How to Share Your Story of Abuse and How it Helps You to Heal

This is all i can do. Everyday i be beat and punished for the smallest things. I try to do everything in my power to make them happy but they always make my life unlivable.

My mother and father were not rich, but they were always respected by everyone who knew them. There was never yelling or anger in our house. I was born into a family of mother, father, and three brothers, and another male cousin whose mother died when he was born. The two oldest brothers left home just before I was born on September and 3, 1942. The oldest brothers left home, and joined the Merchant Marines. When Japan destroyed Pearl Harbor in December 1941, there was no way of knowing if my brother was there. I was born 9 months later and believe I was a mistake that was conceived by my parent’s worry.about their son. My mother had been told by the doctor she should never go through another pregnancy. I was never told what happened, but my youngest brother, had never understood why he had been sent away for several weeks when he ( six years old) was sent to live with an aunt for several weeks. I never was given any details of my birth, but the first baby picture of myself was taken when I was about a year old. I was being held by a nurse with a complete uniform.My mother read a lot and she read about a company in New Orleans about the large ships who guide those ships in and out of New Orleans. She called him and asked if he would interview her son whose last name was the same as his.
He was accepted and had a great life!
In the meantime I was mostly left alone when my two brother were at school. my mother stayed busy and I spent time alone outside playing with a dog next door.
When I srtarted going to school, I was totally lost. I had no idea why I could not understand. I looked at words, but had no idea what they were. I could not read! I could not spell, and the only thing about school was being with friends. I had nightmares about being locked up in a little one room with a window so I could see friends playing, but I could not even lift my arm to wave at them.
I tried so hard and somehow I managed to get by.
My mother never held me and tried to make me feel that she loved me. She even forbade me to be friends with kids whose families were what she callled “trash”.
Church became my happiness.
And even today I cannot spell correctly
When I was graduating from 8th grade, my girlfriend and her boyfriend had another friend and they invited me to go with them to the graduation. My mother finally said I could go, but we were not to leave before the end of the dance. My girlfriend’s mother came and gave permission for us to leave to be taken to eat. It was the first time I had ever been invited to a restaurant and I was so happy, but when we arrived home,, my mother came screaming from the door. She told three friends to never come to our house again or even show their faces here again. I ran into the house and started crying. She had gone to the dance and I was not there. No explanation, not any discussion! That was my first thought of killing myself.
High school was even worse. And that was when killing myself felt like that was the only thing to do. I tried, but we only had aspirin and I took so many that I thought it do the job. It did not, but she never spoke to me about it and I began to hate her.
On and on, and I fell in love with Norman. We wanted to get married. I was a virgin, and he agreed to wait until we were married. My mother found a way to make me lose the man (to this day) that loved me and now I have to live with that for the rest of my life. That will not be long—- I am 82 years old and ready to get out of this life.
After Norman, I was raped and never told anyone. I guess I knew I would be blamed.
I eloped and married a man who I believed loved me, but he abused me just like my mother. We had two boys and he abused both of them as well. When I devorced him it was too late. Our first son was the love of my life, but he turned to drugs. His father physically abused him behind my back. Our second son has been able to overcome physical disabilities and is living with me. He is smart, but he only sees things as right or wrong— no in between. I wish I could be happy, but it can not happen.

This is an incredibly thoughtful and empowering guide for survivors seeking to share their stories. The sensitivity, clarity, and practical wisdom offered here create a safe and supportive framework for navigating such a deeply personal process. Your commitment to advocacy, healing, and survivor empowerment is evident throughout, and this resource will undoubtedly serve as a beacon of encouragement and strength for many. Thank you for this important and compassionate work.

I kept asking myself: “Is it me?”That was always the question. Over and over. I didn't understand why. What was I doing wrong?
Because the abuse wasn’t always clear.  Sometimes it was hidden. Sometimes I couldn’t even explain what was wrong. And when I did try, no one believed me. Or they minimized it. Or they blamed me. That’s the double abuse—first being hurt, then being dismissed.

I grew up in it. An ether of abuse. Everywhere. Silent. Constant. I was told I was too sensitive, that I couldn't take a joke. I was told not to cry, or "I'll give you something to cry about." The worst, worse than the belt or the slaps, was when my mom stopped talking to me. Sometimes for hours, for days, she didn't make eye contact, wouldn't talk to me, and then just as suddenly she would turn to me, make eye contact,  and say, "Oh, did you say something to me?" and just as suddenly as it started, it ended. I never knew why, I never knew what was wrong with me. I learned to stay on guard. Hypervigilant. Always scanning.  Always waiting.

I got married at 25 years old and divorced at 45. My husband was physically, sexually, verbally, and emotionally abusive. If I said “stop,” he continued, and it escalated. He loved Corvettes and loved to drive them fast. I was not the only one who got frightened when riding in the car with him. He drove fast, recklessly, changing lanes constantly, and it terrified me. One day, I was so scared that I told him to stop the car. I got out. I walked home. We never spoke about it, and I never rode with him after that.

Years later, I talked with him, I tried to make him aware that he was hurting me, and doing things that scared me. He said, "I don't remember you telling me anything like that. It's news to me." I brought up the time I walked home. He said, "Oh yeah. I kinda remember that, but you didn't have to walk very far." My fear meant nothing to him.

I was very fond of my niece. When her mom kicked her out, she asked to stay with me. I told her that she could stay for two weeks. Two weeks became two years. She was depressed, drinking, and I tried to help her. We were close, and I told her about being raped. She was shocked, and she was empathetic. I felt safe.

Time went by. She began to party all night and drag herself to work the next day. Every night, she brought home a man she met on Tinder.  A  strange man walking into my kitchen at 7 am scared me. I told her it's not ok, but it kept happening. One morning, after the man left,  I told her It scares me, it's not okay, don't do it, she can't keep bringing strange men home like that. It has to stop. She looked at me and quickly walked off to her bedroom. A few minutes later, she came back and said, “In my defense—they’re not strangers to me.” That hit hard. She knew my history. She knew why it scared me. But her “defense” mattered more to her than my safety. That’s when I told her to move out. 

My brother, her dad, came to help her pack. While they were packing, I needed to leave for an appointment, and I told them they needed to leave; they would have to finish later. I didn't trust them in my house alone. Suddenly, my brother stepped between me and the front door. He blocked me in my own doorway. Planted his feet. Refused to move. I had to call the cops. That night, I slept peacefully for the first time in months. I haven't seen or talked with them since.

Even friendships. Everyone thought she was nice, sweet, and kind. But often something just didn't feel right. Just like before, I didn't have words for it. It took me a long time to see a pattern – a different person, but the same pattern, and I knew it was going to get worse. It already had.  A  snide remark, calling me too sensitive, I couldn't take a joke. And anger, and it was getting worse.  I promised myself that I will never let anyone treat me like that again. 

Abuse gets inside you. It rewires you. It makes you question reality. It makes you small. It makes you live in hypervigilance. It makes you wonder, over and over—“Is it me?”

It wasn’t me.

I have come to realize two things over the last few months. The first is that I am a victim of narcissistic abuse by my parents, and the second is that I am a victim of emotional incest. I have been doing extensive research on these two subjects, and the more I learn the more my past and my parent's behavior makes sense. I have memories of my mother harshly berating me one minute and then love-bombing me the next. I remember her using me as emotional support for her issues while never supporting me when i needed her. I remember her touching me and smothering me in a way that made me feel dirty and gross. I have come to realize that I was effectively brainwashed into worshipping my parents as false idols. When I started confronting them about their past behavior after I broke down crying when i went to church again for the first time in many years they kept insisting that I was remembering things wrong, that they didn't know what i was talking about, or that I should just get over it. From what I have researched these three traits are known as gaslighting, playing dumb, and toxic positivity, which are all traits of those with narcissistic personality disorder. I know that I probably shouldn't have but I continued to confront them about both their past and present toxic behavior towards me, like how I kept trying to explain myself to them and they just kept pretending like they didn't know what I was talking about. Eventually it reached a tipping point and now they are now kicking me out. It feels like my whole world is unraveling and I don't know what to do next. I will admit that I might be wrong about my parents, but I am almost 90% sure that I am right.