Growth of Domestic Violence

Surprisingly, there are still many people today who do not fully comprehend the meaning of those 3 little words when it refers to domestic abuse and violence. Once abuse starts, it truly becomes the common tie for settling any and all domestic matters, and as insane as it sounds, it also can become the teaching ground for violence to continue, and even escalate, with the next generation.

I was raised in a home where domestic violence became an almost daily event and took many forms - shouting, accusations, shoving, punching, destroying household items, throwing food out of the window because it was a donation from a friend, acquaintance or family, dragging the Christmas tree down to the dumpster because it cost $7 that could have been spent on food, and yes, even death. My mother was a victim of domestic violence and I and my siblings were witnessed to it all. It did end eventually, with her death. Keep in mind, domestic violence knows no color boundaries, no mapped sections of the world, no area designations - it can be found in the most affluent neighborhoods as well as the less affluent. It is not just the poor, although it seems to thrive more for them. I have witnessed it on street corners, in cars, on public transportation and in restaurants. And once again, much to my dismay, I am witness to the beginning of domestic violence involving a very close friend and her live-in companion. She doesn't see it because she has never been witness to the subtleties of a monster that evolves over time and then take on a life of its own.

I remember as a young girl, hearing the slaps that eventually became dull thuds (my mothers head hitting the floor or wall) from being shoved and punched by my father. There were few words - sometimes just "NO" or "Stop Bob". But this also was only a prelude to a more degrading act - rape. I know my mother tried not to scream or holler so as to not wake us (6 kids), but the aftermath was there each morning - black eyes, bruised arms and legs, a red bump somewhere on her head, split lip. When I was very young, I would put the pillow over my head in the hopes I would not hear what was going on (doesn't work). As I grew older, I tried to intervene. One time, my attempt at intervention almost cost me my life - my father put his hands around my neck and applied pressure - all I remember is blackness, and then dropping to the floor. After that, I knew it was my time to escape. I went into the military where I, not really knowing the difference between love and abuse or that they really are not companions in love, almost ended up in the exact type of relationship - accepting abuse as a form of love and actually thriving on it. But that's another story that actually had a happy ending.

As kids, we didn't know what to do and most times, and what I remember most times, we did nothing for fear of not knowing what to do. The police were called a numerous times, but the police did nothing except walk my father outside to calm down and then bring him back. Our Parish Priest - what a joke! "Pauline - remember your vows to love, honor and obey. Pray with me that Bob will see the error of his ways and stop drinking. In the meantime, your faith will keep you strong". They barely tolerated us and barely acknowledged us as being part of the "clan". You see, we were raised in the Catholic faith and because we knew no other life, we accepted this as the norm and believed the words of our Parish Priest. My mother listened to Father Burke and prayed with him (sometimes at our house) that my father would stop drinking, stop beating on us and our mother, stop gambling and most of all, give my mother enough money to feed us. The abuse continued.

My mother's family - another joke. There were times when she took us and left and we all stayed with one of her sisters either in the basement or camped out in the living room. It was never for very long though. She always went back because there were no other options available. That lack of options was her death warrant. My mother did eventually manage to escape somewhat, by getting a job at a bookbinder, finding a place to rent without my father and then leaving one day while he was at work. But he was only out of the house, not out of our lives. Restraining Order? Another joke - sometimes it worked - only sometimes. But, we didn't know that it was already too late.

From a rented house with a sagging porch, peeling paint and bad plumbing, to her qualifying for a new 4 bedroom home that no one else had ever lived in, was a monumental accomplishment for her. She actually got to enjoy her new home for 13 months before she died.

You see - the beatings had stopped, but the damage had already been done. My mother died from multiple brain tumors/blood clots on her brain from the years of abuse and not being able to see a doctor. The Surgeon said there were more tumors than the scan indicated and they were too numerous to remove without extensive damage to her brain. Why do I think that the beatings caused this? Because I needed to know and the Surgeon would only acknowledged my suspicions that the tumors/blood clots could have been caused by multiple blows to the head over a long period of time, left unchecked and untreated. I know the abuse she endured was the cause and I know who caused them.

My father killed my mother. She was only 46 years old when she died August 13, 1972.

I still miss her. My father is dead - heart attack 3 years later. He got off easy. I will never forgive him. I'm not that strong.

This is a very short version of growing up in domestic violence. And yes - to remember and actually write it out was very difficult at best. But through the renewed tears, anger and distress, it is capsulated as I remember. If it will save just one other woman from the ultimate domestic abuse and violence, it is worth it. Most of all, my mother would approve.