Celebrating Each Person's Unique Multiplicity
My feet were heavy with dread as I shuffled over and my stomach felt sick as I climbed into his stinky bed. He pulled me close against his damp, clammy skin. He took my hand and placed it on his penis. I tried not to breathe or move a single muscle in my body, hoping to avoid making the situation any more threatening.
Why children don`t tell Posted by Boriana Todorova on May 2, 2013 in Education, Voice
What if you tell and you get into trouble? What if you tell and your family gets hurt like the abuser says. What if you tell and no one believes you?
There are many possible reasons why children do not report the sexual abuse. These are some of the reasons why sexually abused children never tell, and in fact the silence is what empowers the abuser…
We finally arrived at our destination. I was breathless. My eyes and ears were taking in all the joyful sights and sounds of the carnival-type festivities. The various food smells were heavenly, and people shared willingly with one another. There was food in cups, food on plates, food on sticks, and all kinds of dips to stuff it all into. People spread colorful blankets everywhere for covering, sitting, and even just decorating. Among the craft tents, young and old alike were beading necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. Others were weaving things of beauty to wear or display. It was the colors that dazzled my child eyes more than what their hands were making. There were many displays of different types of rocks of all colors and shapes. I even saw fossils of dinosaurs and petrified trees. I had never seen so many things in one place.
I liked Doc, or maybe it was that I just liked his lack of intensity. The dad with the empty eyes carried a sense of foreboding, and I felt as if I were walking in a perpetual minefield every time I was in his presence. Doc’s demeanor was calm and laid-back, and he patiently explained things like how to put up a tent or how his rock tools were used to cut and shape.
MY MOTHER BEGAN dating Doc right after she separated from Howard, the dad with the choking hands. Doc had once been a practicing medical doctor in the San Diego area, but he hadn’t worked since he surrendered to his daily drinking. Now living a subsistence life at the bottom of the economic scale, his home was an old, small trailer in a broken-down mobile home park.
Doc was an avid rock hound who loved going out in the desert areas in eastern Southern California. Next to smoking and drinking, he enjoyed collecting unusual rocks, mineral specimens, and, when lucky, gemstones.
Oops! This week I posted an excerpt from my book, Ragdoll Redeemed out of sequence. When I realized my mistake, I immediately posted the two previous scheduled excerpts as a corrective measure. Hence, three posts this week.
As the following information relates to the title of my blog site, The Faces We Live (The PARTS of us or aspects of ourselves that often run our lives without our explicit permission) toxic parenting helps us to understand how we have become who we are today. Nevertheless, as I have stated elsewhere;
Now five, almost six years old, with long, blond, matted hair, feet without shoes, sporting tar and dirt like a widely dispersed birthmark, I recessed further into being a shy, anxious child. My anxiety was elevated by the loudness that reverberated so often within the walls of my dingy home.
Veronica and Howard’s hate-filled relationship tormented all of us for two more years. I tried to close my ears to the words that would never be uttered in churches or in other children’s homes.
One gloomy northern California day, after six heavenly months of peace, my foster parents packed me in their car and headed back to the house with no paint. Nothing my kind new dad or my wonderful new mom said to me could cheer me during the long drive south. Our mutual sadness enveloped the inside of the car like a black fog, becoming denser with each passing mile. Soon no one was even attempting to speak cheery, meaningless words of comfort.
Even my sweet eight-year-old brother couldn’t talk me out of the corner where I scrunched up against the wall, hiding, my eyes tightly shut. Holding out his hand to me, Ronnie said, “Come on, Dawnie, these are nice people and they are going to take you for a ride in their big car.”
I shook my head from side to side, too scared to talk, and my brother begged me, “Please Dawnie, just come say hi to them. They have a baby doll for you in the car and some candy. I saw it. Everything will be okay. Just come out, pleeeease.”
As previously stated, I’m posting weekly excerpts from my book, Ragdoll Redeemed: Growing up in the Shadow of Marilyn Monroe, because I wanted a break from the pressure of writing a blog topic. At the same time, I’m not quite ready to completely shut down my blog site. Given this self-imposed dilemma, I’m endeavoring to post educational information that somewhat coincides with my book excerpts.
I can totally relate to the symptoms stated in the following article on Authoritarian Parenting Style.
The “Authoritarian Parenting Style” is an extremely strict form of parenting that expects a child to adhere to rules and regulations set out by the parents with little or no input or communication from the child.
Developmental psychologist Diana Baumrind in her studies based on the dimensions of “Parental Responsiveness” and “Parental Demandingness” conclude that: The authoritarian parenting style is a harsh, rigid emotional climate that is low in parental responsiveness (the nurturing aspect of the child) and high in parental demandingness (control over the child).
