My dream is for every child, teen, woman, man, and animal that’s being abused to be rescued from their nightmare of terror and hell!
Here’s my story.
Growing up abusers lived all around me. Yet my parents had no idea. There were signs. Red flags everywhere.
Most 2 year olds don’t pull all their hair out, bang their head on a hardwood floor until they pass out, and wake up with night terrors every night. But like most parents, my mom and dad were busy. They both worked full time, and I’m sure they just thought it was a phase that I’d grow out of. And I guess in a way I did. My hair eventually grew back, and I guess I didn’t have any permanent brain damage from the head banging, but the night terrors held on like a curse.
Dirty hands were touching me, (boys, men, even girls and women) forcing me to do the unthinkable. I didn’t want to do those things. Really I didn’t. But if I didn’t do what they said, I knew they would hurt me more. So I tried to take my mind to a safe place and pretend it wasn’t happening.
I couldn’t decipher reality from my dreams anymore. At night, when I did finally fall asleep, I’d wake up in a cold sweat, unable to breathe. Panic stricken, feeling like I was being suffocated, I’d wake my mom. (At twelve years old I still slept with my mom or I couldn’t sleep, and even then I woke up at least once a night.)
“It was just a bad dream,” she’d say, “go back to sleep.”
My mom wasn’t a good listener. She worked hard eight hours a day in a nursing home scrubbing and waxing floors, the old fashioned way. Exhausted and looking for a quick fix, she thought drugs were the answer.
“Here, take these,” she said, giving me a couple pills. “The doctor said this will help you sleep.”
After taking the pills I was out cold. When I woke up it was dark and everyone was up. I was confused. Was it morning already? I found out it was the next night and everyone was getting ready for bed again. Now I was wide awake.
I had already missed a ton of school because I had mononucleosis every other week it seemed. Not that I minded. Being at home was better than being bullied and made fun of at school. So one night, instead of giving me the pills, when I woke up afraid, my mom actually sat up with me and read something in the Bible. I honestly don’t remember what it was, but I do remember I was able to sleep after that, better than I had with the pills and I woke up in time for school.
Finally I decided maybe if I acted tougher, kids would leave me alone. So although terrified, and begging that I would not see blood, I got into a fight with this boy who thought he was all that and I actually won. That day I became the class hero, everyone thought I was cool, and pretty much left me alone. Still the abuse in the hood continued. There was always a bigger bully moving in, and I was still terrified to fight back or tell.
My mom probably wouldn’t listen anyways. She always tended to blame things on me or call me a slut. All I wanted was her love, so I stayed still. Even when I went up the street to babysit and the woman’s husband came home early and made me do detestable things I said nothing.
He’d be buzzed out of his mind and put his hands and lips all over me. I can still taste the sour beer and cigarettes. YUCK! I begged him to stop, told him “NO!” and pushed him away, but he wouldn’t let me go until he finished. By that time it would be pitch black outside and no one would be awake when I got home. I locked the door and took a steaming hot shower, drowning in my own tears, fearing all the while he was going to break in and do it all over again.
I knew it was my fault though, because I kept going back up there, every time his wife called. Strange, but when she called, all I thought about was making money and doing her a favor so she could get away for awhile, not the abuse I’d suffer, or the fact that her husband could come home early. I wanted out, but there didn’t seem to be a way out, so I learned to just take myself to that safe place and keep quiet.
That’s why when I met my boyfriend at 13, and he said he loved me and would protect me, I thought my dreams had finally come true. It’s what I’d wanted all my life anyway—love—true love. Since he was four years older, and we went to different schools, we started cutting class to be together. Soon the courts got involved, put me on house arrest for truancy, and forbid us to see each other.
We sent love letters secretly through the mail. I’d watch through the living room window every night as he dropped a letter off and took the one I wrote for him. One day we agreed to meet on the back road.
“Let’s just run away,” he said staring into my eyes. “We can hitchhike and leave town right now.”
I was scared and excited at the same time. It sounded like the perfect plan. Now no one could stop us from being together.
Our dream of being together, turned out to be another one of my nightmares. Not only was I more abused out there (kidnapped, beaten, raped, forced into dancing and prostitution) and wanted to come home numerous times, but he turned on me too and began drinking and beating me. He said he was sorry, with real tears in his eyes, swore he’d never do it again, and sadly I believed him. I thought his jealousy meant that he loved me. WRONG!
That’s why I wrote my book “Run For Your Life” based on my true story of dating violence, not so I can get rich and famous, but so I can reach out to others who may be in dangerous relationships, to show them that they don’t have to put up with it, and that they need to get out before it’s too late. I almost didn’t make it out alive. In fact he nearly killed me.
Abuse is a nightmare! My dream is to save other people lives. Please help me by passing this story on, ordering the book for you or a friend, or donate into this organization so we can give books to those who need them! www.runtolife.org
Here’s my story.
Growing up abusers lived all around me. Yet my parents had no idea. There were signs. Red flags everywhere.
Most 2 year olds don’t pull all their hair out, bang their head on a hardwood floor until they pass out, and wake up with night terrors every night. But like most parents, my mom and dad were busy. They both worked full time, and I’m sure they just thought it was a phase that I’d grow out of. And I guess in a way I did. My hair eventually grew back, and I guess I didn’t have any permanent brain damage from the head banging, but the night terrors held on like a curse.
Dirty hands were touching me, (boys, men, even girls and women) forcing me to do the unthinkable. I didn’t want to do those things. Really I didn’t. But if I didn’t do what they said, I knew they would hurt me more. So I tried to take my mind to a safe place and pretend it wasn’t happening.
I couldn’t decipher reality from my dreams anymore. At night, when I did finally fall asleep, I’d wake up in a cold sweat, unable to breathe. Panic stricken, feeling like I was being suffocated, I’d wake my mom. (At twelve years old I still slept with my mom or I couldn’t sleep, and even then I woke up at least once a night.)
“It was just a bad dream,” she’d say, “go back to sleep.”
My mom wasn’t a good listener. She worked hard eight hours a day in a nursing home scrubbing and waxing floors, the old fashioned way. Exhausted and looking for a quick fix, she thought drugs were the answer.
“Here, take these,” she said, giving me a couple pills. “The doctor said this will help you sleep.”
After taking the pills I was out cold. When I woke up it was dark and everyone was up. I was confused. Was it morning already? I found out it was the next night and everyone was getting ready for bed again. Now I was wide awake.
I had already missed a ton of school because I had mononucleosis every other week it seemed. Not that I minded. Being at home was better than being bullied and made fun of at school. So one night, instead of giving me the pills, when I woke up afraid, my mom actually sat up with me and read something in the Bible. I honestly don’t remember what it was, but I do remember I was able to sleep after that, better than I had with the pills and I woke up in time for school.
Finally I decided maybe if I acted tougher, kids would leave me alone. So although terrified, and begging that I would not see blood, I got into a fight with this boy who thought he was all that and I actually won. That day I became the class hero, everyone thought I was cool, and pretty much left me alone. Still the abuse in the hood continued. There was always a bigger bully moving in, and I was still terrified to fight back or tell.
My mom probably wouldn’t listen anyways. She always tended to blame things on me or call me a slut. All I wanted was her love, so I stayed still. Even when I went up the street to babysit and the woman’s husband came home early and made me do detestable things I said nothing.
He’d be buzzed out of his mind and put his hands and lips all over me. I can still taste the sour beer and cigarettes. YUCK! I begged him to stop, told him “NO!” and pushed him away, but he wouldn’t let me go until he finished. By that time it would be pitch black outside and no one would be awake when I got home. I locked the door and took a steaming hot shower, drowning in my own tears, fearing all the while he was going to break in and do it all over again.
I knew it was my fault though, because I kept going back up there, every time his wife called. Strange, but when she called, all I thought about was making money and doing her a favor so she could get away for awhile, not the abuse I’d suffer, or the fact that her husband could come home early. I wanted out, but there didn’t seem to be a way out, so I learned to just take myself to that safe place and keep quiet.
That’s why when I met my boyfriend at 13, and he said he loved me and would protect me, I thought my dreams had finally come true. It’s what I’d wanted all my life anyway—love—true love. Since he was four years older, and we went to different schools, we started cutting class to be together. Soon the courts got involved, put me on house arrest for truancy, and forbid us to see each other.
We sent love letters secretly through the mail. I’d watch through the living room window every night as he dropped a letter off and took the one I wrote for him. One day we agreed to meet on the back road.
“Let’s just run away,” he said staring into my eyes. “We can hitchhike and leave town right now.”
I was scared and excited at the same time. It sounded like the perfect plan. Now no one could stop us from being together.
Our dream of being together, turned out to be another one of my nightmares. Not only was I more abused out there (kidnapped, beaten, raped, forced into dancing and prostitution) and wanted to come home numerous times, but he turned on me too and began drinking and beating me. He said he was sorry, with real tears in his eyes, swore he’d never do it again, and sadly I believed him. I thought his jealousy meant that he loved me. WRONG!
That’s why I wrote my book “Run For Your Life” based on my true story of dating violence, not so I can get rich and famous, but so I can reach out to others who may be in dangerous relationships, to show them that they don’t have to put up with it, and that they need to get out before it’s too late. I almost didn’t make it out alive. In fact he nearly killed me.
Abuse is a nightmare! My dream is to save other people lives. Please help me by passing this story on, ordering the book for you or a friend, or donate into this organization so we can give books to those who need them! www.runtolife.org
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