Breaking the Cycle of Domestic Violence, A Non-Linear Journey of Discovery and Healing

*Contains Graphic Details of Abuse*

For the people who have spent a lifetime being told you are too much, yet you still aren't enough, I personally understand the struggle to believe you are indeed enough. Our childhoods shape and mold us into the person we become. Some upbringings are destined to lead us to success, while others are destined to lead us to pain and failure. I know, we all have free will. As grown adults, we cannot blame our failures on our parents or their lack of parenting. However, children learn what they live. When you are raised to feel small, so someone else can feel bigger, and when you are raised to believe you are worthless, somewhere along the way, you are going to believe you are small and worthless. And believe me, shaking off that shroud is no easy feat, but when a victim finds her voice and uses it, she ceases playing the role of victim. In those moments, she can feel her spine lengthen and grow rigid, standing tall—maybe for the first time as she becomes something much more dangerous—a threat. A threat to all who benefit from her compliance and silence. In time, a victim learns not just to survive, but to thrive, and it all begins with a voice.

Each year, October 1 marks the beginning of Domestic Violence Awareness Month. However, you only need to turn on your local news station to grasp that thirty-one days of awareness is grossly insufficient. I laugh, though maybe cringe is a better word, at the irony of October being slated as Domestic Violence Awareness Month. It’s the month of Halloween, where instead of the ghouls and monsters hiding, they are on full display. However, domestic violence victims are acutely aware that the monsters do not take a reprieve until October. The ghosts of the past and present haunt them even when they lie their head to sleep.

What I am about to share next is a classic American horror story. Classic in the sense that in my fifty-five years, I have discovered that even though the people and places may change, this account of events is far too ordinary in homes across our country.

***TRIGGER WARNING***

Every little girl needs her daddy to scare away the big bad monster, but what happens when her daddy is the monster? Picture a mid-July summer day. Like most other weekdays, during that summer, a nine-year-old girl watches her two-year-old sibling so her father can sleep while her mother works. The children quietly play for some time. The nine-year-old isn’t feeling well and goes to the bathroom. Several minutes later, she hears shouting. The familiar terror wells up in her as the angry voice orders the petite girl out of the bathroom. After opening the door, she is dragged from one doorway to the next. Her body is lifted and tossed against her bedroom wall, like a rag doll. Once she hits the carpet of her bedroom floor, it is only a moment before the belt begins lying, striking everything in its path. She pulls her arms and legs against herself to shield her face and head from the leather brutally assaulting her body.

The belt stops. The young girl looks up through her tear-stained glasses, hoping the worst is over. The hard fist begins pummeling her head and face. Her glasses fly off, splitting in two. She cries out, “Please stop. No, Daddy, please stop.” Her pleas are ignored. When the fists finally end their assault, she receives a kick to her side before he waves his hand and yells, “Clean this shit up.” The “this” he refers to is her blood on the baby blue walls of her room. 

Time passes slowly until the girl’s mother comes home during her lunch break. She discovers her daughter on the floor of her bedroom. Her back is propped against the side of her bed as she sobs in pain. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?” She looks up at her mother, only to be met with a gasp. The mother’s voice whispers, “You need to put ice on that.” The girl lifts her pale, blonde hair, which hides the side of her face. Anger wells in her as she exclaims, “What part do you want me to put ice on?” From her hairline down to her chin, a layer of black and blue covers one half of her face. Her eye is swollen. The dried blood conceals some of the bruising from her broken nose. 

She spent the remainder of the summer at home, forced to quit gymnastics, and was instructed to lie to anyone who questioned her appearance. In the years that followed, often, she would run her fingers over the dent in her wall, tracing the outline, grateful that the current abuse was not as bad as that day. The rust colored stain close to the baseboard would remain embedded in the blue carpeting, and the dent on the wall of her room would stay untouched, except by her, for another ten years before her parents sold that house of hell. 

In the weeks that followed, she recounted the incident to people she naively believed would help her, but instead of assistance, she was met with this question: “What did you do to cause this?” Her answer, “My baby sister spilled the sugar bowl while I was in the bathroom.”

Every one of those individuals, the young girl entrusted for help, was a mandated reporter. Yet they did nothing. The church did nothing. When she returned to school several weeks later, they did nothing. Instead, she was labeled as rebellious and troublesome.

The night before this horrific violence, that same man who had brutally attacked the young girl, hugged her and said, “I know I don’t tell you enough, but I love you.” 

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Too often, victims of domestic violence suffer in silence to keep the peace at the expense of their own peace. It’s a coping mechanism. A way to survive. How do I know this? At the age of nine, on an ordinary day in July 1980, my childhood effectively came to an end. In its place, another person emerged from the trauma. That person was a shell. A little girl, who, over time, learned to build an exterior fortress. She became an expert at putting on a smile, pretending she was fine, while she internally isolated herself from the world. Meanwhile, the invisible parts of her lay deeply buried, bloody, bruised, and scarred.

That summer day destroyed my trust in those I should have trusted the most. We are taught adults are the people we run to for protection—and I naively believed that was true. I discovered the hard way that no one was coming to rescue me. Instead, I learned that the actual monsters do more than lurk in the shadows. They don masks, hiding their true nature as they stroll in broad daylight. Their smiles, charisma, and duplicitous calm demeanor are the facade that deceives the world around them into believing they could never commit such heinous acts of violence.

That afternoon and the days that followed led me to believe abuse was ordinary. One afternoon, my dad told me how much he loved me, and in less than twenty-four hours, he made me his personal punching bag. At the age of nine, I couldn’t comprehend that love should not leave bruises and broken bones. Consequently, his actions laid the foundation for fifteen more years of abuse at the hands of some of the most deceptively charming and cruel men to walk this earth. Their instruments of destruction: coercion, intimidation, threats, manipulation, shame, blame, denial, hollow yet believable apologies, twisting my reality and sanity until I was convinced I was insane, otherwise known as gaslighting, and their destruction ended with a fist—always a fist. Though I had a few relationships that were not verbally or physically abusive, I was twenty-six before I experienced my first serious non-abusive relationship.

I woke up each day hoping the next day would be better. The only thing that believing there was a chance for a better day did was perpetuate the cycle. When I spoke up, I was severely punished—a slap, a punch, or a kick, possessions destroyed, verbal abuse, and isolation. To survive, I learned to be quiet and smile, even though I was internally screaming. I forced myself to be small and pleasing. In the end, none of it mattered. My meekness served everyone around me—except me. 

Twenty years of continuous abuse gave me a parting gift many survivors silently carry with them after suffering through years of abuse: Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hypervigilance has been a part of my life for a very long time, it has grown into my greatest weapon. I developed the ability to sense and see the danger before it is close enough to inflict any real damage. When I've described my hypervigilance to others, it has been called a gift—it is anything but. I find it difficult to trust or feel comfortable around most men. It manifests as an intuition, I call it my seventh sense. In a crowd, I can pinpoint the men who don't deserve to walk freely. My body feels like it is vibrating at a level 10 or above. In turn, trust does not come easily. I can count on one hand the men with whom I have complete confidence. Because of this, I’ve transformed our home into a sanctuary of safety and acceptance, for myself and those I love. The reasons for the above need no explanation.

Age and maturity have kindly granted me wisdom. The more distance I place between myself and my abusive relationships, the easier it was to fully discern the events that transpired. Through multiple conversations, with non-survivors one truth became abundantly clear: only an individual who has never endured the hellfire of abuse could believe the misconception that when a DV victim escapes the abuse, the trauma ceases. The bruises, broken bones, and lacerations will heal. However, the vile, humiliating, and degrading words linger. The fear, self-doubt, and a sense of worthlessness seep into the bones. The memories replay on an involuntary loop. And even when the memories are suppressed to the recesses of your mind, the body NEVER forgets. The autopilot turns on, and you find yourself walking on eggshells for no reason and apologizing for things that do not warrant an apology. Your stomach knots, and you involuntarily flinch at a raised or angry voice. Asking for help goes against everything within your nature because no one helped when you needed help the most. Independence becomes a shield. The relentless trauma becomes a part of your DNA, leaving an indelible imprint and invisible scars. Does that sound like the trauma ended?

It took years to recognize and understand my PTSD triggers. I try my best to avoid the triggers I understand, but the reality is, not everything is avoidable. Moments vividly etched in my mind created days and nights when the darkness consumed me. I describe my CPTSD as a curse that no amount of therapy is capable of altogether breaking. My mind does its best to block out the worst, but as I stated before, the body never forgets. Something as benign as a lantern falling out of a tree, breaking my nose, transports me back forty-five years. Instead of laying on the ground of my backyard, I am in a room with baby blue walls where I cannot escape the wrath of an irrationally angry man. Instantaneously, the invisible becomes visible as my mind cannot rationally differentiate the past from the present while I’m sitting on the ground in my backyard, trembling and crying. It was the worst episode I have ever experienced. Several weeks after the “PTSD fog” settled, I experienced a gamut of emotions—sadness, anger, and overwhelming disappointment. One singular moment felt like it had erased years of progress.

My childhood ingrained in me the belief that if I did not fight for myself, no one else would. It’s a difficult habit to break. I still find myself forgetting that I have a support system, which is why, after the lantern fell, I sat on the ground beneath our Maple tree for over thirty minutes before I went inside to tell my husband.

While that recent afternoon in our backyard brought me immense pain, clarity broke through my anguish. I had never been more grateful for the love and support of my husband, our children, and my best friend. I finally didn’t feel forced to squash my emotions. They understood what I needed. They listened to me as I vented, cried, and screamed out decades of suppressed emotions. They didn't judge or try to fix me. They just listened. Though the explanations and conversations with my son, Brady, my daughter, Jayde, and my husband, Jackson, were the most difficult over the years, this time was different—freeing.

I can still vividly recall the immense anxiety I experienced the first time I shared anything with Jackson, before he was my husband. I was terrified he would say, “Nope, I didn’t sign up for this.” I prepared for the worst because nothing in me would have faulted him for leaving. Instead of ending our relationship, he wrapped me in his arms, promising me it was over. Never once implying or saying, “Get over it.” He would unknowingly spark this very slow healing process by being a father to my son. Even though they didn’t share the same DNA, he proudly claimed the title the first time Brady called him Daddy. In my bones, I knew this man would never intentionally harm my children.

After Jayde's arrival, I observed how my husband loved and protected our baby girl. I finally understood what the love of a father should resemble. Their relationship briefly intensified the deep sadness I felt from the absence of having a father to love and protect me. Yet, while observing my little family, for the first time in my life, I knew I was safe. It scared the hell out of me. And thirty years into our relationship, sometimes it still does.

Regrettably, my children endured witnessing me break—before the breakthrough. They watched their mother crawl on the ground, pick up the pieces worth saving, stitch myself back together, and heal. It is the reason, at the age of sixteen, my son told me, “Mom, some things are unforgivable.” I proceeded to explain to him, “Forgiveness is not absolution. I forgive him for you, your sister, Dad, and me.” I extended grace that was never asked for, to release the pain and anger that would have consumed my family. I won’t lie, it wasn’t easy—some days it still isn’t. On those days, I still question my son’s logic. After such a trauma, is absolute forgiveness truly attainable? I don’t have the answer to that question. Maybe some wounds are too deep to completely heal.

The forced proximity of spending holidays and family gatherings with a man who, to this day, has no remorse for the emotional, mental, and physical hell he put me through has come at a cost. Why should an abuse survivor be forced to communicate or spend time with their abuser? The answer is simple—they shouldn’t. The complicated answer is this: The man who did this to me, also adopted and raised me. A part of me loves him, but another despises him and his actions. Actions that have not only affected  my life, but the lives of my husband and my children. It is in these situations that you plainly comprehend two completely opposite things can be true at the same time. 

Which was why, observing the man who was once so cruel to me, being caring and kind to my children, was bittersweet. It was also frightening. My hypervigilance was constantly on alert. I was terrified he was going to snap and harm my children. Until recently, I rarely felt relaxed at family gatherings. I knew, that if he crossed that line and harmed either of my babies, it would be impossible to contain a lifetime of rage. I always tell my children, "I don't look good in stripes or orange." For Brady's tenth birthday, we planned a family trip to Orlando. The first couple of nights, my mom would ask, "Did you tell Dad goodnight?" I wanted to shout, "No. I don't want to tell him goodnight," but I maintained my composure and played the dutiful daughter. The unresolved past trauma was so overwhelming that I had a meltdown in Disneyland because Brady and my Dad became separated from our group. As I stood inside the park's main entrance, waiting for them to appear, my stomach churned with each passing minute. My mother scolded me, “Kellie, he is with Dad. Calm down, he will be fine.” My response, “I know he is with Dad, that is why I’m worried.” Thankfully, my fears never came to fruition, but the stress of those situations compounded the unresolved trauma. 

Anyways, after the Disney trip, I began looking at things differently, but I had only scratched the surface. It was not until the past decade that I made myself take several steps back and really see what my past trauma and the retraumatizing was doing to my family. For too long, everything that happened had been normalized. But, let's be real, that was the opposite of healthy—for all of us. I questioned, how was this a good example for my children, regardless of their age? The answer: It wasn’t—it isn't. 

For decades, I remained hopeful that he would acknowledge the hell he reigned down on me, and might even apologize. After a while, reality took over, and I ceased hoping for a day that I know will never come. A few years ago, after an argument involving my sister, my mom, me, and our dad, I had an epiphany. During this argument, he denied everything he had ever done. He called the three of us crazy and told us we must be living on another planet. He tried to gaslight us, but he has lost his touch. Still, within an instant, something within me broke. Upon hearing his cold and callous words, every piece I had buried to keep the peace, rose to the surface and shattered me. In the ashes of utter disrepair, I finally understood that, even if he apologized, it would not change the past. Though I'm sure it would bring me a modicum of peace, there is nothing he could say or do to obliterate the pain he caused. The truth is, he broke me over and over. He broke me with every verbal and physical threat, every bruise he left on my body, every derogatory word and dig he made to me and about me, every time he removed my bedroom door ensuring a teenage girl had no privacy, every time he would come from behind like a coward and slap me across my face or head, everytime he treated me no better than he did our dogs, every punch, black eye, and broken bone.  And the stark reality is, the person who broke you will never, ever heal you. Even if, by some slim chance, that individual does apologize, those words do not magically put the pieces of you back together or erase a multitude of visible and invisible scars. My Dad, his actions, or lack thereof will never heal me. Only I have the power to heal myself. Think of the abuse in these terms: Someone accidentally cuts you with a knife and they quickly apologize, does the wound magically stitch itself together? No, it doesn't. You must seek the proper help and treatment.

With that realization, the guilt and pressure I once felt for not wanting to socialize with, talk to, or see him vanished. A weight was lifted when I decided I was done wishing for a normal childhood or desperately desiring a healthy relationship with my parents. I realized, all those years, I was attempting to build a healthy relationship on an eroded foundation 

Adding another twisted layer to everything,  was the innate desire to have my mom in my life. My parents are still married, so they are a package deal. Even after her apologies she did not want to discuss what happened. She had her own unresolved trauma. Deflection was a part of her armour. Her mantra was, "You need to forgive," or "You still haven't forgiven me." At that point, it wasn't even about forgiveness. For me, it was about engaging in an honest adult discussion. Forget thriving, I was an adult, struggling to survive and coming to terms with a childhood riddled with abuse. I needed clarity on how she could sit by and allow him to hurt me. I didn't comprehend why I wasn't enough. My discussions were focused on understanding the past so I could try to heal, but she saw any conversation as a personal attack. The vicious cycle of denial and attempting to keep me quiet took its toll. The sad part is, I never doubted my mom loves me, but his cruelty and darkness were always stronger and louder. Thankfully, my Mom and I have come a long way. In the middle of a conversation about my Dad, hearing her ask, "Is this ok to talk about? Is this triggering for you?" Was a turning point.

I cannot rewrite the past. Each day is a new page in my story. I am resolved in the fact that until my last breath, any interactions will be on my terms—and no one else's. It is not my responsibility to play peacemaker or be silent to keep the peace—it never was. This journey will no longer be about someone else's comfort or peace. It is about my safe healing and I will no longer apologize for placing my safety above other individuals comfort. What feels safe today, may not feel safe tomorrow.

Throughout this journey, it became apparent to me that while the family I was raised in had broken me, the small family we created helped rebuild me. Together, the four of us discovered that forgiveness should never be forced upon a survivor, nor does it require us to erase our boundaries for toxic individuals just because they are family. 

My family watched a woman who allowed herself to shrink, because of shame, stand tall. They observed their mom and wife, who had been forced into silence by threats and fear, find her voice. They witnessed me break the generational cycle of abuse. I despise that any of this ever touched their lives. I am sorry I couldn’t present myself to them after the healing, so none of this ever touched them. However, they see it differently. They are pretty vocal regarding how they feel about the abuse I survived and their disdain for the individuals who inflicted and allowed the abuse. In simple terms, when a parent abuses their child, they are also abusing their future grandchild. I could write for a few more hours about the generational curse of abuse, but you have read this far, and for that I am grateful.

I know my story is anything but pretty, BUT I SURVIVED. Every man who physically, emotionally, verbally, and sexually assaulted me chipped away pieces of my heart and soul until the day finally came when I believed I had nothing left to lose. Something within me broke. I kicked and scratched my way out until my life was free from an abusive relationship. In many ways, that was the easy part. Healing is ugly, and day by day. The journey has been long because there is no finish line and it is anything but linear. The path forward is also different for every survivor. There have been days when I barely survived, and now there are many days I proudly thrive. I recently read an unknown quote, “Healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed. It means the damage no longer controls your life.” That is my goal every day.

One in three women and one in four men will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. In our country alone, five children die every day at the hands of abuse, and every nine minutes, a woman suffers through abuse. Around the world, a woman dies every eleven minutes at the hands of her partner or family member. The grim statistics speak for themselves, but those statistics are based solely on reported incidents.

Instead of stopping and questioning, “Why was this individual used as a physical and emotional punching bag?” People read the statistics, and hear the stories, and they question, “Why didn’t she leave?” As if it is her fault for being beaten and broken. For me, it is akin to adults questioning me at nine years old, “What did you do to cause this?” 

A few final thoughts for victims and survivors—Your trauma is not your fault, but you are responsible for your healing journey. Never apologize for the steps you must take to arrive at your destination. Some individuals will serve as stepping stones, helping you along the path. Other people will simply be stones who want to hold you down. Learn to discern the difference. 

Darkness cannot survive in the light. Your voice is your light. When a survivor uses their voice, it shines a light on the all-consuming darkness of violence. Your dignity, your voice, your consent, your power, and your light were carelessly and callously stolen—but the theft is only temporary. They were always yours to reclaim. The damage inflicted upon you does not define you. Your abuse did not make you stronger—you did that all by yourself. Life is meant to be lived in peace, not pieces. 

Why do we need more than a month of domestic violence awareness? Our world is a dark and evil place, where forty-five years later, nothing has changed. At least not for the better. We live in a society where monsters still hide in plain sight, mandated reporters insist on pretending it’s not their problem, victims are to blame, not the perpetrator, titles and power instantaneously exonerate abusers, and the disingenuous court system will reunite a child with their abuser any given day of the week. Individuals still bury their heads in the sand, claiming, “It’s a domestic issue, not criminal.” Abuse is not something to be overlooked or tolerated. It is not a political, racial, gender, or religious issue—it is a humanitarian epidemic. Every day I wonder, “When will it all end?” Unfortunately, I don’t have that answer, but I do know this: if we collectively don’t do something, who will?

SAFETY 💜 SUPPORT 💜SOLIDARITY