Skip to main content

Sticks, Stones, and Physical Abuse Break Bones

  I’ve seen posts all over Facebook...Mental abuse is worse than physical abuse. This statement is like a faulty bridge. It is weak and cracking with illusion. This statement is abuse in itself. The tempest truth...physical abuse beats mental abuse into submission. Physical abuse weighs on the body and digs a grave for the mind. You’re a skeleton holding on to the edge of lifeless life.

I saw both sides of the domestic terror coin. I saw the physical ailments of beatings and the draining drought of mental chaos. My sister was physically abused for 17 years. I saw a young woman glow with ambition to a tarnished heart. She was walking in the tangible world clinging to a speck of normalcy. When physically beaten, life is a war you’re trying to survive. She was a warrior fitted for battle everyday. God’s hand guided her through fiery fists and blistering bites. She is a veteran of domestic abuse. 

If you asked my sister if she would rather have her jaw broken or called a name, she would have opted for the fleeting name. Physical abuse fuels the fire with mental abuse. You are bodily beaten as wretched words flog you in the back. Bam, bang, boom, crash! Black eyes, broken ribs, and bruised skin are hot iron branded. My sister was branded with bountiful brash beatings. 

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” The abuser’s words feathered off my sister as broken bones welded into her mind. The beatings and floggings will always hang on the “post traumatic line” as the wilted words wither in the cabinet. My dad didn’t want to load a gun and shoot a mental abuser. He wanted to end the reign of physical terror. He said, “I did not raise my daughter to be beaten.” He did not pull the trigger that “almost” fateful day. God came upon my dad and whispered, “Revenge is mine, saith the Lord.”

Terror struck not only my sister, but the whole family. I remember playing on my jungle gym and thinking about beating my sister’s abuser. I wanted to save her. We were all affected by the waging war. My sister has since been divorced and saved by God’s grace. There are memories she’d like to burn and watch ember into non-existence. She has told me, “God protected me.” 

So, if you ask my sister or my family...no, mental abuse is not worse than physical abuse. Punching, biting, hitting, slapping, and breaking bones are worse than pillowy words. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Look for the Blessing Red Birds, Cherry Blossoms, and Orchids of Beauty in Life

March has marched in with a vengeance of change. In the Trojan horse saddlebags hid a shrewd surprise, Coronavirus. The gray clouds of uncertainty pelted us with “riddle me this” rain. The Trojan horse then galloped over valleys of vividness. Alas, the vivid vex was prevalent over states and pastures. The virus staked our soil with transforming turmoil. Ah, but that riddle rain also brought with it growth of cherry blossoms. They grew tall and strong amidst wrestling weeds of “where’s the joy?”   I was covered by those cheerful cherry blossom trees last weekend. My Birthday was March 16th. I must admit, I felt as if one of my unwanted presents was the looming virus. I sensed a thick foreign fog. But, my husband, my Superman, saved my “Birthday”. He pulled me from the dense fog and flew me around our “Metropolis”. We shopped, reminisced, ate cheesecake, and laughed with merriment. It’s as if he set me upon a marriage merry-go-round. Round-and-round we go, on love embellishe...

Pine Heart Roots

  On a Friday afternoon, I packed the car and my mom and I drove down Sea Blue Lane.   Our destination was Pine Prairie, Louisiana.   Wheels rolled down blacktop while music notes rocked and rolled through the Malibu.   We sped through Lafayette and entered “Country Land”.   As I passed by horses, my eyes lit up with little girl joy, as usual.   Cows grazed as clouds speckled their backs.   The bayous were fading behind us as pine trees started to grow in their place.   The scenery was refreshing, renewing our minds with fresh crawfish waters.   We finally arrived at my cousin, Dana’s house and parked upon O’Banion territory.   I needed to strip my bark of “stress needles” and regrow peace around my “pine heart”.       I was feeling distant from my dad.   Year after year, the roughness I once felt on his hand was smoothing.   He is branded in my heart, but I needed that brand to be lit under fire ...

Country Bound

Country Bound I travel down a mellow, yellow sunflower road upon miniscule “wishing” pebbles.   A monument stands tall amiss sprightly wildflowers.   Rustic, red barn, tell me your wisdom, tell me your stories.   A split rail fence is my guide, built by thick, rough hands.   It dances to a patterned rhythm around a charming, pastel blue farmhouse.   I am country bound, my soul to be found. I pass by a field flowing with radiant corn.   Stalks stand tall, presiding over misty pastures.   Golden wheat is nuzzled with sunny rays.   It waltzes with the wind and tangos with blades of grass.   Hearts of farmers beat in rolling hills, growing “love soy seeds”. An apple pie sits on a crackled window sill cooling for attention.   Cinnamon swirls through a two-story house.   Maple beans, sweet greens, and cornbread overflow the Amish-built table.   Greens pop into savoring mouths.   Sugary beans candy-coat t...