Biographical Non-Fiction posted October 13, 2021

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a continuing saga

The First Time part two

by Sherry Asbury

If we are going to continue this journey into abuse, we need to discuss how it comes about. It is never just a sudden occurrence.
An abuser and his victim have a very special relationship. For me, I was knocked around by everybody - and just accepted my lot in life.

My mother abused me from the moment I was born. She hated her life and visited upon me the anger she felt. She had lovers and my father knew it - but didn't want to admit it. In fact, my real father was an Apache chief. It was never spoken of for my "father" was a bigot of the first order and would have killed her.

When I was in eighth grade my father drove me to the middle school for a dance. A rez kid was there...I didn't even notice him. I had a crush on a boy whose father owned a gas station and garage. My father gave the stink eye to Eagle Flies and snarled, "Don't you be dancin with no Injun, or I'll kill you."
That was a pretty good warning.

When I got home he beat me anyway, just in case I had disobeyed him - and the cycle continued. Back then, in the small Montana town where we lived there was no child services or any protection. Oh, when I went to school with bloody wounds or belt buckle marks a kind teacher might take me to the nurse and they would tut, clean me up, whisper, and buy me a hamburger for lunch.

I was trained to be a victim and I learned well. The first time Matthew hit me with a closed fist I flew into the closet and landed on a slant board he had made me so I could write in bed. It splintered one piece lodging under my left eye. I had step-sons with him and Jason, my favorite...a quiet boy, took pliers and pulled it out.

Here is an important part: Matthew cried and promised never to hurt me again. I held him and patted his back. That promise lasted till midnight when he discovered I got blood on his leather jacket. At the time I was 3 months pregnant - and lost my baby in a gush of blood and fluid. He cried some more. His sons did not buy into the cry fest, but of course, I did.

I spent two weeks in bed being nursed by my stepsons. I love them still and miss them terribly.

For the sake of women everywhere - this cycle must be broken
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