In the two years that I have written on this blog and discussed my journey, I have yet to make it past the summer months and into October to discuss what exactly the month means to me on a whole.
Almost every day on social media you can a video of people getting into a physical altercation. Some people find it amusing to watch but for me it brings up a rising feeling of nausea and numbness. As I watch the people get hit in place that we’re all to often my abusers sweet spots I can feel a numbing sensation over take that part of my body almost in muscle memory. My stomach begins to twist and turn and there is nothing I can do to stop it. October is Domestic Violence awareness month. A month that I used to hit social media with facts and statistics on a daily basis. Hoping, praying, believing that maybe just maybe my story of getting to freedom, my story of rescuing my children, leaving being a statistic for being a survivor could help even just one person.
My story may or may not have made a difference I don’t really know. So instead for myself I can I breath a sigh of relief tonight knowing that my six year old is sound asleep in his bed, he knows he is safe, his day was highlighted by playing monopoly and getting a purple star behavior award at school and knowing tomorrow he gets to celebrate at Chilli’s his favorite restaurant. I can sigh in relief knowing that his brother who was only an infant when we left is asleep in the bed right under his, knowing he has no recollection of what happened to them, never questioning that the man he calls his father may not actually be.
So for this year I instead will tell you a different story. This time four years ago I was preparing to move with my children and our abuser. I dreaded the thought. I didn’t want to do it. But I did. I did not trust my abuser and in the months of time that he had been away from us I had developed an independence not only as a woman, and a mother but as a human being. I knew then that this was the beginning of the end. I knew then that my gained independence would not allow me to simply be battered and torn down any longer, and I knew this would have consequences with my abuser.
I was prepared with safe words and safe places and plans. Nothing could have prepared me for the abuse turning for me to my children though.
During that year there were just over 22,000 reported cases of child abuse in the state of Massachusetts. I am sad to say as a mother that my children were part of those numbers. Sad to say that my oldest son became one of the children who can suffer long term effects of being abused. But today three years later I can breath that sigh of relief knowing that I did the RIGHT thing. I rescued my children. I am now raising SURVIVORS.
This years story isn’t about me. It is about them. It is about the little boy who went from being non-verbal, whose PTSD, severe anxiety, and sensory processing disorder overwhelmed so much that he stumped doctors and teachers. It’s about that little boy who underwent months of therapy, specialist appointments, who now does not need to. He can speak, and feel, he can trust and love. And now has the father he deserves, and they love each other as if it was the same blood flowing in their veins.
They are the heroes of my story. Not me. I am just the adult who helped them make it. They are the ones who’ve overcome, they’re the ones who were born, felt death, and then were reborn as new children, to a new family and now they thrive.
Peace love salvation