Sunday, January 27, 2013

When Women Abuse: Food For Thought

                                                                                          A True Story
In the early months of her pregnancy she was sitting at the back of the bus while her boyfriend and father of her unborn baby flirted with the girls at the front of the bus. Throughout the ride she made an effort not to allow herself to get jealous – even though just over a month ago her boyfriend confessed to her – after making her promise that she would not get mad – that he had been sexually involved with another woman. She didn’t let him see her get angry; she wouldn’t even allow herself to cry in his presence because of that promise. And she was not going to allow herself now to be “that” kind of jealous girl. She had more important things to worry about with the new baby on the way if she was going to be a good, responsible mother, after all.

The bus came to a halt at the very top of his street, which was on a hill. She picked up his books and stepped off the bus, her boyfriend following closely behind her. As soon as the loud engine of the bus faded away in the distance, he broke the silence with an announcement:

“I wish you were more like those girls. You never want to party or have fun.”

She instantly felt a surge of anger at the thought. She was trying very hard to straighten her life up for their child. She stopped drinking and doing drugs; she quit the party scene. This was a responsibility he had yet to take seriously. While she did the hard things and worried about her child’s future, he got drunk and messed around. She dropped his books in protest and started down the hill, his papers flying every which way in the wind.

“Get back here, you slut, and pick up my stuff!” He screamed behind her.

She walked on until quick footsteps sounded loudly behind her,she felt a blunt hit on the back, and she found herself laying face-first on the ground.

“Get back up there and pick up my books!” He demanded after pushing her down on the sidewalk with the full force of his speed behind him.

But she didn’t. She got up, crying, worrying about her unborn child and aching that he would do this to her and the baby. She could barely catch her breath under the weight of the betrayal and shock. She ran to his house and locked herself in the washroom as he started back up the hill to collect his books and papers.

Upon entering the house, he threw down his belongings and proceeded up the stairs to pound on the bathroom door, shouting angrily and demanding that she open the door. She refused, needing some time alone, not knowing what to think or to do.

“Fine!” He snarled. And he grabbed the phone to “call another girl." When she heard what he was doing she bolted out of the washroom, took hold of the vacuum cord that was lying on the floor beside him, and before she even realized what she was doing, she found herself hovered over him with her hand raised and ready to whip him with it.

...And then she seen the fear in his face. She was immediately taken back by what she was doing. “How could I do this?” She thought. “What is the matter with me?” "What has become of me?"
No sooner did she drop her hand to her side and release the cord and he had pounced on her with everything he had, pounding on her with his fists in an uncontrollable rage. Everything turned into a blur until she found herself riding home with her mother late that night, balling not because he had beaten her up, but because she thought she was going crazy (how could she have almost hit him like that?) and blamed herself for the entire incident.

"What's wrong with me, mom? How could I do that?" she pleaded to know. "I think I am going crazy."

If the police had been called and they had asked her boyfriend what happened, he would have probably reported that he acted out of self defense. He would talk about how “crazy” she is. She would likely have agreed that she was going crazy, still spinning with confusion and pangs of guilt and shame over what she almost did to him. The police would likely have filed the incident under “mutual domestic violence.” Her boyfriend would have reported himself as a victim of “male abuse” because she almost hit him with a vacuum cord.

Do you think he would tell the WHOLE story?

Not likely.

In his egotistical estimation, he hadn't done anything wrong at all. He felt entirely entitled to do every thing he did. The whole world revolves around him, after all. She was already conditioned to question her own reality and take the blame because for years he has been psychologically abusing her. For years he has been playing mind games with her - "joking" about raping her grandmother, "joking" about taking her child and finding a new mommy, inviting her older brother to join him in calling her a slut, forcing her to have sex against her will, cutting himself up with broken glass and blaming her, pounding her head on the basement concrete and then acting as if it never happened.
If he could make himself look like the victim, and she the abuser, he could use these people as allies to reinforce her self-doubt and ultimately strengthen his control over her. At the very least, he could use their pity to feel justified in his own eyes.

These are things we need to be wary of the next time we hear a story of a victim of "male abuse." Not to say it doesn't happen; it does. But it doesn't happen on the scale that some Men's Rights activists pretend it does. And when it does happen, there just might be more to the story than he is letting on.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

My Epic Domestic Abuse Fail

Am I a horrible person? Will and I just watched “The Human Experience” and something in the program triggered him to tearfully relay to me a conversation he had with his counselor.

Apparently he can’t stand it when children are hurt. Go figure. That’s just really strange to me considering he has abused and treated my son cruelly for the entire 16 years of his life. As he was sitting there crying to me about his painful childhood, I was literally getting sick to my stomach thinking he was a hypocrite.  Is he delusional? Does he not realize that he himself is a child abuser?
Then I remembered an appointment I had with some Christian counselors a few years back in which I was at the end of my rope with his mistreatment toward my son and was desperate for something to give. My husband sat in that office crying like a baby because of “how his father treated him.” I sat there completely numb. I guess the counselors noticed my indifference to his pity trip and thought they better appeal to me to care. “Do you see how he is crying?” They asked me. “How does it make you feel that Will is hurting like this?”

The bastard basically tortured my son – my flesh and blood – my beautiful little boy. He ruined that kid. He devastated him emotionally and psychologically. He beat on him. He pushed him and poked him, tripped him and pinched him, squeezed him, rubbed his face in urine, beat his dog and took all his property, and grabbed any opportunity he could to squelch any fraction of joy in his life.  
And I am supposed to care about HIS feelings?

Do they not understand where my loyalty lies? Do they not get that this grown man’s ‘pain’ is irrelevant to his abuse of my son? Do they not comprehend that this is a damned excuse? I’m supposed to just forget all the ways that he damaged my son growing up and that he has never even truly apologised for it or tried to rectify what he had broken? How about the fact that he shifted the blame for his abuse of my son on to my son and I? I watched him shatter my son’s heart into a million pieces. I was a witness to the sheer pain written all across the little face of my son repeatedly as he pushed him away any time my son tried to hug him or sit near him. The fear on my son’s face when he choked him; The helplessness and hopelessness each time he sucked the life out of my son and eagerly said no to every little thing he asked for; How little, ashamed, worthless, and flawed he made my son feel when he made fun of his clothes, his hair, and his cologne. He even picked a fight with my son because he was angry that my son’s feet outgrew his. Did he feel like a lesser man, maybe?

And now he cries crocodile tears, not because of the trauma and pain that he has caused my son or because of the irreparable damage he has done to my son’s development and self-worth – and not because of the rifts he’s put between my children and between the children and myself – and not because of the years I wasted blaming myself, trying to make it better, walking on eggshells and orienting my entire life around his crap attitude. His tears were not because I almost committed suicide out of sheer hopelessness over the situation in my home either. Nope. His crocodile tears are because of “all the pain he felt when he was a child.”

Poor. Baby.

I felt a lot of pain growing up too. No, I didn’t get chased by my dad with a machete. But I did get rejected and abandoned by my father. And I did get beat up by my step-dad. And I did live in an unhealthy relationship with my mother and then get kicked out at fourteen. And I did get coerced into prostitution, assaulted and violated on many occasions, and I suffered some viscous attacks by the father of my son. That didn’t drive me to tear down a child. On the contrary, because I knew what it was like to be treated that way, I made a choice early on to never do those things to my kids or allow anyone else to hurt them that way.

Apparently I failed on the latter.

I made a mistake by letting that man back in my house. I sit here angry all the time now the more I learn about what he is all about. Honestly, I think I am getting to the point where I am outgrowing him.
I am sorry I didn’t protect my son early on. I am so sorry for the pain and suffering I have caused him. I am sorry that didn’t listen to the child workers years ago who told me he was ruining my son. And above all, I am sorry that I trusted Christians to help me to deal with the problem.

I wish...I wish I could back in time and protect my son. I could have prevented the suffering in his life and the way he hates himself now. But I didn't. And now I can't undo it.

What a mockery that man's tears are to me now.

Mocking tears, haunting tears              
Subtle, empty, taunting tears
Mocking tears, talking tears
Laughing, lying, shocking tears

Did once you well for me to see
my worth mirrored back at me?
How cruel! You warm the rival’s cheek
This soft betrayal; the wound cuts deep
I beckoned to you; you cared naught
Now ally to the pain he wrought

Mocking tears, haunting tears
Distant, icy, taunting tears
Mocking tears, talking tears
Spiteful, painful, shocking tears

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

In memory of the child of my heart...

This coming Friday marks the day that our little Elam went to be be with Jesus five years ago.
We miss you always and live in hope for the day we will meet face to face.

Elam Jeremiah Mendoza
Born sleeping, July 20th, 2007, at just four months gestation.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Once Again for grandma

Kids did a terrific job singing Once Again for grandma's birthday.

Monday, April 30, 2012

The invisible man: Reflections on Prostitution

Please visit and listen for a good analysis of the recent Ontario Court ruling to strike down laws regulating prostitution. Also good for Christians who want to understand this inherently exploitative institution and who want to get involved in the fight for justice.

The invisible man: Reflections on the Bedford case |