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Hope restored.

Hope Restored, As Told in 1868

Can hope be restored?

In our time-constrained and limited perspective, we tend to focus on our own little world, our own heartaches, and our own losses. That’s natural, and I am not asking today that we look further, or that we be more concerned about the trials of another. There is time enough for that.

Allow me to share the idea of restored hope.

The beautiful words of this hymn, Whispering Hope, were penned in 1868, nearly 150 years ago. Isn’t it amazing that those people knew, just like us, the burden of hopelessness. They also knew, however, the promise of hope restored.

Soft as the voice of an angel,
Breathing a lesson unheard,
Hope with a gentle persuasion
Whispers her comforting word:
Wait till the darkness is over,
Wait till the tempest is done,
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone.

Refrain:

Whispering hope, oh, how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.

If, in the dusk of the twilight,
Dim be the region afar,
Will not the deepening darkness
Brighten the glimmering star?
Then when the night is upon us,
Why should the heart sink away?
When the dark midnight is over,
Watch for the breaking of day.

Hope, as an anchor so steadfast,
Rends the dark veil for the soul,
Whither the Master has entered,
Robbing the grave of its goal;
Come then, oh, come, glad fruition,
Come to my sad weary heart;
Come, O Thou blest hope of glory,
Never, oh, never depart.

Whispering Hope, Septimus Winner, 1868, Public Domain

Strangulation and Domestic Violence

Domestic Violence, Strangulation and Brain Damage

FACT:  Abusers who strangle their victims are 800% more likely to later murder them.

For so many years, I downplayed the domestic violence I lived with. I didn’t want to be dramatic, to overstate my case, to have people think I was being a baby. I mentioned it on occasion, but I never wanted to spend much time explaining the broken ribs, busted lips and strangulation.  Now, more than 30 years later, I have begun to educate myself, and I don’t like what I’m learning.

Strangling, not choking. I never thought about the nuances of my word choice, but it certainly does sound more violent to say that he strangled me. I don’t like using the word though. It sounds so harsh. Maybe that’s why I always soften it. I mean, did he really strangle me?

Let’s see, all I remember is that he sat on top of my chest, used his knees to pin my arms to my sides and wrapped his hands around my neck. Then he applied pressure to my airway until I could no longer breath. For a while. But wait, I didn’t end up unconscious or dead, so should I call it strangling?

Do we have to wait to die to call it what it is? I recently read an article about the importance of educating police, EMTs and others about the distinctions between choking and strangulation.

Kids choke on hot dogs or hard candy. Adults choke on big pieces of steak or a drink that “goes down the wrong way.” It happens accidentally, and no one is at fault.

Strangulation is what one person does to another. They do it on purpose with the intention of creating fear and causing harm. Sometimes the victim struggles for breath until they are freed. Sometimes they lose consciousness, and sometimes they die.

He strangled me. Now I can say it. Now I wonder why I didn’t call the police and scream, “You need to get over here because my husband just strangled me.” I wonder why I never pressed charges so I would have the opportunity to stand before a judge and say, “Yes, your honor, he strangled me.” I wonder why I didn’t tell my friends, “Get me out of here. This creep just strangled me!”

Now that I accept that he strangled me, I also have to accept a disturbing possibility. Cutting off someone’s oxygen by blocking their airway can result in brain damage in a very short amount of time.

Brain damage. Now that’s harsh. But now I can’t go back and call the police or press charges or stand before a judge or ask my friends to help me. Now all I can do is wait and see what strangling did to me.

Advocate for yourself!  I wish I had.

#domesticviolence #domesticabuse #strangulation #gladtobealive

shadow of fear and insecurity

Take a hike, Shadow of Fear. You are only a memory!

Stop it!  That’s what I’m saying to myself right now. Stop jumping in fear every time you see that shadow. It is only an imitation of the real thing. It doesn’t belong to a person; it belongs to a bad memory. To a bunch of bad memories, actually.

I was minding my own business, walking down the street on a beautiful sunny day, hand in hand with my husband, when out of nowhere the shadow of fear and insecurity appeared. Just like it always does, it blocked out all the sunshine, and it made me afraid and unreasonable.  I thought it was real. I always think it’s real, but it isn’t.

I should know that by now. I mean, that same shadow has been following me around for years, darkening my world with fear and insecurity time after time. It comes when I least expect it; my heart seizes up and my confidence flees. When the shadow comes I forget what is real, and I only see the memories.

I think things like, “You’re ugly; you should lose weight; your husband likes that woman because she is thinner than you; you look disgusting; he thinks she is sexy; why can’t you be sexy; why can’t you look better; no wonder he’s not interested in you anymore.”

I have to keep telling myself that the shadow is only a memory. It is temporary , and it carries no weight. I’ve begun talk back to the shadow, saying things like, “I am beautiful; I am enough; I am lovable; I am good; I deserve to be treated with respect; and there is nothing wrong with me.”

Take a hike, shadow. You and the fear you carry are not welcome anymore.

 

 

Free to be me! I’ve shaken the shame of domestic violence!

I’m not afraid to say it anymore. I am finally free to be me, to be out from under the burden of shame that I carried as a result of domestic violence. For more than 30 years, I worried about protecting anyone and everyone who might be uncomfortable if I spoke about the domestic violence that was a daily part of my first marriage. I worried that some wouldn’t believe me, and that others would accuse me. I worried that I would offend the family and friends of the abuser.

The only thing I never worried about was the cost of remaining silent. I never worried about the emotional wounds inside me that remained untended. I never worried about the buried fears that would eventually erupt. I never worried about me.

Now I’m taking care of me. I’ve finally shaken off the burden of shame, and my freedom is a gift. I want to use my voice to educate people who don’t fully understand the reality and severity of domestic violence. And, as much as I’m able, I am going to use my life as an example to show other victims of domestic violence that they do not need to remain silent.

I am not afraid anymore, and it feels good.