It was natural as a kid to lose hope. It seemed the adults around me were all brutal in some way or another. My parents were violent, my uncle abused me sexually from a very young age, and even the school nurse crossed lines she shouldn’t have. My world seemed so very dark. It’s no wonder I attempted suicide the first time when I was just six. I wanted control over my life, or death as it may be. I wanted power.

I entered kindergarten already able to read, right and do basic math, but I had no voice. I was selectively mute, and when I did try to speak at all, no one could understand what I had to say. I had very little practice in speaking, and consequently had a heavy lisp and a nervous stutter. When I couldn’t communicate with words, I spoke with my fists. I was well-versed in this language – it was spoken often at home.

Early power

Fists were a language of power. It felt good to get what I wanted. It felt awful as well – guilt about my opponent’s obvious pain broke my heart. I knew what it was to be in pain. I was responsible for making someone suffer, and that was unforgivable.

“Stop!” should have been a word of power. I wasn’t much on dada or mama, but when I learned the word stop, I randomly yelled it with gusto. Stop became the word of my childhood. It gave me a voice. Unfortunately it was rarely obeyed.

I was ten years old when I discovered the power of combining these tools. My father and I were working in the basement, surrounded by my uncle’s model train set, and the paints, stains and chemicals that were stored in this back room. Evidently I grabbed the wrong can, as my father lashed out and hit me hard. “Stop!” I yelled, as I swung back and landed a solid hook to his gut. He sunk to his knees, the breath knocked out of him. “Do not hit me again. I will fight back,” I warned, and then walked away.

The next time he hit me, we had a long dialogue in the language of fists. I never again won this kind of debate. Yet even on the losing side, there was a certain power in fighting back. I was asserting that I was worthy of better. While I may not have had control over what was happening to me, I was no longer going to accept that I deserved this maltreatment. Losing a debate was more empowering than accepting a monologue.

I followed that up by striking my uncle the next time he tried to touch me, and the abuse I suffered at his hands was greatly reduced.

Adolescent attempts at power

Unfortunately, years later I learned that he’d simply moved on to my younger brother. When I learned of this, it was hard to decide what to do. The part of me that speaks in fists wanted to settle the score with a fight to the death, but I instead reported my uncle. New power – asking for help. Counselors, school officials, police officers, state social services, courts – so may people were determined to render justice. It was weird having people on my side.

Shortly after reporting my uncle, I accidentally disclosed to my new counselor that I’d been in a fight with my father the night before. “Oh, you mean an argument,” she said, and I explained that no, it was a full-blown fistfight. When I described the blow by blow, she picked up the phone and called social services. I was temporarily removed from the home – foster care. I suppose that was power too – I told the truth – but it didn’t feel empowering. I felt disconnected and utterly lost.

I attempted suicide – I suppose, in a weird way, another kind of power. Except it was not a cry for help. I didn’t tell anyone what I was going to do, or even after, what I had done. I wanted to quietly disappear. The pain was too great. I wanted to end the pain. Now.

Finding my groove as a young adult, and beyond

After a few more attempts, I decided that God wasn’t going to let me out of this game. I didn’t think, God loves me, but rather, God hates my guts and wants me to suffer some more. If God was going to make me keep living, I decided I was going to have to live differently. There is power in this decision too. I got serious about stopping drinking, and eventually when I couldn’t stop, I agreed to go to rehab.

I got sober. I found support, and without alcohol and drugs in my system, I was also able to give therapy real effort. I started college, away from “home”, and while there were some fits and starts, I eventually was able to choose living away from my family.

When I started living on my own, without violence surrounding me, that was an act of personal power. I have choices. I have the power to choose things that nurture myself, rather than choosing danger.

My father became more mellow as he aged. He too gave up the language of fists, but for my psyche it was too late. I have a little girl inside me who was terrified of her Daddy, and while I have sort of forgiven him (another power!), I haven’t forgotten, and couldn’t trust his milder ways.  

I could remain a victim today, but I try really hard to instead look for the way I can change a situation, or bring something to it in the name of love and healing. Love – oh love! – is probably the strongest power of all in my toolbox. That’s the language of the heart.