31 JanTransform Your Life – Overcome Your Abused Childhood Trauma


child abuse victims

  • What is childhood abuse? It constitutes of any authoritative action of an adult towards a child. It includes revilement of a child in forms like neglect, physical abuse, sexual abuse or any kind of emotional jesting etc. It severely damages the self esteem of the child and the suffering haunts the child for a long period. Needless to say, it demands a lot of courage to decipher because at times, the hurt from the childhood abuse becomes hard to cope up when you grow up. Some parents beat their children regularly and some never bother to provide basic affection rather they just want to gain control over their children.  Mistreatment totally changes the child’s psyche and continue to do so for years to come.

    Do you show the following symptoms of childhood abuse?

    1. • Learning problems
    2. • Deep sense of insecurity
    3. • Get oversensitive
    4. • Unable to trust people
    5. • Becomes violent and abusive
    6. • Get nightmares, sleeping disorder
    7. • Manic depression
    8. • Lack of self confidence
    9. • Low self esteem
    10. • Subdued Anger
    • These signs indicate that you went through a serious trauma in your childhood days. In many cases, the above characteristics become a personality trait and take a very long time to heal. We need to realize that child abuse is not just about scares or bruises; the impact lasts far beyond the physical pain. Experts have revealed that at least 30-80 percent of the childhood survivors develop anxiety disorder, which leads to depression. In most serious cases, adults exhibit the signs of chronic stress disorder.

    • Post traumatic disorder is invariably experienced after physical or emotional abuse. The person who had experienced child abuse will continue going through an unbearable pain for years. Abused survivors ironically feel certain amount of guilt and ashamed. The story remains untold because of the deepest fear of being ridiculed or laughed at. Many studies indicate that while going through the healing process an individual will experience number of negative emotions; flashback of all those traumatic times will haunt you. All these reactions will be normal – don’t get dishearten, you are not alone.
    • Instead of going through the hurt in isolation, it will be better if you can share your story with any of your trusted friend or a family member. Never allow the negative feelings to devour you in any ways. You have confronted a great challenge and it’s a courageous step to muster up strength to relive the abuse and heal yourself from the torture. If you don’t really trust someone you can always consult a trusted counselor or you can easily write bogs online and share your story, this way you can let out your emotions without disclosing your real identity.
    • It is important to take out your subdued emotions from your mind and heart, if you compose it down in some way you are reliving yourself. If you are still in touch with the sexual abuser, then you will have a burning spirit to take revenge. Many victims don’t really want to face the abuser again in their lives; they prefer eradicating the picture of the abuser from their mind. In some cases you can’t avoid the abuser, for example if he/she is your family member or your friend.

      Do you ever ponder if the abuser is still harassing someone? The possibility is yes.

      Do you want one more person to go through the same suffering which you have faced for many years?

      Don’t you want him to be punished before he/she again entraps one more innocent child?

      • Indeed it’s difficult to confront the abuser, but remember! It will make you a stronger person, and you will actually be saving many more children from going through the same trauma. Seek support from your family who care for you and the community you are living in, the support system is very essential. People who commit these immoral acts have to be held responsible, and the only way we can make them accountable is by stopping them.
      • In most cases the abuser will never admit that he/she actually committed the crime. These days you have number of organizations like NGO’s safeguarding the interests of the sexually abused victims, childhood abuse is a dreadful crime and punishable by law. In most countries there is enough legal precedent to prosecute the crime. Don’t be afraid, you need to combat this stage in your life by punishing the one who had damaged your soul. You need to stand up and fight it out before someone else gets trapped in the abusers immoral deeds.

      hurt of an abused child

      • Child abuse is completely an act of human degradation; all of us should come forward to help those people who have suffered. Your life and your past childhood moments are precious and no one else has a right to damage that innocence. I really hope that all of us will discuss it more openly so that victims of sexual abuse will not hesitate or get scared to share their horrendous experiences. Unfortunately, not many people come forth to share their stories, don’t feel isolated you can provide a new lease to your life.

      I wrote this article in April2008 for a blog called embraceyourlove.

4 Responses to “Transform Your Life – Overcome Your Abused Childhood Trauma”

  1. manas mishra says:

    nice post…..thought provoking…..

  2. The important aspect of what you write here is what is universal for all trauma survivors: take healing into your own hands! Only when we regain our power do we truly begin to heal.

  3. Pooja.Brahmi says:

    I know this cousin of mine who was sexually abused by her servant when she was a kid. She told me how it happened and how every year she gets paranoid of getting infected with HIV. Whenever she would get sick – she would start relating the signs with hiv+ Symptoms. For the last many years every year she has been getting HIV+ test to assure herself that she is fine.

    At times like these if you have a support system of a “trusted” person then it indeed helps an individual. Not all sexually abused people open up and share their story. It all depends upon situations you live in.

    I feel quite strongly about it. I will write more about it in the coming days.

    Take care

  4. Kim Oakley says:

    On the evening of my young grandmother’s death, my mother had refused to kiss her goodnight. Like many teens, my mother had been pouting, probably about something trivial. Seven hours later, a brain aneurysm took her mother. This, along with the fact my mother’s stepfather climbed into bed with her the day after the funeral, would forever change my mother. And it wouldn’t be for the better. When I’d look at my mother I felt as if I was among strangers. She would seldom speak or look at us, and if she did, words were harsh and eyes piercing. Often, on the phone (those wall phones that kept you in one place) smoking cigarettes, she’d wave me away if I asked for something. If she needed something, she’d snap her fingers. She often went psycho. I remember a fireplace, my mother hurling books, teddy bears and wooden blocks into it, as I stood, shocked, confused and crying. I don’t know what I did wrong. And she didn’t tell me. Just went from calm to manic uproar, stuffing fireplace with my favorite toys. When I cried to my dad about it, he made jokes, downplayed it. I didn’t understand then, that this would be his part to play. My mother later had a nervous breakdown. It began at home and ended up on the floor of a local hospital. I remember my father whispering and my great-grandparents telling me, “You’re mother needs help now…She’s not doing well.” For weeks, I watched my younger sisters, round the clock, without one word of concern. My dad was at work, as usual. I have never seen a human consume more coffee. Or eat meals so fast. It was as if he was afraid to relax. Driven by some force I could not see. To keep things flowing, I cooked, cleaned and played with my sisters. I often wondered if my parents realized they had saddled me with incredible responsibilities. Or overwhelm us with their problems. Not six months went by that they weren’t fighting, suing, getting sued by or angry with someone, including members of their own families. Even people they were friendly or friends with were discusses as if they were either enemies or in such a way you’d think why are they friends if they talk so badly about the people. After my mother was released, nobody ever spoke about the breakdown. My mother got a job working with the coroner’s office. My dad always accused her of having an affair with some guy she worked with, which was funny, since my father had an affair with this guy’s wife. My parents bought a bakery and ice cream parlor. Early in the morning, I would get up with my father and help him bake brownies, cookies, breads and serve customers. My father would bake before going to work as a police officer in San Francisco. My father was a different man away from my mother. He was fun. Always joking. That may have been the problem. He was seldom serious. Never took charge or resolved any family crisis. My mother would mix encouraging and condescending words, as if she were born to drive one crazy. “You ungrateful brats,” she would say. Two hours later, she’d make cookies or invite us to watch one of her favorite TV shows. When I was 18, I enrolled in the furthest college from my home. I returned home briefly. The night I arrived, I found my younger sister slumped against the garage, pale and vomiting. She’d taken a bottle of aspirin. I ran inside the house and found my parents eating popcorn and watching Johnny Carson. “June (not real name) took some pills,” I shouted. Without looking up, my dad said: “She’s an idiot.” Reaching into a bag of M’M’s, my mother glanced up and said, “Oh… you’re home.” I wanted to smash the television with a golf club, not that anyone in my family played golf, but it seemed a good weapon for the cause. And I wanted to scream, “What is wrong with you people?” “Who and what are you?” But as I watched their stone faces, a long rope of sorrow entangled me as I realized they could care less how they were crippling us with the slings and arrows of apathy. I flashed to the time I had taken a bottle of pills and instead of taking me to the hospital; my mother loaded up my sisters and me and took us to a drive in movie. Upon hearing me wretch into paper bag she turned and said, “could you stop making so much noise?” After she was finished with her large popcorn, Almond Joy, diet coke and the paper bag had become a soaked sheet in my quivering hands, she turned and handed me the empty, greasy bucket. “Here use this,” she said without looking at me.

    Years later, I left home, but was still helping my parents in their multiple buisness adventures. I had my own children now. I remember the day my son was diagnosed. I heard little encouragement or concern from my parents. No offers of help. All I heard about was other people my parents were hiring, firing, suing or keeping an eye on. One afternoon, the first day of my autistic son’s special education, I came into their restaurant to talk. I heard my parents arguing behind closed doors. The doors flew open and my mother barreled towards me. “What time did Alison show up last night?” she asked in an interrogatory tone. She wanted to know if the waitress had left early. “Look Mom,” I said, swiping tears from my lips. “I don’t feel like answering questions right now.” As usual, nothing mattered outside my mother’s zone of perceived importance. “We’re short twenty dollars in the till!” she went on. I was stunned. “Mom, it’s Jamey’s first day of special education,” I murmured. “Can we discuss this later?” My mother, without a trace of compassion on her face, clenched her hips and cocked her head. “Here we go again,” she said in a mocking voice and rolled her eyes. “Poor Kimmi. Me and my handicapped child. ” The words dehydrated the flow of incoming tears and once again I wondered why I hadn’t learned from childhood, that this was a SADISTIC, weak woman, a mother I could never count on for empathy and encouragement, because whe had never taken the time to deal with her own pain. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she continued. “The whole thing is just a terrible tragedy.”

    Then, as if my mother wasn’t satisfied with hurting herself and others, she did the unthinkable, which can be tied back to her own childhood traumas. After my great grandma died and my mother’s demands for her money went rejected by my grandfather, my mother, in a desperate attempt, suddenly announced my grandfather molested my sister and I when we were little, and that we should “immediately see a psychiatrist and sue him”. I found this odd, considering we had just spent the past two decades—every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Halloween, birthday and Grandparent’s Day with this “wonderful man” who was now our monster pervert grandfather. “This doesn’t make sense,” I argued. When I repeatedly told my mother I had no recollection my great grandfather molested me or Jen, she downgraded her hyper verbal mood, got that pinched look around her mouth, squinted her eyes and spoke in slow, deep tones—the kind she got when she was gearing up for vicious. “Just pretend that you’re in a show and when the curtain goes up, you act. Then, when the curtain goes down, you walk off stage and go on with life.” I thought I had witnessed and heard it all, but this was a new low. She could tell by my face. “I’ll pay for it,” she added, as if that was her only way to win you over. From there, whenever I’d protest, my mom would insist Jen and I were too little to remember, but we should “try and remember” because it would show what a monster our “perverted” grandfather is. I found it particularly interesting that going to a shrink wasn’t ever intended to “help” my sister and I, but only a temporary thing so we could paint a picture of a monster so my parents could sue. My mother resorted to what I call planting. Tiny injections so you’d think her way. “Repressed memories of molestation can really hurt a person,” said my mother. I could see Jen, eyes glazed, sharing the psychosis, was falling for it. God, I wanted to slap all of them. It was like being with people whose brains had been robbed of logic and reason. My mother couldn’t shut up. “And if you cared about your great grandmother, you’d do this.” No matter how many times I’d protest, say We can’t do this: We shouldn’t do this: It’s wrong— it fell on hard hearts and plugged ears. I was made to feel like the outcast. The traitor. I had dared to expose the symptoms and behavior of people who chose to live a lie, rather than deal with their pain. I believe this drove my parents into a shared psychosis, where they used money to hide their increasingly bizzare behaviors, off of which were rooted in unresolved childhood pain, they carried. If only people could see how damaging it is to avoid dealing wtih childhood traumas and how by failing to name them and heal, it creates chaos and confusion.

    To conquer childhood pain and guilt, we must NAME it. Claim it. Sometimes even SHAME it. Then, and ONLY then, can we SHAKE it. Break it. It takes COURAGE to confront pain and traumatic events. Ironically, it’s the usually those who have inflicted the most pain on OTHERS, and who have suffered pain themselves, who work tirelessly to HIDE truth and reality of pain and trauma, so they can AVOID feeling even one shred of pain. Tragically, by doing this, they DENY themselves the OPPORTUNITY of new life. New thinking. Fresh beginnings. Joy. Peace. Freedom.

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