Читать книгу Memories of Hell, Visions of Heaven - Esther Joseph - Страница 2

I am sitting at the kitchen table of my childhood Saint Lucian home writing a letter. Bridges, my white German shepherd mix, is lying behind me making a strange whiny sound. He is smart, and knows how to push my buttons. I spoil him always giving in to whatever he wants, the moment he wants them. I repeatedly ask him to stop making that annoying sound, but he does not obey.

In anger and frustration, I turn around and hit him on the nose with the pen I am using —its point upwards. The pen pierces his right eye, injuring it. Realizing what I have done, I quickly run to the kitchen sink, grab a towel, soak it in cold water, and place it on his injured eye. But Bridges recoils, whimpering, rubbing his watery, wounded eye. I start crying uncontrollably.

“Oh, my God! Bridges! What have I done? I am sooo sorry! Please, God, stop his pain and restore his sight!” I begged.

Waking from the disturbing dream, I remained in bed sobbing, wondering what it meant. I could not imagine myself hurting my beloved Bridges. How could I abuse my closest companion of fourteen years? As a puppy, Bridges helped save me from self-destruction. He is the son I never had.

Bridges is part of my present life, but in the dream, we were in my childhood home, a place I had not lived for over thirty years. I was realizing that my past was the key to unlocking the full meaning of this nightmare. Moreover, it confirmed something I have known most of my adult life. Whether victim or perpetrator, abuse is a learned behavior, which becomes a part of you, as though it is in your genes.

Right there still lying in that bed, it became clear.

The avenue to ending the stranglehold of my past was in sharing my story. That would be my catalyst to peace.

If I could show you, dear reader, that the pattern of violence does not remain hidden in the past, but repeated like a scratched CD in the brain of both the abused and abuser, poisoning every facet of their lives, then my suffering would not be in vain and I could finally let it go. Before this revelation, I would never have considered this arduous undertaking. I found nothing appealing about divulging my darkest secrets and most unflattering qualities. Only such an awaking dream could have ignited this course of action.

While writing the book I discovered how disturbingly common my story is. Child abuse is out of control, the statistics flabbergasting. I knew it was a problem, yet overwhelmed by all the facts that made my assumptions more concrete. Childhelp, a national non-profit organization indicates that, “14% of men and 36% of women in prison in the USA were victims of abuse. Children who experience child abuse and neglect are 59% more likely arrested as a juvenile; 28% likely arrested as an adult; and 30% more likely to commit violent crimes. Teen pregnancy is 25% more likely among victims; 60% of people in drug rehab centers report being abused as a child; and about 30% of abused children will later abuse their own children, continuing the cycle.

My prayer dear friend is that my experience and journey of recovery will serve as hope to you if affected by this affliction. In that spirit I offer simple but concrete steps that will help alter your course and set you on the solid foundation of change you seek. Know this, no matter your past, it does not define you, nor determine your future. For I am persuaded that you, like me, can break the bonds of your past and find your way to the future and life you crave.