Surviving the Silence

By Margaret Virginia

I never thought I would write a book, much less one that centered on my life. Through all the years of pain, frustration, triumphs, wins, losses, and enough tears shed to what feels like to me could fill a pool, the only constant I found was that somehow, some way, I would be okay. I would survive this.
This is not just a story of abuse, but of survival. When I started writing this, it was no more than a journal; a way to keep myself sane in what were insane conditions. There is not one blow I received that has not echoed through all these years, wanting to remind me of the people who caused me pain, the same who wanted me to believe that that was the sum of who I was...
And wanted me to stay silent.
If I can accomplish anything with this book, please know it is to encourage any of you who may be in, or know of someone who is, in a similar situation that there is another option. You are worth more than the scars branded onto you, both physically and emotionally.
May God bless and keep you, now and forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Virginia
• Release date: Sep 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781310234965

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Author's Note to Readers

My story is not unusual or one of a kind, but it is my story. I'm not the only person in the world to be abused, however these are my memoirs of my abusive life of thirty-five years. My children may be embarrassed by this book.  My parents think I should let it go; just forget everything that happened.  But I cannot.  It made me the person I am today.  More cynical, less trusting, angry at the people that hurt me, but ultimately, more willing to help others that cannot help themselves.  I was going to change their names but I decided against it.  Why should I?  Although they did not pay for what they did through the proper channels, karma got at least four out of five of them.  That's okay with me.  I believe in karma. The Law of Karma holds that if people act in evil ways, that evil will eventually return to them.  Conversely, if people do good deeds, then they will advance in spiritual progress.  This is connected to reincarnation, where those with a negative balance in good deeds will come back in a lower position in society or the animal world. 

In the 1970's, abuse between a husband and wife was between a husband and wife.  Police being called was a joke. They sided with the male of the home.  The male got a pat on the back and a shake of the hand.  Take care of your situation, man.  Everything is good here.  See ya later.  Hello!! I'm the victim!!  Nah, I received zero respect.

If you were raped in the 1970's by someone you knew, (I did not know it was called date rape until thirty years later) you did not talk about it.  You swept it under the rug.  You did not discuss it with anyone.  You washed away your sins.  You washed them down the drain.  It had to be your fault. You must have done something to deserve it.  You never spoke of it again. Then thirty-five years later, it hits you dead in in the stomach like a kick boxer. Oh my God … I was raped. I suppressed it so deep I forgot about it.  Now I remembered everything. What do I do about my memories?  I can write about them and share them with others.  There are red flags of abuse in relationships. It’s not cute to have your guy call you twenty times a day.  Or to be with you so much that you cannot be friends with anyone else, or can't be with your family.

I'm rambling.  It's the way my mind works these days.  The bottom line is I am hoping I can help someone way before one year of abuse, or one month, much less thirty-five years.  Get out of the situation and live a better life than I did, and get in touch with me and say, Thank you. I read your book and you helped me to realize I did not have to take it.  I will be okay without him or her.  I can look myself in the mirror and like myself.  I am going to get the help I need to go on alone. 

I just want to help one person. Then I did my job.

Peace

CHAPTER ONE

The Beginning

1959

Before all the serious stuff, I must say … I had a wonderful childhood.

It was nothing but full of happy and joyous experiences that took me to my teenage years. Of course, before age five I only remember bits of pieces. When I was a lot older, I had the opportunity to acquire a VHS tape re-made from a black and white 8-millimeter film that my parents took of my brother, F., sister, N. and myself. F. is two years younger than me, his birthday a day after my own and my sister N. is a year younger. These films helped my memory tremendously.

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The first clip I found shows my Aunt I.R. in dark leather gloves, a hat, and dressed like the classy person she always was. We were outdoors. F. was in a crib. Aunt I.R. was bent over talking to him. I was in a plaid skirt, solid colored top and saddle shoes. I was carrying my childhood favorite doll. N. was in a dress, too. F. was probably under a year old, N., 2 years old, and I must have been around three.

Before I go any further, I have to tell you about my Aunt, I.R..

She was the fourth of five siblings of Josephine and Alfred. She was born in 1931. She died in 1984 of cancer, too young. Where do I begin? Her hair was never out of place. Jet black, short, parted to the side, teased up and over and sprayed with enough hair spray to remove an ozone layer. To think of it now makes me laugh. Did they really use that much hair spray in the 1950’s and 60’s? Her make-up was perfection. She used a foundation on her face that went down to her neck. Since she never went into the sun her skin was very white, so she wore a scarf strategically wrapped around her neck to match each one of her beautifully matched pencil skirts and matching blouse and jacket outfits, finishing off the whole ensemble with a pair of pumps strapped to her feet.

Aunt I.R. was not a large woman, but big-boned. If I had to guess, I would say she was 5’8 or 5’9. Her clothes were impeccable and crisp. Oh, and I must not forget one more thing; my Aunt used an eyebrow pencil to place a dot on the lower part of her face to the left of her mouth, right under her cheek to look like a mole. I never knew why, and no one ever asked that I know of. Some things you simply did not ask a lady in that time.

My aunt never got her driver’s license. She walked everywhere, tall and proud. Sometimes when I was young, I would walk with her to work. People driving up and down the avenue would beep the horn to her and wave. She would wave back. Everyone knew her. She worked in a popular children’s boutique for years in the center of town until the store closed.

She lived close to town where the boutique was until she got too sick to work anymore. It had to be a good mile and a half one way to work, then the same back, of course. I suppose she did not mind. She walked every day except on days where the weather was bad, and then she took a taxi or someone drove her. I clearly remember there was Morvay’s, the vegetable and fruit market in town, and the pharmacy and card store was only a block away from the market. There was also Newberry’s, and Vineland’s Five and Dime store where you could find anything you needed. They even had a small section that served hamburgers, hot dogs and ice cream. What a treat on Saturday afternoons to have lunch with Aunt Irene! The town of Vineland also had a meat market, deli, flower store, three shoe stores, some hippy stores, a few classy ladies clothing stores, an Army and Navy store, a hardware store, and even a store that sold just women’s pocketbooks. The Catholic Church stood high across the street, with its stained glass, and proudly chimed its bells on Sunday morning. The town where she worked had everything she needed so she could shop before coming home after working her eight-hour shift. Her answer was always, so why bother getting a driver’s license and a car? I have everything I need at my disposal in town.

And so she did.

Aunt I.R. never married. She always lived with my grandmother in the house where I live now. That’s not to say she did not date. I don’t have a lot of early memories of men in her life. Maybe one or two.

As I got older, she had one beau that visited her from Massachusetts on weekends. His name was Jack. For many years he visited my aunt, always working around the house doing carpentry and yard work. He didn’t come to the funeral, though. Truth be told, I never knew what happened to Jack. When Aunt I.R. was gone, so was he.

The next clip I viewed on the black and white video was of my sister N. and I running around, holding hands. We were running toward the East Rock, which was the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ monument located in New Haven, Connecticut that had been erected to honor the residents of New Haven who gave their lives in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, the Mexican War, and from the year it was erected, the War of 1812. Black and white videos are like silent films of the early 1900’s. There are no voices. You have to assume colors of the sky, the grass, the buildings, and the seasons (based on clothing choices). When I visit East Haven, it is still one of my favorite places to go. It is high up on a mountain top and scary to look down, especially as a child. Aunt I.R. was there with us. My father was from New Haven, Connecticut and I still have relatives living in East Haven.

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East Rock is located on the north side of the city of New Haven, along the New Haven-Hamden town line. It has an elevation of 366 feet. Views from the top on a clear day can span as far as Long Island Sound and Long Island itself. Geographically, East Rock is a fault-block ridge formed two hundred million years ago during the Triassic and Jurassic periods. There is a winding road available to get to the top by automobile, as well as many trails to hike or bicycle. In 1997, the park was listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

The reel took me back home to Vineland where there is another video showing two tricycles in the driveway. This video is in color. F., wearing red overalls, had dad pushing him around. I’m in a blue plaid dress and N. was wearing a dress and saddle shoes. We were all approximately the same age.

Then mom took F. off the tricycle and was teaching him to walk. When F. was back on the tricycle, I was riding shotgun, standing up while mom pushed us around.

F. is finally walking. As the video unfolds, I noticed I had a nice bruise above my lip. I guess I had fallen at some point. In another video frame, I’m on a rocky horse in my gold shirt and plaid pants.

As I am watching the videos by myself, tears are rolling down my face. All these lost memories of my mind, captured on an 8-mm reel to reel to a VHS tape that had been put away in a cabinet at my parents’ home, collecting dust for years. I had discovered this tape by accident while looking for books to read and took this tape without either of my parents knowing it. They probably had forgotten the tape was even there. And now, as I watched what my