She was a bullied child. She was a rape victim. She was a battered woman. She was a betrayed daughter and goddaughter. She was a refugee. But she is a survivor. In this memoir, author EMP narrates her life journey, sharing her hopes, her dreams, and her darkest moments. She shares the details about her upbringing in Hungary, her tormented childhood and teen years, her introduction to the man who would become her abuser, and her move to a foreign country. It Is Forgiven recounts her experiences of domestic violence, emotional and sexual abuse, and years and years of betrayal. She examines how one horrific event led to another and how the abuse escalated in both frequency and violence. It Is Forgiven tells the story of a battered woman and of her courage in escaping from the situation to benefit her and her young children. It is a story that inspires hope and encourages other women facing similar circumstances to speak out instead of suffering in silence.
It is Forgiven
Surviving abuse and betrayalBy EMPiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 EMP
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-8591-0 Chapter One
I have only a few memories of my life before age six. I remember being in preschool, playing in the pool there with my girlfriend, who became my best friend for life. On some other occasions of school, I was paired up with the tallest boy because I was the tallest girl.
When I was four or five years old, we had a family gathering, which is also quite memorable. As we were getting ready for a family photo, I asked my paternal grandmother for her beer, to sip off the foam. But instead, by the time the camera clicked, I had finished the whole glass. My grandma was utterly horrified, while I was grinning from ear to ear and couldn't deny what I had done; I was caught in black and white by the camera. That was my first and only glass of beer in my life to date.
I still vividly remember how afraid I was every time we walked by a pub on our way to visit my maternal grandfather. The patrons were drunk, loud and quarrelsome. Even when I got older, I remained fearful of such places, and I still avoid them. That fear was probably planted in me because my parents were always moderate drinkers.
However, I have no recollection of being born with a dislocated hip and living my first months in straps. I also have no memories of my paternal grandfather, who according to my mother loved and adored me deeply. She said that I was his favourite granddaughter, which caused jealousy within the family. He allowed me to do everything I wanted, even mess up his hair, which was a huge thing since he was a very orderly man. As I later learned, there was a reason for his love and favouritism: my grandfather appreciated clean people very much and I was always kept clean and neat and beautifully dressed...
This bond was broken very early, though, as I was only three years old when he died. Still, I never liked to "visit" him, because the moment I stepped through the gate of the cemetery, the air turned so cold that I shivered. Yet when we left and I walked out of the gate the air became balmy and warm again. I never understood why we had to go there. After all, he wasn't there.
I often missed him. Somehow I felt that he would have understood me no matter what. Sometimes I was quite angry and disappointed with him for passing on before I could even know or remember him. I missed that love and adoration he had apparently given me.
However, I do remember asking my parents for a baby and having a naming contest with them. And when I was six years old my wish came true—my brother was born. But instead of joy and happiness in our house, I mostly remember stress and frustration. He was a very demanding, fussy little boy and cried endlessly, which exhausted our mother. Most of the time she would begin crying in desperation, and yelling to release her frustration. When she had no strength left to deal with him, it was my duty to rock and push his pram until he fell asleep. Although I was always eager to help her with my baby brother, it wasn't particularly exciting to be with him when he wailed endlessly.
On one particular occasion my brother wouldn't fall asleep. My mother went through everything she knew, but it was no use. He was screaming in his pram, which I was again assigned to push forth and back, while our mother was screaming and crying in the kitchen. At age six it seemed to me that they went on screaming simultaneously for hours. Thankfully, after awhile our father came to my aid and the burden was lifted off my shoulders.
Regardless of his difficult infancy, and the fact that we fought and had arguments, as do nearly all other siblings growing up together, we got along very well.
I remember that each time our grandfather gave us chocolate bars, my brother ate his at once, while I had some and hid the rest, just in case. When I got home from school and wanted another piece of my chocolate, it was gone. Who had taken it? My brother of course denied everything, wearing an innocent "I don't know anything" expression. But this happened many, many times. My hidden chocolate was always gone. Finally, I had to do something about it, because I liked my sweets as well. Since I couldn't save my chocolates from him, I instead threw his favourite toy into the garden or onto the roof of the terrace: "Mickey is flying!"
As a child, I was really close to my mother's mom and sister, my godmother, and although we didn't have too much time together, we had a great relationship. I especially loved being with my grandma. She was so cool. She didn't even freak out when she learned that the son of her neighbour was interested in me, although we were barely ten years old at the time. He was the first boy who actually liked me and gave me my first little kiss, which quite honestly made me uncomfortable and ended that story.
My godmother, as a greatly talented violinist, was part of a symphony orchestra and lived in a big city. It was quite an adventure whenever I had the chance to be with her for a couple of weeks, which happened two or three times over the course of a decade.
I was also very close to my uncle (my mom's half-brother), who was a faithful friend or rather like a big brother to me. Whenever he came to visit us, I never left his side. He took me for short rides on his bike, taught me to play badminton, and was very patient when I repeatedly hit the air instead of the bird. But when I had finally mastered that activity, my father and I had many hours of fun.
I was really in my element when I could be with my uncle. He was one of the most important people in my life, even as I got older. I loved him so much, and was constantly trying to be helpful. Since he smoked, as his favourite little niece I took the privilege of protecting his health by breaking his cigarettes, one by one, into tiny pieces, or simply peeled off the wrappers right down to the filters. Who knows why, he never appreciated my help.
Altogether, I would on first consideration say that my childhood was pretty normal. On second thought, though, maybe it wasn't as normal as I would have liked it to be. I had great difficulties fitting in at school and at my swimming class. I was taller and skinnier than the other girls, and had shorter hair than most boys. Being a swimmer made it essential to have short hair, but not as short as mine. My mother cut our hair, and she was no hairdresser. Invariably, she always got one side shorter than the other, so again and again she had to readjust the length. When finally she was finished, not much hair was left on my head. And that earned me a nickname which haunted me for years, while my own name was forgotten ...
I lived in the midst of mockery and bitter sarcasm every day, and if that wasn't enough, at age eleven I had to wear glasses, starting with minus two lenses. That was the crowning touch to my humorous assets. The other children were brutal to me. I was a constant target of ugly jokes and cruel remarks. My classmates laughed in my face and made fun of me daily. They even made me nervous about my laughter. It was ridiculous to them, although I didn't know why; I didn't think that I was laughing much differently from the rest. Nonetheless, I started to observe how they laughed and tried to adjust mine to match, since theirs was accepted and "normal". But it didn't matter, and after a while I was even afraid to laugh.
I didn't understand what was wrong with me, why I wasn't likeable, why I wasn't good enough for other children to befriend me. After all, I was just a young girl who wished to have nice hair and perfect vision. I simply wanted to have some friends like the other kids did, and also to be accepted, but for some reason things were not going my way.
Every time I went to the ophthalmologist she made me read the tiniest letters on the board. If I wasn't able to, she adjusted and readjusted the dioptres until she was satisfied, then prescribed the strongest glasses, which nearly knocked me out. I just had to get used to them, right?
So then I was able to see every speck of dust. But my hawk-eyed vision didn't last long. Less than two years later I was destined to wear minus five lenses, and at age fourteen I ended up wearing minus seven. When they fogged up and I had to take them off, the whole world became blurry. I had to grope around to even be able to manage the stairs. I thought that my eyesight would never stop failing and in the end I would go blind. And that wasn't funny to me at all.
Chapter Two
The other children's constant bullying and the condition of my eyes made feel like a total loser, destroying my already fragile self-esteem. I became very self-conscious and withdrawn. But thankfully the bullies never hurt my one and only friend from preschool, so I clung to her in the hope of safety. With her friendship it was a bit easier to ignore all the malice directed against me.
But of course, she wasn't able to shield me from my tormentors, and after a short period of time I was literally afraid to go to school and to swimming. I was physically sick from the agony; my stomach twisted every time I had to face those mean kids. But they were my classmates and there was no way I could avoid them.
Each and every cruel word was a punch that made me feel utterly worthless. In an attempt to help myself, I tried different methods to deal with them. Instead of showing my true emotions, I forced myself to play along when they made jokes about me. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to keep that up, because they never stopped targeting me, never got tired of their games. I also made every effort to stay out of the bullies' ways and just be invisible. Ironically, though, when I tried to avoid or ignore them, they accosted me even more.
Plus, from time to time they tried to turn my one and only friend against me. They stirred up arguments between us, telling various lies, and sometimes they succeeded in convincing her to take their side. When my friend had been sucked into being with the bullies, I was entirely alone. After a while, though, she always came back to me. God bless her for her faithful soul.
For years I tried to deal with the pressure by myself, but it became too much to bear. I cried a lot and was often sad. Of course, my parents noticed the difference in me. Unfortunately, though, their affection didn't come easily. I don't remember being kissed or hugged, or hearing "I love you". I was fed, dressed, schooled, grew up in a modest but nice home; yet there was no expression of love, unless I initiated it. They were never interested in how I felt or what my fears were. They never asked me about me. But because of the situation I was trapped in at school, I needed a few warm, encouraging words or just a hug from my parents. I longed for the love and understanding of my mother, and for my father's support.
Even though they never asked, I told them what was going on in my life, that I didn't know what to do or how to protect myself from the constant bullying. I cried out for help. My mother listened while half-absorbed in her cooking, then she told me to bully them back. I wasn't convinced, but the advice came from my mother so I figured I ought to give it a try.
I didn't even know where to start and the results of my efforts were pitiful. The children laughed at me even harder than before. I sank into a deep depression and everything was written on my face, which annoyed my parents. My father often snapped at me: "Don't make yourself out to be such a martyr!" Or "Why do you look so sorry for yourself?" Or they just described me as miserable, mawkish and oversensitive.
Yes, I'd always been sensitive but I wasn't a spoiled, hysterical little brat. My feelings were important to me, just as they are now. Nonetheless, I received none of the warm words I yearned for, no encouragement, and no hugs. The disappointment was physically painful. I was alone and scared, and not even taken seriously by my own parents. Clearly, I wasn't important enough to be helped.
Do they love me? I wondered. If they really loved me, would they reject and ignore me in a serious situation like this? Is there something wrong with me?
I have very vivid memories of being ignored and belittled every time I reached out to them. I always had to behave in a certain way to please the people around me, no matter how I felt or what my needs were. So that meant not to whine, not to complain, and not to be annoying, sad, angry or sour. If I showed my negative feelings, I wasn't even considered sane. But if I didn't get on anybody's nerves and acted pleasantly, everything was fine.
Maybe I was so easy to ignore because I always tried to be a good girl and never cause any trouble. And although my schedule was pretty tight, I always looked after my duties independently and diligently. Nobody had to nag me about them. I went to swimming every morning from 5:30 or 6:00 a.m. until 7:00 or 7:15, then went to school, and by 3:00 p.m. I was at swimming again. I went home after 5:00 and studied for the next day.
Even though I wasn't an excellent student, my homework was always done. I never started smoking or drinking, never used drugs; I didn't even have a boyfriend. I never stayed out at night either. So my early teenage years went by without major incident. For some reason I skipped the teenage wildness or it skipped me. I did become a bit more vocal though; when I perceived an injustice, I gave voice to my feelings.
Then when I was fourteen, in the eighth grade, many of us, including from other schools, attended dancing classes, which were very popular. My mother was delighted by the opportunity: "You never know where and when you're going to need some dancing skills," she said. "If a boy asks you to dance, at least you won't step on his foot." I realized that she was right and although there wasn't a single boy on the horizon for me, I went to each and every dancing lesson. Unfortunately, all of them ended miserably and I couldn't wait to escape.
First, I was only uncomfortable. But soon the constant whispering and giggling behind my back got to me. And I had nobody to hide behind because for some reason my best friend was not there. The boys almost fought not to be paired with me. Everyone made it clear that I was simply too ugly and disliked, that I surely would mess up the steps.
One time we were dancing the czardas. At the end of the dance one of my classmates asked my dancing partner if I had made any mistakes. "No," the boy said, "she did every step well." Thank you. At least I received that much recognition, although neither of them acknowledged my presence otherwise.
All I wanted was to fit in, so I worked hard on each and every step. No way could I afford to embarrass myself. But again, despite all my efforts I ended up the laughing stock of the dancing class as well, which was more than enough reason for me not to show up at the final performance.
Chapter Three
At the end of our street lived a girl with whom I spent some friendly hours. One time we went out in our neighbourhood to meet with other children. They already knew one another, so I was the new kid. The boys were playing soccer, kicking the ball all over the place, while we just watched them. Then I had to take off my glasses to clean them, and in that instant the leather soccer ball smashed into my right eye. The impact was so powerful it nearly knocked me off my feet. Half of my face was on fire. The others found the incident rather funny, and I wondered whether the ball had been kicked at me intentionally. I went home holding my face and thinking about what might have happened if I'd still had my glasses on.
I began to learn that Nature worked shamelessly, regardless of what was going on in my life or what difficulties surrounded me. I became interested in boys, wanting to know everything related to them, what made them tick. Although the interest wasn't mutual, I wanted to be in their company if possible, and to experience the thrilling excitement of being liked and successful among them.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from It is Forgivenby EMP Copyright © 2012 by EMP. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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