Part 1 - Growing Up

Our lives were perfect. In public, we were smiling, well-behaved (well, except for the rebel child), and God-fearing little kids. We were holier than families of "the world," as we called people on the outside. We attended a small baptist church that was always right. The other churches in town were too "liberal." But not us. We had our ducks in a row. And our family life was normal.

Or so I thought.

My upbringing looked so squeaky clean that children from broken homes told me they envied me. I could never quite put my finger on why that bothered me so much. Now I know why. Our home was broken. Yes, my parents were still married and presented a united front, but they were united in abusing us. I honestly thought that it was normal to walk on eggshells around your mother for fear of an explosion. I honestly believed that a spouse should support another spouse at all times, even when it meant a father supporting his wife's lies and mistreatment of others.

Some think of the abused as being battered children who go to school with bruises and tears. While that does happen, abusers are usually quite smart and can silence the victims with manipulation and a cloud of clever lies. That was our case. We learned what we could and couldn't say and we learned how we could and couldn't act. I remember thinking as a child, "I could call one of those hotlines," but I never allowed my thoughts to go further than that. They created a mental block in my own mind to the point that I didn't have freedom to analyze my situation. That's how much control they had over everyone. I wouldn't even admit to myself until adulthood that we were dysfunctional.

Looking back, it was part of my coping method. Denial. It's common for children to cope by pretending things didn't happen to them. They bury their own memories and thoughts, which will not resurface without some sort of a trigger. And my trigger was coming in due time.