I used to tell myself....

I used to tell people and especially myself that Myron didn’t hurt me very often as if that would somehow make it okay. Perhaps it made my situation easier to handle. When I began writing this book memories came flooding back to me like a torrential overflow of events. Some incidences I had buried deep in my subconscious and others I had simply dismissed. I guess I swept them under the rug because they weren’t “that bad”.

Now that I have distanced my self from Myron and his abusive ways I can see the severity of my situation at that time. I can see how abnormal my life was back then. And I can see just how numb I had become, toward Myron, toward his behaviour, toward my self and toward life. Instances that I had once dismissed as inconsequential harms now seem like incredibly cruel even sadistic behaviour. Back then, because Myron only actually beat me up a handful of times I was able to convince myself that he wasn’t as abusive as he could have been. Or might have been.

The truth is though; the abuse I did suffer was nearly as cruel as it possibly could have been. And most of it was far more humiliating and emotionally scarring than an occasional fat lip or black eye was. The carefully plotted beatings all over my body save for my face, or burns where nobody would ever think to look allowed Myron to continue his torture secretly. My silent shame assured that none of my friends, family or co-workers ever became the wiser.

After I finally got away from Myron for good, although the abuse was over, I was emotionally scarred and frightened. Eventually memories I had suppressed began coming to the surface at the most inopportune times. Often I didn’t know why I was reacting the way I was to a particular situation. My life was an emotional rollercoaster for a great many years even after I had left him. Sometimes even now it takes a lot of self-talk for me to believe that it really is over and that things are finally okay.

When I started having nightmares and flashbacks of events I had suppressed, a good friend of mine suggested I go talk to someone about what had happened with Myron. At first I didn’t want to go. I didn’t need therapy, I thought. I figured I should be able to deal with my own issues without the help of an outsider or a professional. And I was still far too ashamed and humiliated to want to share any of what happened to me with anyone, let alone a complete stranger.

Eventually though after weeks of terrifying nightmares (and a good amount of prodding) I took my friend’s advice and made that all important first appointment. I am so glad I did. I am glad he had the patience and perseverance to see that I was drowning in my own pent up emotions. And I am glad that I trusted my friend enough to be able to take his advice. I think that was the turning point I was looking for. The decision to seek professional help in dealing with my past set me on the road to recovery and down the path toward changing my life and the lives of my children.

When I first started counseling I was in a one-on-one program called “Women Stopping the Violence”. On one of my first visits my therapist, Daphne listened to my story with a box of tissues in her hand and tears in her eyes. That session went on for over an hour and a half most of which time I was talking and sobbing continually. After I had finished sharing my story we both wiped away the tears and Daphne took my hand. Looking deep into my eyes she said “Oh, Lori I am so sorry you had to go through that. And I am so proud of you for getting away and for coming here.”

Before I left the office that afternoon, Daphne walked me to the front door. As I was leaving she whispered to me “Lori, Myron’s a sick man, you know. His behaviour is sick, bordering on ritualistic. Please promise me you’ll never let him alone with your kids.” I promised her I never would. And hat is one promise I intend to keep.