Misunderstood

I wonder if there was a time in my early years when I was ever understood. If so I don't remember it. I recall my parents regularly accusing me of things that were not my heart desire. 

Once I went to kindergarten without wearing any underwear under my very short dress because my mother told me I  would be beaten if I put on any clothing other than the dress she'd laid out.  She was so furious with me for embarrassing her by not wearing underwear. I was simply terrified of the beating and trying so hard to be obedient. but in her mind, I was a vindictive five-year-old, out to humiliate her. 

Being misunderstood meant that everything  I did was twisted with accusation and punished with cruelty. This same pattern continued in my marriage.  My husband would accuse me of things I never even fathomed.  While he was unfaithful, he'd accuse me of being unfaithful, projecting his shame on me.  But what hurt most was when I was seeking God and trying to grow and heal. He'd interpret my fervor for something else. He'd accuse me of thinking I'm so special to God when in fact I felt unloveable to God. He'd abuse me, even threaten my life because he found me praying or worshiping, or because he found out I'd shared the gospel with someone. 

I felt so misunderstood. This trigger of being misunderstood has bled into my adult life.  I fear being misunderstood and when I am, I fall apart. A year ago I left my job feeling so misunderstood. I had uncovered crime but my boss covered her tracks and kept me from telling what happened. She falsely accused me to divert attention away. I felt so misunderstood.  I withdrew into myself and stopped trusting anyone. I didn't even leave my house for many many months.

It has been hard for me to go to therapy weekly because I fear being misunderstood. I am pushing through that fear but it is still there. Slowly I am learning to push past the fear of being misunderstood.  But the truth is the trigger is hit easily. In life, we try to communicate one thing and yet others read a whole different thing. It makes me want to recoil and I'm trying not to yield to the trigger and do so. But In order to heal, I must be vulnerable and risk being misunderstood.

No more beatings

I shudder to think of how many times I have been beaten, or experienced physical abuse.  My earliest memory of physical violence involved being thrown into a crib and hitting my head.  As I grew I was " disciplined". Yet no child should be struck the way I was.  I never knew where the lines were. Did I sing when I should be quiet? Was I too slow, was I just in the way?

I recall being beaten at church because as an eight-year-old girl I was letting my legs swing to the music. I wasn't even aware I was doing it.  I wasn't perfect, sitting still the way my mother wanted so she grabbed me by the ear, hauled me into the bathroom and let loose on me.

I was beaten because a friend ran up to me and gave me a hug.  I didn't know the rule was I wasn't to be hugged or love.  While I didn't receive love or affection at home, I had no clue I'd get beaten the day someone finally hugged me. 

She taught me how to beat a child without bruising them. She'd explain to me which tools bruise and which don't. If the blows are where others might see then it was advisable to use certain tools that bruise less but still burn. For instance, she taught me that using a rubber spatula hurts more but bruises less on bare skin than a wooden spoon.  She beat me with brushes, every kind of kitchen spoon belts and even ping pong paddles.

I remember sitting underneath the clothing in my parents closet as a five-year-old girl. I had been sent to go choose which belt my father would whip me with.  If I had stolen or done something horrible I can almost believe I would have deserved it, but I didn't.  I was hit without cause over and over.

My kid sister would call out from across the house and say " Eve-Marie's bugging me". I wasn't even in the same room. I was minding my own business and a beating would come.  Again and again, I was beaten because I could be.

My mother would have my hand wash all the dishes for a family of 12 and check in on me as Im working away. If she didn't feel the progress was sufficient she'd make me choose a utensil from the drawer and she'd whip my hands until they were red and swollen. Then she'd return ten minutes later and do it again, and again and again and again.

I recall sleeping on the floor in front of the washing machine doing my parents laundry as a small child. I didn't dare move because I'd be beaten.  Once I started folding the laundry I was too slow and was beaten.

You get the idea. I was beaten a lot.  I hate the things I was beaten with. Brushes, ping pong paddles, wooden spoons, spatulas, their hands.  So tonight I painted a painting. I am burning all the things I have been beaten within a bonfire and reclaiming my worth.  No child should be beaten as I was.  I reject that treatment and every item used to harm me.