It has been awhile since I've written in here. Maybe I'm just running out of patience.
Every single day is another fight to block out the thoughts of abuse. Not necessarily my abuse, but abuse in general. For some, it's something that never crosses their mind and I consider them blessed, although they probably have their own issues that consume them.
A post by StreetLight Ministries the other day confirmed what I knew was coming next: Facebook is being used to sell, not just sex, but sex with little girls and probably boys.
The healthier I get, the more I hate these people. I really don't want to hate them, but really? I see those little girls, so happy in their pictures. It makes me want to vomit thinking that some man... some monster would take that from her.
There was a beginning to everyone's abusive history. Whether it be their personal experience being abused or otherwise, it started somewhere.
Hatred Spins Its Ugly Web
When he was little, probably 9 months or so... his father showed the hatred for him that he felt inside for so long. Even as a child he knew that he was unwanted. Growing up, he would watch the other boys playing with their fathers, then watched as his own mother would try to fill in the gap where his father was checked out mentally, physically, and emotionally.
The only thing he could do would be to disappear, but there is nothing in this world that can "un-make" you besides death, and even that won't do the trick. See, the problem was never him, it was his dad. His dad had been hated when he was young. He grew up feeling bitter and resentful. Chasing a dream that one day his whole family would really love him and maybe even be a real family, he grew cold. His hardened shell was rigid, never to be slightly cracked. When his son came along, he only saw himself as a young boy. That stupid little boy that was so unlovable that nothing would ever make him good enough was staring him in the face. Every little movement by this defiled little human made his heart cringe. How dare this child! It was no longer a question of "how do I feel about having a son?" It became a full-blown attack on the thing that was now imposing its terrible little self on his new-found family.
As the years went on, there was no way of going back. No reason to say sorry, he had done the best he could. He gave the child a chance to live and let him remain in his house. What else could the damn thing want?
He grew up watching his father's hatred toward himself. "What did I do wrong?" was the question lingering in his adolescent mind. The more he was pushed away, the less he cared about life. Once his sister came along, there was no denying it, it was him. She received all the love and attention that he had never even seen before she was born. He was slapped while she was cradled. He was scorned while she was comforted. Attention, attention, attention... it was always directed toward her! When would it be his turn?
What he will never know or understand is that the cycle didn't stop at him. There was an ugliness to the "attention" received by her father. An erie feeling came over her every time he walked into the room. The feeling of eyes always watching her made her so paranoid she could no longer get dressed behind closed doors. The thoughts of the pervert feeling his way through her darkened bedroom consumed her. She grew cold. And so the story goes...
In the house was the familiar saying, "don't ask, don't tell." It was never verbalized, but it was definitely known.
This is the cycle that creates the dysfunctional home. It's forever a web spun by the best, creating a no-escape zone for all who fall into its trap. For every cycle that needs to be broken, there is the one who has to do the breaking. How often do you think that people actually get away and become healthy without the help of God? I would be sold bold as to presume... almost never.