Sara Niles's Blog: Sara Nile's Blog - Posts Tagged "domestic-abuse"

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Is Domestic Violence a Societal Issue:
In response to ongoing dialogue:
"I second both of you in your powerful and accurately worded stances on societal views of domestic abuse.

People tend to examine the world from their own points of reference, which limits their understanding of some issues-that is-if they did not experience it to the same degree then they many not understand it-that in turn, limits the empathetic response and encourages apathy.

Another societal problem with abuse is that many former victims of childhood abuse think they need not think about it again-just move on, stuff it, and pretend it did not happen.This does not fix the problem with the individual, and it does not improve the collective health of society-instead it fosters the 'sweep-it-under-the rug' societal state of denial.

In addition to societal denial,there is societal 'projection' in which the victim is blamed for being 'stupid'....and of course if you can believe that what happened to 'the victim' happened only because they were stupid, then you only have to be 'smart' to not be victimized. The illusion of invulnerability is created and it helps people feel they have control when they say "I would never let that happen to me", not understanding the total dynamic involved. Just as individuals use such tactics to avoid feeling vulnerable-so do collective groups; and eventually, group attitudes become cultural 'norms'...that is what we have now.

In both cases,societal denial and victim blaming- the real issue gets ignored, which is the need to do something to change the cycle of abuse,
that affects huge numbers of children growing up who will have issues as adults. Changing cultural norms is part of what needs to be done (much like in the situation when slavery existed, and when gay people were considered outcasts).

Domestic abuse is extremely widespread and includes all forms of family dysfunction from emotional and psychological abuse by caretakers of both genders, to sexual and physical abuse.As you both stated-many children are affected and this is a BIG issue in our society.When you consider most people addicted to substances and negative behaviors, were childhood abuse victims-and most people in the prisons were childhood abuse victims-this is an issue of pandemic proportions. It is a societal issue, not just an individual one, and will have to be consistently addressed on a societal level in order to change things.

Public awareness and education is essential to changing public perception. The children absorb societal attitudes-and then the children grow up and become the 'new' society"

Sara

The Railroad
Torn From the Inside Out

How I Know

I have survived the most dysfunctional type of early beginning as a small child, and after a short hiatus spent with elderly relatives, I was once again thrown into even worse dysfunction as a teenager. In short, fifty of my sixty years have been spent as either as a victim of violence and abuse or as a survivor in a lifelong state of reconnaissance.  I am a Domestic Violence War Veteran, and as such, I know far too much about abuse firsthand. I know that once the primary abuser is eliminated from the earthquake of a family dynamic, the after shocks of dysfunction linger  from within the family unit for generations; more often than not. The collateral damage  that began when the family was young, grew as it steadily chipped away at the foundations of the family, by slowly destroying its members. Like water on stone, little by little, the rot of domestic violence took its toll.

I married a very intelligent, troubled, and violent man, whose intelligence enabled him to mask his true self by exuding a sweet and charming presentation to the public, while his evil self lurked in the shadows. I had five children with Thomas Niles before I was forced to flee from him over thirty years ago, when I was still a young woman of 29. I expected that my escape with my five children, had ended the abusive cycle of destruction, suffering and sorrow; however, the children already had damaged sense of selves and the world, eroded senses of trust, or total lack of it, and they carried the mold of domestic dysfunction with them. In addition to the dysfunction of domestic violence, my children were forced to do battle with what I call the Three Headed Monster: Domestic Abuse, Mental Illness and Addiction. Each of the 'Monster' heads took a victim: one by suicide, another by mental illness, and the third became a monster himself, absorbing all the ugliness of evil.  Only two of my five children survived on the positive side of life.

Abuse and Dysfunction as a Nation

The casualties in the United States that are directly related to the  Three Headed Monster, are in the hundreds of thousands each year: according to the CDC over 100,000 deaths a year are attributed to alcohol alone, and over 50,000 from drug overdose, over 40,000 from suicides and close to 2000 domestic violence homicides are reported each year (many are not labeled as such), this does not include the thousands of children abused, neglected, or murdered each year. The prisons are full of domestic violence victims, usually as children, and often as adults in the case of female inmates. The broad reaching power and range of the Three Headed Monster, extends into every public sector, including the White House of the United States of America; Including the film industry, the sports arena, and every place you find people, you will find both former victims and sometimes active perpetrators of abuse. Abuse of power, and misuse of control, leads to a an unstable and unbalanced society at its worst, unstable and unbalanced individuals and families at the least. The result is a loosening of the Three Headed Monster, chaos and dysfunction, suffering, and catastrophe.

The saying about Rome was that it fell in a day, which is not literally true, however, while the process of Rome's fall was ongoing, the conquest of Rome was declared abruptly. Rome abused power, festered corruption and exploitation, and allowed the imbalance of chaos and dysfunction to take over the empire and the government, much like a large dysfunctional and abusive family. There are similarities between the Roman decline and Trump's control of the GOP and the government, as the abuse of power through catering to the groups in power while abusing those without, has lead to an unbalanced state of affairs.  The relationship between domestic violence and abuse in the homes of world leaders when they were themselves children, is obvious in the case of President Donald Trump: his childhood based insecurities still drives his ego, and his need to create his own reality through lies, threats and manipulation, are all vestiges of the Three Headed Monster. The imbalance within Trump, created in his own childhood is the reason for the imbalance in the upper echelon of government. This is a paramount example of how far reaching childhood abuse and/or dysfunction is; and more importantly, how society is directly and indirectly affected by dysfunction.

The recent school shooting by Nikolas Cruz, is another example of how the larger society suffers as a whole when even the mental and emotional health of one member is damaged, and under-treated or ignored. It is evident that the most dangerous part of the school shooting was the easy access to a deadly assault weapon, and mental illness was a secondary factor, and both of these factors are part of a dysfunctional society. When society acts as a dysfunctional unit, important issues are neglected and society's children and their needs are not met. When the most powerful faction of society, the governing faction, misuses power and ignores the rights and needs of the people, society as a whole suffers.

Treat the Three Headed Monster

The Three Headed Monster: Mental Illness, Family Dysfunction (Abuse, Violence & Neglect), and Addiction, will wage war against us, if we don't wage war on it first. In order to restore balance in the United States as a Nation Family, we must recognize the needs of the people. In real life terms, funding cuts  to Mental Health programs, Substance Abuse and Addiction programs, and Family Violence programs that deal with sexual assault and abuse, domestic abuse and violence and family health, all amount to Neglect, and Abuse of Power in the name of Greed. The needs of the people require annual expansion of funding and services (and I don't mean 1% as in the recent VAWA renewal) that aid in the prevention and intervention of domestic violence and abuse, mental health treatment, both prevention and treatment, and all substance abuse and addiction services.

Balance the Top-Balance the Bottom

Before the top level of government can reclaim balance, the bottom tier where the people live, needs attention. The creation of legislation that will demand immediate intervention in the case of the mentally ill in need of treatment, as well as secondary responses when treatment is rejected, will not only make society safer, it will offer hope for saving the hopeless individuals who commit atrocities like the one that was perpetrated at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida on Valentine's Day of 2018. Reclaiming balance means taking back the power that has been loosely given to any person capable of buying and Assault-grade weapon like an AR-15, that enabled Nikolas Cruz to effortlessly kill so many so fast.

America is already Great, but its strength is in its people: stop abuse and dysfunction, from the government down, and America will be stronger.

Sara Niles
Torn From the Inside Out

Chapter 1: The Garden of Eden
Sara Niles

From: Torn From the Inside Out

Thunder rattled the window- panes two stories high and lightning split the sky; it was as if the whole world was in turmoil that night. My nerves were keyed up as tight as piano strings, and in a sudden moment of stillness and silence it felt as though my heartbeat was amplified ten times over. He was over a hundred pounds greater than I, nearly a foot taller, and I knew he could move his muscled body into unbelievable sprints. Rain started falling in torrents, while the storm raged outside. I was not afraid of the storms of nature; it was the storm inside this night that I knew I might not survive.

Anticipation was so great that I wanted to scream at him to get it over with, and true to my expectation he lunged for me, and my body did not disappoint me, I flew down the stairs two at a time in my bare-feet. He stalled for mere seconds to enjoy his pronouncement of a death sentence upon me:
“I AM GOING TO KILL YOU—YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BITCH—STONE DEAD!” He screamed.
It was February 13, of the year 1987, the night that I disappeared into a February rainstorm with five children and no place to go. I was twenty-nine years old.

Many people asked of me since that day, many ‘whys’ and I gave many answers. It takes a lot of ‘why’s’ to make a life, mine being no exception. Maya Angelou said ‘you can’t know who I am until you know where I have been’; until you know the circumstances and people who contributed to the making of me, you cannot know me. We all are complicated mixes of many other people and life events. We are all of everything that has ever happened to us. If we suddenly got amnesia, we would cease to exist as who we were, except in the memory of others. My pain is me, and thus my life that once was, is what made me now.

I am the hungry little girl who sat in the sand over fifty years ago waiting to be rescued by an ancient old man, I am Sara Niles, and this is my story.
***
The Deep South, 1957
***
I was born in the bowels of the South where willow trees hang low over ponds and creeks surrounded by the lush growth of woody fern. My beginnings were in a place where knotted old oaks twisted their knurled boughs upwards, their majestic leafage allowing slithers of light to penetrate the shadowy forest floors to lend peeks upon the backs of huge Diamondback rattlesnakes; their gargantuan size owing to seldom meeting the sight of the eyes of man, if ever at all. I was born where the bottomland hoarded teems of wild boars known to rip hunting dogs open from end to end, and where the narrow little graveled roads twisted and wound their way past humble mail boxes, usually the only evidence of the habitations miles into the forest. These humble country homes were usually only accessible by traveling down dirt, tire-rutted roads with strips of ragged grass running down the middle, like frazzled, green ribbon. This was oil country, so oil wells were scattered every few miles, their slow prehistoric movements signaling that the owners were receiving money. Neighbors lived far apart on beautiful little farms or in ragged shacks, with a Cadillac and a television, or neither plumbing nor electric power lines. Depending upon which neighbor you were, you had plenty or nothing at all.

My mother had nothing at all, except seven hungry mouths to feed. She was by everyone’s opinion an exceptionally beautiful woman. Her mother before her was a French white woman from New York, and her father was a black and Indian man; born, bred and still living in the same area. I never met my maternal grandmother, I strongly suspected that she mated with my grandfather on a purely business level. A business that is considered to be one the oldest vices, the one I have to thank for my very existence. My mother was a prostitute. I was an accident she had with a client, a rich white oilman who found her little shack a convenient stop on his trips from town, and she found in him food for her children. Things may have been different for my mother, if a white man, living in a racist time, had not shot her first husband in the back for the unforgivable crime of stealing gas- gas that he swore to pay for that evening when he left the billet woods. It was a time when racism ruled, a ‘cold war’ between blacks and whites established the climate, and therefore no trial ever took place.

It was the year 1957, a date that became a famous marker in the racial history of conflict between Blacks and Whites; when The Little Rock Nine were escorted to school by Federal troops under the order of President Eisenhower to counteract the attempt of Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus to prevent it. Southern racial tensions produced a supreme irony: Federal troops against the National Guard. This visible strife between state and nation was one of the evidences of the racial turmoil of the times. The line of demarcation between Blacks and Whites was decided by color, and I was born on the centerline. My bright light skin marked me as a product of the enemy, the White man in the black community. Black women drawled sweetly to my mother that my long wavy brown hair was so pretty in tones meant to be a reproof to her. I was unacceptable, too white to be black… too black to be white.
We lived in what our relatives fondly called ‘the old homestead’. It was the home built by my great- grandparents, a newly freed slave by the name of Henry Howell and his wife, a full-blooded Crow Indian bearing the European name Charlotte. Henry and Charlotte had twelve children, each born in the front room of this now dilapidated old house. Great old cottonwoods rattled their leaves noisily in the wind in front of the house and massive oaks guarded the back, dwarfing the little outhouse with its pitiful ‘croker sack’ door, made of rough burlap. The exterior of the house bore the aged gray look of hardwood that had never been painted in its century of withstanding the pelting rains and the great extremes of heat and cold. It was a tough, neglected old house, abandoned to my mother to house us in rent-free. She could ill afford to care for the ancient structure that needed attention so badly, or us. The job of watching and caring for us fell to my oldest sister, Francine. She was thirteen years old at my earliest remembrance of her, my brother was twelve, and the rest of our ages ran closely behind. I was 3 1/2 years old.

The house had three entrances. The front and back doors we children were allowed to use freely, but the side door facing the setting sun was off limits to us. It was the ‘business’ door, the door that the strange men used; some used it so often they even knew our names. On a rare occasion when my mother was absent, I was molested by one of these men while the noon-ish sun shone through the window. I knew nothing of what he was doing, he sounded friendly. Something was wrong, I felt some odd shame and my heart pounded with relief when my tigress of a sister burst through the door demanding that the ‘no good son of a dog’ take his filthy hands off me in a voice strong with authority and rage that was strange to hear in the voice of a child. He unhanded me without a word and fled as all my siblings ran up to flank her in the ranks. I remembered that incident, though I never once mentioned it again until three decades passed. I merely held my head self-consciously tilted to one side when I walked.

Nothing stood out in my early childhood worth remembering until the fateful day when the world kindly changed for me. My great uncle and aunt lived on a farm a mile’s walk through a wooded trail. Robert Howell was born in eighteen eighty-three to Henry and Charlotte Howell in the very same curtain-less room that my siblings and I slept in, on the pallets and old mattresses. Although my mother was treated as an outcast in the family - never visited and quietly talked about by the conventional ones who may have feared their heavenly reservations may have been cancelled if they dared come near her- my uncle Robert visited us daily. He cared little for convention and hated hypocrisy; he would not permit either to stifle his compassion for us. We looked for uncle’s visits just as faithfully as we expected the sun to rise, and just as faithfully, he always came. I never remember his coming unheralded by our squeals of delight because we knew he had candy or fruit, if not both. Our yard’s stingy spattering of trampled grass wore a distinct trail that led to the east corner where a roof-covered water well crested the top of a steep, red clay hill. Uncle Robert’s head would always appear first, and on hot days his hatless bald head would bloom at the top of that hill prettier to us than any flower, because he not only brought us gifts, he luxuriated us in his time.

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Torn From the Inside Out