It was 6:05 a.m. on June 10, 1981, when the fighting began. It was my 14th year and the summer that changed my life forever. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was no louder or scarier than it had been in the past, and the only difference was that this time, as I listened through my bedroom door, terrified that their yelling would wake my younger brothers and sister, I heard my father say that he was going to kill my mother.
To this day, I can't tell you how I got the gumption to storm into my parents' bedroom, pleading with them to stop fighting. It was something I had never dared to do in the past and something I would never have to do again.
I went unnoticed as I stood before my parents' bed. They were on their knees, facing each other in a heated screaming match. And that's when I noticed the gun. They both had their hands on it. Again my father threatened to kill my mother.
I begged, "Please, stop this now!"
The screaming stopped as they both looked my way, shocked to see me standing there crying. Somewhere in that brief moment of silence, my mother made the decision to try to manipulate the gun away from my father. A small struggle ensued, and the gun went off. The loud pop chilled me to my bones. Then more silence. I don't know how long we were all frozen in our places—a minute, an hour, a lifetime. I only remember my father looking into my mother's eyes and saying, "Oh baby ..."
Thinking the bullet had fired into the mattress, I took a short-lived sigh of relief. Then my father fell back onto the bed, and I saw blood coming from the tiny hole in his side.
After dialing 911, my hysterical mother ran to get the rest of the children out of the house. I stayed in the room with my father. I watched him struggle to take his last breaths and tried to talk to him, tried to tell him to hang in there, that help was on the way. But slowly the life drained from him, and as it did, I was suddenly and painfully aware of the relief that swept over me. Relief. Not sadness. Not fear. Not anguish. I whispered to myself in the deafening silence of the room, "I'm free."
Ironically, his own anger and lack of control had granted me the freedom I'd so longed for. If he hadn't threatened my mother with the gun that morning, I would still have been living in fear, but now, he would never be able to hurt me again. And as I stood looking upon his lifeless body, I tried to make peace with him. I wanted to be able to forgive him, so I could let go of the anger and hatred in my heart. What I didn't know at the time was that all of the feelings of disappointment, betrayal and resentment I harbored weren't all directed at him. They were directed inward as I blamed myself for his actions. I actually believed that by not telling anyone about the abuse, I had brought it upon myself. That I was disgusting, pathetic used goods and that no one would ever love me if they knew the truth about what had been done to me. Like the silence I'd become so accustomed to living with, I vowed to bury with him the secrets of the terrible abuse I sustained in my childhood. And I did, for a very, very long time.
Unfortunately, the past has a way of catching up to us.
When asked years later by my therapist why I never told anyone about what was happening to me, I answered, "I was a scared little girl and I loved and trusted him. There were so many times when I wanted to tell someone, anyone, but I couldn't find my voice, and I was afraid that even if I did, no one would believe me. Then I was afraid that they would believe, and that nothing would be done to help me, and I didn't think I could live with that kind of disappointment. So I opted for silence and went off in my head on wonderful adventures to exotic places time and time again until it was over."
The scars on my heart are healing slowly every day as I have come to learn that it wasn't my fault, that I did nothing wrong and that I am not used goods. But the fear still lingers. And although I have done my best to forgive, it's the forgetting that still has a tendency to paralyze me with fear as I drift off to sleep at 36 years old with the lights still on.
Abuse comes in many forms, whether it's physical, mental, verbal or sexual, and the long-term effects can be debilitating. In my life it's crippled every relationship I've ever had. But I'm working very hard to find the self-love, self-respect and the voice I never had.
After reading in the paper a while back about the two young children, Phillip and Julie, who were tragically beaten to death by their own mother, I felt compelled to finally find my voice and share my own pain and experience in the hope that people might come together to bring some hope and maybe a little joy to abused and neglected children throughout our Valley.
With the help of my very dear friend, Debora, I'll be hosting the first "Voice for the Children Singles Mixer." It will be held 6 - 9 p.m., December 6, at Z'Tejas on Paradise. Tickets will be available at the door for the low price of $10. There will be a silent auction and tons of raffle prizes with all proceeds going to benefit Child Haven.
It will be a great opportunity to meet fabulous singles and raise money for an awesome cause. I hope you will all join me in my fight against child abuse and neglect in Southern Nevada as we help to give a voice to children who too often are afraid to speak for themselves. And in the process, maybe find that special someone who can help us feel safe enough to sleep soundly ... with the lights off.