Shattered Dreams

Come, go north with me - there we'll live and happy be.
We ventured forth - to the land up north.
Got a job and bought some land - with a little cabin, we thought grand.
First came Rod, our first born son - A mother's work is never done.
Then came Tam with golden hair - No finer children anywhere.
Abuse begins in the smallest way - with angry words and accusations every day.
I cried silent tears into the night - and shook with fear at every fight.
Rod suffered most for all he had done - then came the night when you pulled the gun.
A coldness began in the depth of me - and grew til at last I knew I was free.
Breaking the ties that God had made - to face life alone and unafraid.
The abuse, the threats, the blows in the past - have left unseen scars that forever last.

I wrote that poem many years ago.  I included in a book of poetry I wrote to give to my family for Christmas.
My older sister called and told me that this was not a thing you advertised to the world.
I hid the book at home.  For a time I hid the shame of my brazen act.  How dare I - in her words - hang my dirty laundry out for the world to see?
But even as I withdrew into myself, I knew that what I had done was not wrong.  The world needed to know about these events - not just mine - but all of them that had been swept under the rug for so many years by so many women and children for fear of being shamed, ridiculed, judged and found wanting.
When my daughter went through domestic abuse, I wrote letters to the editor - one was not published so I went to the newspaper to talk to them - he was afraid of being sued.  "For what?"  I asked incredulously.  Libel was the answer.  "Let me bring you court documents and police records."  I replied.  "Public documents that anyone can read if they want to."  The letter was published.
I took part in a governors teleconference - speaking up about the issue in our state.  Some of those present at the conference were from the local university campus and asked if they could use my writing in criminal justice class.  I agreed, but heard nothing more.  Imagine my surprise when several years later. the girl from across the street told me that she had taken a criminal justice course in which my material was used.
I have written a manuscript that I hope to see published.  I have allowed others to read it - the overwhelming agreement is that the book should be published - it would help so many.
Usually I can - in a few moments of meeting a woman - know if she either is or has been the victim of domestic abuse.  And I can tell - in a few moments of meeting a man - if he is an abuser.  I am rarely wrong, but I have missed the clue once or twice about a woman.  One I worked with - I never picked up the vibes that she had gone through anything - but she wanted to read the manuscript so I let her take it.  She came back to my office a few weeks later, closed the door and set the envelope on the desk.  "Can I talk to you?"  She asked.
I had missed the clues - she talked for a good hour about what she had gone through.  "I have never shared this with anyone."  She said as she started out.  "Not the police, not a counselor, not a doctor, not a pastor, not my parents.  I was so ashamed of what had happened and I thought I was the only one it has ever happened to and I thought it was all my fault.  Then I read your story and I knew that I was not alone, that what happened wasn't my fault."  She continued with her story, telling all the details, holding back emotion, sharing.  When she stopped, she looked at me.  "Your story needs to be published.  It will help so many people - as it has helped me. Except.....I hope you don't mind my saying this.....I don't think it's finished.  You have come so far, accomplished so much and that all needs to be a part of it.
I shook my head.  "Not yet.  It doesn't feel done for me yet.  I haven't quite reached the point where I can say that my life is complete, a success.  Maybe someday there will a book two that goes from the court house steps to the present day, to where my life has gone and what I have done to overcome it all, but I don't think it is close yet."
She left and I thought about her words, her experience, her shame and hurt and the way she had buried it inside for so many years and I wondered how many more there are.

I thought I had buried all of my emotions - dealt with all of the things that happened - put them aside and locked them up.  But a good twenty years after the gun incident, a situation occurred at work that broke the locks, opened the doors and let loose a flood of fear and emotions that kept me in tears to and from work and escaping work to the beach to pull back together during the day.  A co-worker exhibited the same identical physical manifestations I had seen in my husband the night he pulled the gun and I was a basket case for over a month.  To make matters worse, the situation at work erupted into violence.  A disagreement, anger had festered and grown.  I sat in my boss's office, my hands clinched tight in my lap, fear a cold knot in my stomach, a feeling of weakness spreading through my body.  "Do you think he will do something here?"  My boss asked, a bit surprised.
"I don't know."  I answered.  "But I can tell you that I have seen this physical reaction before and I can tell you that someone is going to get hurt -whether at home, at work or somewhere in between, someone will get hurt."  I was not sure that he believed me, but a day or so later the human resources manager came to our office and called me for a private discussion.
"Are you afraid?"  He asked.
"You bet I am."  I replied.
"Do you think he will hurt you?"
"I don't know.  His personality is so volatile. I believe that he is capable of hurting anyone.  I don't think that they have to do anything to provoke him."
After both of these interviews, I excused myself, went to the beach a couple of miles away and fell apart, crying uncontrollably until I could cry no more.  Pulled myself back together and went back to work.  But as was now common, the tears flowed again as soon as I headed home after work. And again the next morning going in.
A week passed and just about time to go home one afternoon, I rounded a corner at work just in time to see my boss helping another man up off the floor outside of his office.  I stopped, turned and ran because I knew it had happened.  I hid in a back office, trembling and sobbing softly for some time.  I was afraid to come out, afraid to see more.  My boss was waiting as I approached his door.  "Why don't you come in for a few moments?  And close the door."  He said.
I entered, closed the door and sat down, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see the fear, the remains of tears.
"I've let (blank) go."  He said........and waited.  I said nothing.  I didn't look up. "You were right. Someone did get hurt.  Here at work.  I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you.  I just didn't think this would happen.  Didn't expect it to."  I didn't want to know what happened,  I just wanted to run, to get away - as far as I could.
It was another year before I learned that (blank) had picked the man up and thrown him into the wall - I had missed that part.
Fear didn't leave me for well over a month.  But I was now more aware then ever that the past is always a part of the present.  Some things just never go away, they remain under the surface until something happens to cause them to break the crust you think holds them back.
We may survive domestic abuse and violence, but we live with the scars and damages forever.