By Morrene Hauser
It wasn’t until I was in my early 50s that I finally found the courage to face the years of abuse I suffered as a child. Throughout my childhood, I was physically, verbally and sexually abused by my mother and the various toxic men she brought into our lives. We moved often. Due to the many moves, I was unable to form lifelong relationships with my extended family or childhood friends. I grew up a lonely, depressed and anxious child.
Sometimes I laugh when people talk about “the good ole days”, meaning how carefree and happy their childhood was and wishing they could go back. That never pertained to me. I couldn’t wait to grow up and escape the house of horrors I lived in. I have no idea what it feels like to be carefree and loved when I was a child, because my childhood was stolen from me by the abusive people I grew up with, plain and simple.
When I went to college, I did my best to put my past behind me. I naively thought that once I left my abusive home that I would feel better, meaning the depression, anxiety and loneliness would go away. Unfortunately, I had been living with those conditions for so long that, as painful as they were, they were firmly ingrained in me. The depression, anxiety and loneliness followed me from house to house, relationship to relationship, job to job. The pain I felt inside was at times overwhelming, and I had no idea how to make it stop. Some days I just wanted to jump out of my skin and run screaming.
The one thing that really stands out from my childhood is the daily amount of terror that I suffered due to the ongoing abuse. The other thing that stands out is how I had been groomed from an early age to keep quiet about what went on in our house.
“You are NEVER and I mean NEVER to talk about what goes on in our house!” were words that I often heard from my mother when I was growing up. And if I ever made the mistake of talking about what went on at home, there would be hell to pay with my mom’s verbal and physical abuse. I was terrified of her.
Secrets, secrets, secrets. Those sick secrets in our house had to be protected at all costs. I firmly believe that the shroud of secrecy that I grew up with was so ingrained in me at such a young age that it took years for me to finally acknowledge what happened. First of all, to myself, and, more importantly, to be able to talk about what I went through with others without fear of getting in trouble.
When I first started to heal from my childhood, I was filled with unimaginable grief, shock and horror at all I had been through. At this critical time I started writing a book about my childhood.
When I first started writing, it was filled with angry, cuss-filled ramblings as the years and years of buried memories came back. At times it was hard to read. But the thing that shocked me the most was how much I had blocked. Even as I write this, it still shocks me at how much of my childhood I don’t remember.
For a little over 30 years, I was a court reporter. Due to my profession, I had become a very fast typist. As the painful memories came tumbling back, at times I struggled to keep up as the torrent of words spewed from my fingertips onto the keyboard. I knew that those younger versions of me that had been so badly abused and silenced for all those years were aching to tell their painful stories. Finally, I was being heard, if only for myself.
It has taken me seven years to complete the book of my childhood, my masterpiece, “The Good Girl.” I am immensely proud of it. I have spent hours upon hours editing my book and rewriting, adding and deleting as memories surfaced. Each time I read my book, little did I know, but it was slowly chipping away at that heavy wall of grief and pain that I have carried throughout my life.
My book has helped me to understand why I have made certain decisions in my life. It has helped me understand why I had severe insomnia and daily migraines since early childhood and when it started. And how they played a crucial role in my life. It has helped me understand why I had substance abuse issues throughout my life. Writing has also helped me understand my spending patterns and the friends I chose in life. It’s been very eye-opening. But the most important thing I have learned through my writing is that all that happened to me as a child is NOT my fault as I mistakenly believed for years. Like most survivors of abuse, I felt that somehow, I was to blame for the years of abuse I suffered. By the time I was nine years old, I had learned to hate myself. Why am I such a bad girl? I remember wondering what I had done wrong and how I could fix it. It was a heavy load to bear for such a young child. And that self-hatred followed me into my adulthood.
My goal is to get my book published to help other survivors, but so far the right doors have not been opened to me. But one thing I have learned in life is patience. I firmly believe my book is meant to be published. Every day I spend time envisioning the completed product and the many survivors it will help.
My fellow survivors, I highly encourage you to write about your trauma, if only for yourself and your healing. Maybe this book is for your eyes only. Maybe, like me, you want to share your story with other survivors to aid in their healing. Or maybe you want to write your book and have a book burning party. Whatever your motive is, should you decide to write, I can guarantee you there will be pain. But to heal, you will have to walk through the flames once more to get out to the other side. And that, my friends, is healing!
