My soul is weary. At times I find joy — in moments with my son, in the loving care of my closest friends, or in the midst of a dance. But lately I’ve realized that I will never completely escape the shadow of sorrow that lies and waits for any opportunity to cast itself unless I am ready to face the truth of who I am. People know me as a mother, a co-worker, a dancer. But who am I, really? A survivor of abuse.
My father was physically and emotionally abusive as far back as I can remember. No infraction was too small to avoid punishment, and quite frankly – no true infraction was needed. Any act of imperfection on my part was the perfect excuse for him to lash out with verbal degradation and violence.
My childhood self knew that this horrible man who called himself my father did not love me. The most important male figure in my life treated me like an animal and negated the possibility of any true emotional connection. The first emotion I can remember? Fear. As I grew older – probably around 10 or 11 years of age, I began to feel rage on top of that fear. Rage for all the hurt he was causing my younger brother and my mother, and for what I now recognize as shame — the shame he brought on me every time he kicked or slapped me. I started thinking that I would never escape the terror unless I killed him, although I never figured out how I would do it. Nor did I think anyone would believe it was in self-defense. He was an upstanding member of the community as far as anyone else could see.
After my mother finally left him in my teens, I tried to rationalize his actions – thinking “he’s done many hurtful things, but he says he loves me, so he must.” It never occurred to me until very recently that my childhood self was right — true love does not tolerate abuse.
As a young adult I fell into an abusive romantic relationship with an older male, followed by a well-intentioned marriage that ultimately failed. Little did I know that it was doomed before it even started. How could two wounded spirits create a healthy “whole” when they hadn’t even begun to heal? After I read bell hook’s “All About Love” I knew it was time to confront the lovelessness that has haunted my soul for as long as I can remember. This is my attempt to do that.
Speak, My Soul 