed everything he could with that penis. I heard all about it. And no red flags. His brother had a peep hole and used to watch him having sex with his girlfriends. They didn’t believe in garbage cans or urinating in toilets. So there was urine in bottles all over the house and a pile of garbage years old filling up the living room. AND I KEPT DATING HIM. By the time he was done with me I was barely recognizable. My mold was pretty much transformed into someone that I did not even recognize when I looked in the mirror. He broke my mold. He used up my body until there was nothing left. And YET I still dated him. Why? Everyone loved him. Everyone thought he was great. Sense of humor, very good looking, he seemed to love me. When we stepped outside of that house he was the man everyone thought he should be for me. Inside those jail bars he was just destroying me. I LET him do it.
The man that abused me as a child, Billy Banks, everyone loved. EVERYONE loved him. They still do. I can go to his facebook page right now and see all of his family and friends who back then loved him, back then chose him over me when they heard the truth, and still to this day accept the “outside man.”
These men are different inside their homes. Behind the protected cells of the people they suck in with them. They are good looking. They have a sense of humor. They are likeable. He was likeable. I liked Billy a lot. I liked how he treated me. I liked how he gave me attention. I liked how he made me feel. But he pulled me into those prison walls and there he was not the same man. He was demented. But I was just a little girl. So how is it as an adult I grew up to choose another dementor? Because on the outside they don’t look demented. On the outside they look normal. And once you are locked behind bars it is very very hard to ever get out.
I let my boyfriend ravage my body in whatever ways he wanted to. Because I created a little term we like to call dissociation. Learned at a young age is not so easy to turn off when placed in a similar situation later in life. I also assumed that this, a body as an object, was meant to do. I was meant to do what this man wanted. I was meant to allow everything! So I did.
He was just like Billy Banks. I just wasn’t a little girl anymore. But I was still locked behind prison bars. With these men things will always look pretty on the outside. They are calculated.
When I tell you that I “chose” it and I “let” it happened, I am only giving you the perspective of what an abused person feels is the consequences of what they THINK they chose and what they THINK they allowed to happen. This is an abused person’s mind. This was my mind at the time and for a long time after.
I never chose to be abused. I never chose to let a man use my body as an object. THE ABUSER DID! The abuser chose me. He put me in a prison that, based on my past experiences, I had no idea how to escape from. How do you get out of bars? How do you find yourself when they have destroyed all of you and you don’t even recognize who you are anymore. How do you stop disassociating and start living as you again?
I often associated my self and compared myself to playdoh. I could be molded into anything anyone wanted. Smashed, mixed with different colors, dried out, and stuck to the bottom of a shoe. I was playdough stuck in jail. That was my body. Just my body. My mind was gone so my body was left as just a play toy.
If you have been abused, you most likely can relate. The prison, the bars, the playdough, the disassociation , the abusive relationships, losing yourself. But you didn’t choose it. You didn’t even let it happen. Choosing and letting are both words that involve choice. When you have been through abuse your choice has been stolen. Your body has been stolen. And it feels like they threw away the key to let you ever escape.
Finding my key was very very difficult. I had to regain my mind before ever regaining my body. I wish there were a magic key for everyone. I wish I could hand it out and it could open the doors to freedom for everyone that had abuse and ended up wandering the streets lost of any direction. I either wandered or was imprisoned and neither one allowed me to be me. I found my key, but not everything has become unlocked yet. I am free in certain ways but not all. I have found my body and my mind. I have claimed them as my own and demanded respect for both. I am remolding from the inside out.
How did I find my key?
I looked in the mirror one day and heard my inner voice. I felt a stirring inside my soul. Intuition? God? Survival instinct? I KNEW beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I stayed in these prison walls, I would die there. I chose me. I left. That was just one key to one jail. There are many prisons I am setting myself free from. There are many keys I have not yet found. But I can tell you this… I recognize myself. I know myself. I honor my body in a way others did not. I discovered the mold of me. When it is is not seen as the tainted, disfigured, mold that others tried to destroy, I am still here. When I look at myself through my own eyes, I can finally see me.