Child Abuse is Attempted Murder
Something within us tells us to fight, until fighting becomes life threatening, then we are told to retreat. It’s survival.
As I write this decades later, the intimidation is still present. And it always will be present in its own evolving way. The conditioned reflex to write these actions off and stay silent is also still present. What if I got it wrong? What if it wasn’t as bad as I perceived it? It can be very easy to dismiss the most heinous actions when your conditioned to see past yourself and prioritize your own abuse. Small reminders throughout the last three decades reinforce the weight of the actions that were taken against me.
My childhood imprisonment was labeled an adoption and my warden expected me to call her my “mother.” I never obliged. It just didn’t fit.
Her eyes pierced through my existence, skewering my nervous system and setting fire to the shreds of identity that I had left. Her gaze felt unstable, violent, and wildly out of control. I could always feel it start to boil over, the pending nuclear explosion of violence and rage was the ultimate choreographer of every action I did or did not take. Then she’d vanish, and I’d ask myself, was any of that even real? She always eventually returned to confirm that, no, none of it was real. I still see her confusion and chaos, her detachment from reality when things didn’t go as planned, and the deep void in her eyes that always made me question her next move and my subsequent life expectancy.
In the mornings, I would listen for her footsteps walking down the hallway. I could gauge the day by her initial movements. Predicting the actions of explosive individuals was my entire existence. Life was chaotic before this adoption ever took place. Prior to my adoption, all the children were removed from the home I lived in due to physical assaults. I was four months old at the time with head injuries from glass bottles and “other heavy objects,” according to documents. I was never transferred into the custody of the state, instead I was adopted by the family of the person who perpetrated the physical assaults against me. He never served any prison time and he was never charged with a crime. In fact, the man who assaulted me and other children with “heavy objects,” also regained custody of his own children. All of these individuals were associates of my biological father and formerly worked at a chop shop or gun store that he ran, including my adopted parents. My biological mother was petitioned by the court for one year to appear in court regarding who would be awarded custody of me, she did not appear and my biological father would not contest one of his most loyal associates from adopting me.
Every morning was a temperature gauge for just how brutal the day might become. As I listened for her footsteps down the hallway and attempted to anticipate how the day would unfold or just how vigilant I needed to be, I never imagined how much I would later be affected by the things that happened in that hallway. Recently, I drove past the house where it all took place and as I looked at the front yard, I could hear and feel my head slamming against the walls of that hallway and the sound of her son’s fist crashing into my skull. I could hear the buzzing of her taser and the feeling of being repeatedly electrocuted. And the familiar sensation of air leaving my body with the possibility of never returning. Choking a child is often used as a lesson in dominance and just “how far” someone is willing to go in order to keep their victim compliant. Her biological children were equally as explosive, and she encouraged the violence.
If this version of herself would have been presented to the rest of society, this story would be completely different. Everyone who knew my “adopted mother” would describe a kind, generous, and self sacrificing individual. She helped run an animal shelter, donated her time to various organizations, and she is an amazing artist. No one had any knowledge of reality, including me. The person who inflicted chaotic violence and rage towards me and denied me a basic education was simultaneously adored by her community. The words of a 6-year-old would likely hold no weight. I was deadlocked into an impossible situation while also questioning the reality of it all.
When all rationality leaves a person’s eyes, you know it. Whether you are 5 years old or 25 years old, you see it. I saw it.
Children are extensions of their caregivers, they are the closest source of knowledge about their caregivers. This makes children who are witnessing illegal activity or experiencing abuse, a direct target. Manipulation and control is typically established to protect secrets. Once intimidation and manipulation is in place, it becomes a convenient resource in everyday life. This is why I insist that child abuse must be prosecuted with the same weight as attempted murder. Witness tampering and obstruction of Justice should be applied to child abuse charges more frequently. The amount of manipulation that is dedicated to silencing a child is exhaustive. Daily conditioning with small and large gestures, actions, and gaslighting makes it almost unnoticeable over time, combined with isolation and violent attacks on a nervous system that is still developing. This is not only child abuse, this is attempted murder. Children are often described as resilient, as if they have weathered the “storms” they were left in with grace, our society is absolute proof that this is a harmful myth. Complex trauma can be compared to experiencing a tragic event. What if you spent over a decade living a tragic event on a daily basis? Would you be resilient, or just surviving? Resilience and survival can appear identical while being vastly different. Trauma changes the brain and nervous system in order to survive the constant abuse and conditioning, this is not the same skill set as surviving everyday life. Living in your own echo chamber of conditioned lies teaches a child nothing about real life or true societal expectations. State employees across the country are not properly trained to see past an individual who is lying to them, nor are they properly trained to identify abuse in children who are being subjected to complex abuse and manipulation.
This idea of comparing childhood complex trauma to a prison sentence seems like a dramatic approach to a large majority. But this is not as far from reality as many might think, and probably even more heinous than most realize. Would we allow parents and caregivers to personally perform brain surgery on children in their own homes? That is the reality of child abuse, and some children die from the emotional and physical wounds inflicted by their caregivers. Complex trauma inflicted on a developing brain and nervous system is an attack on a child’s life. It completely changes how a child thrives and interacts with others. The process of repeated attacks conditions the nervous system to go against natural instincts as a human. It also conditions an abused child to become an abused adult. But where is a child supposed to escape to when speaking out will likely go unnoticed? Most children are not initially believed, or completely ignored when making claims about their caregivers. And if that information were to get back to the abusive caregiver, well, that is a risk that most abused children are not willing to take. This absolutely feels like a prison sentence, sometimes it is even a death sentence. Being forced to remain somewhere against your will feels like prison, because that’s what it is. The abused child is forced to stay somewhere that they are both victimized and sentenced for the crimes of others. This deadlock is a holding pattern and the child will not be eligible for parole until they are 18-years-old, ready to escape, or die in “prison.”
I’m not here because the statistics say I should be. The injuries I sustained at the hands of violent individuals will always affect my daily life, personal relationships, and overall health. I’m not resilient, I’m just still here. Still fighting.
When I escaped this environment and traveled over 600 miles away, one of the first people I met was Kyra, a resource officer at the state technology center. Kyra assisted in the GED department, and she handled my paperwork when I applied to take the GED test. She was the first person to learn that I’d never attended school or received a formal education of any kind. My records were nonexistent. She appeared to be a mixture of emotions. After arguing with her for a full 30 minutes that I in fact did not pass the GED pre-test, she proved I did pass by showing me all my answers. Those were my answers, but I didn’t go there to pass a test, I went there to get classes to pass a test and this completely ruined the flow of the day. I was not prepared for fast tracking my self-esteem. I was prepared for a two-decade uphill climb toward obtaining my GED, as if I were training for the Appalachian trail with half a lung and 14 broken bones.
When Kyra returned with my pre-test results and after our argument about her “obviously” pulling the wrong test results, I could see Kyra’s emotional battle and I wasn’t ready to address it. She wasn’t her annoyingly bubbly self, she wasn’t sporting the huge smile that she normally did. She said, “I don’t want to, but I’m going to be honest and I’m going to give you a choice. Take this voucher and go take the full GED test this week or come back when you are 18-years-old. If you go take it now, charges will follow against your adopted mother. You have no records. This is illegal.” I thought to myself, “if you only knew..” But I refrained. I immediately took all the paperwork and left.
Kyra continued to appear at places where I worked in various parts of the state. She was a commanding presence that was not easily forgotten, you always knew when she entered a room. Her laughter could be heard for several city blocks. Deep down I adored her and feared her knowledge. Mostly the domino effect it could create. She knew just enough to be dangerous but not enough to understand my choice not to prosecute my adopted mother at that time.
When I turned 19-years-old, I went back and told Kyra I was ready to take the pre-test again. She wouldn’t let me. She gave me a voucher to go take the full test and told me not to come back until I took the GED test. I took the test that week and when I got the results, I didn’t open them. I was certain I didn’t pass. Two weeks later I saw Kyra and she asked if I took the test, I told her I did but didn’t look at the results yet. I went home that night and opened the envelope of doom to find out I passed. I wasn’t sure how, I felt like I did something illegal. I walked around for the following 6 months like I’d stolen international nuclear codes and booked a flight out of the country.
Passing the test and taking a few years to process the fact that someone had the legal ability to charge my adopted mother with a crime, in direct relation to me, was a grounding moment. Reality was no longer a chaotic façade, it became a sobering nightmare.
Working closely on criminal investigations has taught me more about trauma than any textbook or self-help doctrine ever could. I’ve seen a variety of trauma responses play out in the most horrific ways possible. I experienced another side of trauma while traveling as a chef. The kitchen can be a brutal atmosphere. You can guarantee to be built up and torn back down multiple times a day. And the kitchen is filled with trauma survivors who are still stuck in a mode that often leaves them paralyzed in time, addicted to both comfort and torture. Everyone could see it in their eyes, if you are observant, the sadness and emotional perplexity was deafening. Criminal cases have been a great teacher and a sobering reminder of just how dark it can get when the lights go out in someone’s eyes. The best lesson by far was my own family. Both my biological and adopted family have deeply rooted complex trauma that they allowed to permeate their existence.
Not all, but a vast majority of criminal behavior is rooted in trauma. For some, that deep well of sadness turns into an ocean of void. Complex trauma creates an evolving internal matrix of chaotic emotions. But there’s a choice, and if you follow those emotions too far, you will likely move from survivor to aggressor and reenact your own trauma ten-fold if you go too far. Breaking the cycle of generational trauma is just as vital as demanding real justice for victims and survivors.
There is a renewed focus for those who have been given a life sentence for crimes they did not commit and the people who support us. We are not trauma survivors. We are now soldiers in a cold war against our own country. I believe it is time to fight for the only thing that makes any sense in the aftermath of criminal chaos. Do not lay awake with the demons of your oppressor. Sleep tonight. We need our soldiers fully rested.
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