Second Hand

My master blog team and I had a disagreement over the holidays. I had written about domestic abuse and the women and friends I had been in contact with and had not been able to help.

Domestic abuse awareness is on the rise during the holidays. It had been on the news with the message to “Please recognize it, stop it.” I wanted to call attention to this and intercede in any way I could.

They, the blog team in unison, told me I was behind a wall, looking through a glass door, and that I was ignorant, offensive and insensitive. I admit to one.

They each have jobs to do to get the blog out and each is an expert at their specific respective job. It is important to not post inaccurate information. I research if I include what I think is factual. My opinions are my own. I write my grief or about my grief, not what someone thinks I should. If I write what someone said, I identify that as said by another, but protect the one who said it.

The team demanded I remove the information about domestic abuse I had written. They said it was about domestic abuse, an insult and inaccurate. I reluctantly agreed, leaving the post as what I thought was hollow.

Censure is dangerous on a broader scale. It is how democracies are undermined. The written word may hurt and stir up horrible memories, but when truthful can have positive outcomes in regard to domestic abuse. Help can be made available, support given, and intercession encouraged by authorities. Therapy is available when indicated. Again, on a broader scale, remaining silent is the second way democracy is undermined. And when domestic abuse is kept hidden and silent, atrocities are continued.

My wife did social work at one time. She was not conventional. When involved with domestic abuse in some instances, she would do something to shock the victim. I am not a therapist, and have no intention of providing any intervention. What I do is state where I am coming from, and rely on my team when I miss facts.

Coincidentally, a friend from the coast that I hadn’t seen in years (one of the few still alive), called and wanted to get together. She has macular degeneration and wanted me to come to her hotel. Since I have a new lens in one eye, I can still drive at night and what a reunion we had.

She knew I was writing a blog and inquired how it was going. I told her we had a dustup, and explained specifically what I had written about domestic abuse.

And an amazing thing happened.

The door opened.

She said “I am a domestic abuse survivor.”

I had known her for years, was friends, and did not know that.

She had a lot of medical issues over the years and we had shared information about the conditions, bad providers, insurance issues and frustrations.

So I dumped a lot of abouts on her, probably inappropriately.

What my psychologist friend had told me years ago, (her practice mainly consisted of treating those with self-defeating behaviors, depression and other anxiety disorders), she was convinced these resulted from early domestic abuse in any form, especially sexual abuse. There was no scientific evidence to support that, but it was her strong belief.

She likened domestic abuse to a splinter in the hand, or the heart. Inflammation would occur. Fluids and pus would build up around it. If this wasn’t released, a coating would develop to contain it, but the pus would find a way to leak out. It would result in medical and emotional disorders, such as rheumatoid arthritis, eczema, eating disorders, self-mutilation and depression developed as a means to cope. If the body had been hit, it would remember where, and behavior would develop to protect those locations or disease would develop there.

These pockets of pus would be hidden, forgotten, until something would happen to recall the forgotten memories. The memories that could be dealt with, utilizing adult skills and courage through therapy.

My friend put my abouts into perspective, brought our conversation back to us, said “Wow, I escaped the abuse early on by being absent, staying away from the house, blaming my mother. You know about my first marriage. It was a bad choice. I escaped from that too, and I have had a lot of medical issues. I hadn’t related them. I have to think about this and process it. See if it fits.”

And another door opened.

I told her I had sexual abuse in my family. The fall out and anxiety resulting from it was so severe I had developed a protective coating around my entire self. I had taught myself how to show no emotion, be absent from the house and everyone in it. As a consequence, I missed developmental milestones, interacting with others and learning to be social.

My friend and I discussed how all of this had affected us, the decisions we had made, the courage we did have to be in control of our lives. We examined choices available to those still in abusive situations, choices with consequences affecting their very lives, some no-win choices and decisions, and those who had history and became a survivor. Neither of us could say what is the right thing to do. We agreed we can only provide love and encouragement for those seeking help.

Our sharing deepened our love for each other.

We both, my friend and I, had been fortunate in spite of the loads we had been carrying. We both were able to be successful in our jobs and, best of all, we both had been found by someone who loved us, who protected us and stayed with us.

Until they both died.

Leaving us adrift, doing the best we can.

Contemplation: How much should one invade in another’s life, trying to be helpful?

Let me know how you are doing. I care.

If you are in an abusive situation, there is a hotline (1-800-799-SAFE [7233]). Agencies, legal interventions and more are there to provide help.

This blog isn’t about taking on social issues affecting me. It’s about recovery from loss, but there are issues that warrant attention that are intensified by loss.

Stay tuned for more.

Sincerely,

Lynn Brooke

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Photo Credit: © 2024 Rachel Gareau