Through the Eyes of Abuse

Deborah Hall-Branch
Through the Eyes of Abuse
by Deborah Hall-Branch
Copyright ©2009 Deborah Hall-Branch
All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the Unit
ed
States of America. This book may not be copied or reprinted for commercial gain
or profit.
ISBN 978-1-58169-317-1
For Worldwide Distribution
Printed in the U.S.A.
Axiom Press
P.O. Box 191540 • Mobile, AL 36619
800-367-8203
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Dedication
Before I formed thee in the belly, I knew thee; and before
thou camest forth out of the womb I sanctified thee, and I
ordained thee a prophet unto the nations ( Jeremiah 1:5).
Thank You to the only wise God, who allowed divine impartation
unto me through His anointed.
The Garden
To Dr. B. H. and Mother Elizabeth Juanita Dabney,
Philadelphia, PA. My first spiritual parents who are now part of
that great cloud of witnesses. Thank you for planting the seed of
holiness within and imparting the mantel of intercession.
The Irrigation
To Pastor Benjamin A. Smith, Sr. Philadelphia, PA, who left
this earth for his heavenly home in the year of 2002. For watering
the planted seed through the teachings of the Gospels.
The Budding
To Apostle Bernard A. Harris, Sr., now residing in Atlanta,
GA, for the loving-kindness of a father who instructed without
compromise, desired that my soul prospered as he disclosed the
conclusion of holiness…without it no man shall see the Lord.
The Tiller
To my pastor, spiritual mother, and mentor, Prophetess Rachel
L. Harris, HINDS’ Feet Ministries, the watcher over my soul.
A personal thank you . . .
For - never giving up on me.
For – the many times you cried on my behalf and I didn’t see.
For – the true prayers that availeth much.
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For – allowing God to use you for my deliverance and healing.
For – the discipline wrapped in love.
For – showing me how to live free.
For – laughing with me when others laughed at me.
Table of Contents
Prologue .......................................................................
..............1
Chapter 1: A Quiet Despair......................................................
.3
Chapter 2: Hurtful Words........................................................
12
Chapter 3: Turning Point .......................................................
..22
Chapter 4: Darkness Taunts .....................................................
29
Chapter 5: Impaired Wounds...................................................35
Chapter 6: Bad Perceptions......................................................
43
Chapter 7: When Silence Gives Consent ................................49
Chapter 8: Deficits Within My Hope......................................56
Chapter 9: Twisted Souls .......................................................
..62
Chapter 10: The Hidden Sides of Abuse .................................68
Chapter 11: His Strength in My Weakness .............................75
Chapter 12: Conspiracy To Kill ...............................................81
Chapter 13: Sufficient Grace ...................................................
87
Chapter 14: It’s a Wrap...........................................................
.94
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Acknowledgments
To the many women, men, and children
who have fallen victims of abuse—“The Roses Still Bloom”
HINDS’ Feet Prophetic Intercessory Team
Atlanta, Georgia
The Rome, Georgia Connection
Apostle Anya M. Hall, Tekton Ministries, Intl., Inc.
Orlando, Florida
Carla Durham, my English teacher
Clayton State University
Morrow, Georgia
Denise V. Jones, Literary mentor/friend
Riverdale, Georgia
To Mom-Mom’s boys:
Shaquill, Nafiec, and Caleb
Philadelphia, PA
“May you find within the chapters of this book
wisdom’s nuggets for a prosperous life” Proverbs Two.
To my mother, Jessie L. Hall
Philadelphia, PA
“Mommy, I understand better now.”
Prologue
From South Carolina, he came to live with us at the birthplace
of our parents and many of our ancestors. I had never met
this cousin before, but inside of me, excitement bubbled. He was
Lillian’s twin sister’s son. He and my mother were first cousins.
Mommy said he would be with us until he could find a job and
a place of his own.
Sitting there in my room, I wondered how long it would
take him to find a job. Does he like children? To me, at eight
years old, that was important. If he liked me, maybe he would
play my favorite game, Monopoly, with me. Mommy never liked
playing it because I always won. She simply would say, “It takes
too long to end.”
Everything in my life changed on one beautiful summer
morning. The sun shone brightly, but a subtle vileness had entered
my bedroom and darkness invaded our loving, Christian home.
Dazed by sleep, the heaviness of his body became lighter as he
lifted himself off my body. Ignoring the tears that moistened my
pillow, he had quietly committed his sin and violated me.
Where was my mommy? In a home that sheltered several
adults and children, what made that morning so different from
any other? No one knew what was happening on the third floor.
There were no visible signs of life. No little cousins were running
up and down the stairs with breakfast cooking in the
kitchen.
Somewhere during the night, all signs of life had disappeared.
It seemed the only ones left were my abuser and me. I
had been contaminated. The innocence of my youth was stolen
like flowers snatched from a neighbor’s garden. His stench remained
in my memory even as I washed away the assault.
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Devoid of conscience, he left my room silently, carrying
with him something I could never reclaim. Why did he hate me
so? We were family. I had never wronged him the way he
harmed me. Who had convinced him to climb those stairs and
commit such a crime? This abomination would remain a secret for
years before God’s display of vengeance. My numbed heart
plummeted into fear. How does a child handle fear? Whom can
she turn to when no one is really there? Most of all, who could
make him not do it again?
What happened to me had to be my fault. Maybe Mommy
should’ve put me away before he came, and then perhaps temptation
would not have found him. As fear began to envelop me,
I attempted to resist it. Despite my efforts, the events played
back in my mind and wrenched my torn heart. While I was
hiding under the bed, my hair became tangled in the coils of the
box spring mattress. I prayed that he wouldn’t find me again.
That day under the bed, my fingers gripped my skate key. I was
known for being the fastest skater in my neighborhood. Next to
Mommy, my skate key was the most important thing to me.
Had I been skating that morning, he never would’ve caught me.
Fear is a demon. It holds you in the belly of a stronghold,
determined not to let you go. Fear steals from you the very
breath you breathe, leaving you vulnerable and weakened.
Unable to understand the relationship between cause and effect,
the only recourse for me lay in either running away or waiting in
fear on the front steps each day until Mommy returned home.
The bedroom I slept in was no longer comfortable to me. I
no longer felt safe within its walls. A thief of my free will and
comfort, he remained with me even in his absence, holding me
silently in mental bondage. Some ask, “Why didn’t she tell?”
You may be wondering the same thing right now. But, after
you’ve finished reading this book, maybe you’ll come to understand
the fear of a battered child.
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Through the Eyes of Abuse
Chapter 1
A Quiet Despair
At a young age, I learned a unique skill that helped me to
survive through the pains of abuse. I soon became a walking,
talking, living, and breathing hologram—a forged replica of a
happy child who hid deep inside the scars of the wounds inflicted
on me.
Being brought up in a very strict Christian home wasn’t
easy. The very apparent lack of spiritual knowledge kept my
family divided by denominations. Yet, with such noticeable limited
wisdom, our elders still remained the matriarchs, who possessed
excessive power and influence with their opinions over all
the affairs of our lives, including their firm belief that girls
should not wear pants, makeup, or jewelry.
My cousins, who lived in South Carolina, were faithful to
follow these very stringent doctrines. Their parents followed the
rules to the letter of the law. By the time most of the elders had
become either ill or died, my mom became a little more flexible
with the way I dressed. At first, still in fear of them even from
the grave, she slowly made her own rules.
I don’t remember owning a pair of pants or wearing a bra
until I entered junior high school. The only way I could wear
pants was underneath skirts. As for my first training bra, my
mom insisted that I still wore those little T-shirts on top.
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“You don’t want anyone seeing your personals,” she had said.
What personals? I was underdeveloped everywhere. By the time
we reached the fourth grade, most of the girls in my class had
already begun to show signs of puberty. Some even wore the
same bra size as their mothers.
Nothing on the outside of my body represented a nine year
old. If others could have seen past my outward appearance, on
the inside of me they would have found hopelessness. My inner
person had been tainted over and over again with stigmas of
abuse.
With a keen imagination, most times away in my bedroom I
pretended to be my fifth grade teacher, Ms. Swanson, whom I
loved. A gifted, soft-spoken woman, Ms. Swanson had a comforting
way of helping me to function in life. Other than
church, school became my favorite hideaway.
At home with my dolls lined up on the floor of my bedroom—
tallest in the back, shortest in front—I’d play school and
imitate everything Ms. Swanson did in our class. That’s what
holograms do. They master duplication and can appear different
in each situation. Nothing is real in their world. Not even the
hurtful words my mom sometimes spoke could infiltrate my secret
place. There, she really didn’t exist.
Every little girl has a favorite doll. I had several. When I
played church, Tiny Tear was my favorite. I’d wrap her up in a
receiving blanket and pretend to be the young married woman
who had just become a member at the Garden of Prayer Church
we attended.
Then there was the small, dark haired doll that I named
“Dawn” after one of my classmates. The real Dawn, a thin quiet
girl with long hair and dark features, transferred to our classroom
from Catholic school two weeks after classes started.
Neither of us knew it at first, but she and I had a lot in
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Through the Eyes of Abuse
common—more than we both really knew or were brave enough
to discuss.
Unlike children of today, we dared not speak anything
against our parents in public or in private. In the early sixties,
children were taught to bless their food before eating, say their
prayers at night, and what happens in the home is to be kept
private. When grownups talked, you were instructed to leave the
room. And, if you just so happened to hear anything, it was best
to pretend you didn’t.
Your neighbors, teachers, and clergy were given permission
to spank you. Retaliation against your parents on any grounds
provoked this singular statement from them: “I brought you into
this world, and I’ll take you out!” No one other than your parents
were ever given rights to invade the dark places where certain
sinful things were done in secret. With an unbalanced fear
of God, our parents taught morals and principles to the best of
their ability, while blinded to the hardships that took their toll
on innocent little minds.
Most of us, because of fear, learned how to function in it.
Fear would subconsciously threaten my emotions to be silent as
it ravaged my heart. It motivated me to believe that if I did anything
against God’s will, I wouldn’t enter into heaven.
I remember a particular incident that took place with Dawn.
Our class had been given an opportunity to take swimming
lessons. Ms. Swanson gave all the children permission notes to
take home for a parent’s signature. Dawn returned the next day
with hers unsigned. When Ms. Swanson inquired why her
mother had not signed it, she replied, “Mommy said girls don’t
need to know how to swim.”
You could hear the despair in her voice. I knew that grieved
sound all too well. It accompanied desperation to fight back the
tears while the huge lump in your throat ached for freedom.
Although I had a fear of drowning, my mom signed for me to
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A Quiet Despair
go anyway. As Dawn sat on the side watching the rest of us drift
around on our float boards, I could see the shadowed pain in her
eyes.
Sadly, one day the cause of her misery all came to a head.
We were in our locker room preparing to put on our bathing
suits. Dawn decided to come in with the rest of us girls.
Unknown to anyone else, she had forged her mother’s signature
on the permission form. In astonishment, we watched as she
slowly began to undress. After her suit was on, she slipped on a
T-shirt and hesitantly entered the pool area. In a firm voice, our
instructor, Mr. Harold, informed Dawn that she had to remove
her shirt before entering the pool. Despondent, she stood frozen
while we all awaited her next move.
Ms. Swanson walked over and wrapped her arms around
Dawn, who cringed as though in pain. The chlorine had blurred
my vision, but I could see Ms. Swanson and Mr. Harold examining
something other than the bathing suit hidden under her
shirt. Several weeks later, Ms. Swanson announced to the class
that Dawn had an unfortunate accident and would not be returning
back to class. What made my classmate’s situation so different
from mine? I wondered. The visible bruises on her body
told Dawn’s story. She had been physically abused by her
mother. Today, those bruises would have become evidence
against the woman she loved, respected, and called “Mommy.”
That day, it more than likely became as dust swept under a rug.
In the hologram’s world we were bold. We repeatedly told
on those who harmed us. But, in our real world, it was unthinkable
to mention mistreatment. With its true identity concealed,
you just learned how to function in despair while it grew with
you year after year.
You may ask how we as God’s own creations are so beguiled
and distorted by that which is harmful to our very souls. One of
my all-time favorite religious movies is The Greatest Story Ever
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Through the Eyes of Abuse
Told. It begins with Adam and Eve in the garden. The film offers
vivid illustrations of how the serpent beguiled Eve and then
shows the judgment God placed upon her, Adam, and the serpent
for their disobedience. I’ve viewed that movie many times.
One day while I watched it, God highlighted to me man’s state
after the flood, when life again began to show signs of wickedness.
Satan works continuously to deceive God’s people by
working to destroy their faith in Him.
With that same infection still flowing through the bloodline
today, over a process of time, we have become a society that has
lost its foundational morals. The church has moved into a slot of
compromise in fear of what those who toss their large donations
into the brass plate will say at the next board meeting. While
this transpires, wounded, hurting people are in routine despair.
Innocence has decreased in value. Our children have been
tricked into becoming adults before their time. Doll babies have
been exchanged for real babies. Our sons have been drafted into
wars held in their very own backyards. Today, with evidence of
the Bible being fulfilled, we can safely admit that sex, drugs, and
violence have become no mystery to this generation. Our children
are introduced to it in every arena of their young lives as
they live in the midst of despair with abused children around
them yet fight daily to survive. Of course this existed in my
youthful years also, but now has been organically introduced in a
more overt way.
I remember my mother saying to me with her Southern
drawl, “Debbie, people change every seven years, and ya’ll children
are smarter than I am; but the Bible says you’re weak.
Don’t be weak.” I couldn’t help but think that Mom, although
she played a part in my despondency, was on to something.
Perhaps had I been as wise as this generation, my first
abuser would never have had an opportunity to harm me. But,
praise God, He sent His only begotten Son that my dampened,
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A Quiet Despair
wounded heart could find healing and be brought back to
healthiness through Him.
A small number of people will steer away from a wholesome
relationship without violence. To them, because of their blind
dependency due to an unfortunate background, not being hit or
mentally ill-treated is a sign that they’re not loved. This unbalanced
thinking is all a trick of Satan’s. Once accepted as normal,
this frame of mind can implant itself deeper while it annihilates
generation after generation.
I’m sure Dawn’s mother loved her but stood in need of a
Savior. Receiving Christ at an early age helped me to learn how
to cast my cares upon Him. He, in return, loved me unconditionally.
His balm supplied healing to my wounded heart daily
as He changed me from a child of despair to a brand new creature.
Time after time Christ taught me what forgiveness meant
and how important it was to my recovery.
There’s no doubt Dawn loved her mother. That’s why she
protected her. Most children do; but if no one ever rescues
them, they only grow into unhealthy, insecure adults with
bruised hearts, never recognizing that they were given a part in
the unfortunate performance of their parents’ lives. But, Christ
came that we might have life and have it more abundantly.
Wrapped in the abundance is every promise written in the
Word of God.
Because the pain and circumstances may still be there, you
may ask, “Does God really care?” Absolutely! When you’re His,
there’s nothing or no one that can separate you from His love
(Rom. 8:31).
Somewhere through my mother’s fear of the elders, her nervous
breakdown, and her grief over the loss of her parents, I became
a victim for just about every hardship that took place in
our home. She loved me but lacked the courage to face the
demons living among us. So, even as a child, just as I learned
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Through the Eyes of Abuse
how to play pretend, I also learned how to wrap myself in God’s
undeniable love.
Here are some words of wisdom to those of you who are
parents: no two children are alike. Encourage a relationship between
you and your child. Build up a trust where he or she will
feel safe enough to share with you. Step away from judgment or
condemnation by offering a listening ear and compassionate
heart. Above everything else, make Christ the center of the solution.
A family that prays together will stay together.
One day I thought about the neighborhood of my childhood.
We lived in a prominent area of Philadelphia, a community
of mostly Jewish descent. Little did we know or realize that
geographically God had placed us among His chosen people.
We lived as if we were grafted into the lives of His descendants.
Our next door neighbor, Mrs. Rose, was an elderly Jewish
woman. She and her husband owned a very well-known bakery
in our neighborhood. Just like clockwork, every Friday evening
upon returning home, she sent one of the neighbor’s children to
get me. At her request, I would go outside, and she would be
standing on her front porch, holding a small white box wrapped
in string. Inside the box were the most delicious ginger cookies,
still warm out of the oven.
With a smile on her face, she always handed me the box and
said, “Don’t eat them all at one time. You’ll get sick.” Soon I
began to look forward to every Friday and the warm box of
ginger cookies. Once you come to know Christ and His sovereign
love, you’ll anticipate His presence in a similar way each
and every day.
God Understands Your Pain
The outcome of physical abuse is no different from sexual or
verbal. It can cause one’s very foundation to become treacherous,
faithless, and disloyal, all expected by the devil. Just func-
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A Quiet Despair
tioning is no more than acceptance of a lifestyle with no gratification.
The Lord thy God knows and understands the depths of
your pain. He gave His only begotten Son, who experienced it
all on the cross before any of us were formed in the wombs of
our mothers.
A lifetime of functioning in despair can make it impossible
to see the light that reaches out to you. The picture of a once
colorful garden fades away daily, leaving nothing but wilted,
dark desolation and the forgotten sound of love. God, because
of His love for you ( John 3:16), has divinely inspired this book
as a tool to help you find forgiveness so that you can live a
healthy and vibrant life.
I want to proclaim to all of you who have suffered some
type of violence: you can be set free in your heart, mind, and
soul. Christ, the Lord, stands at the door knocking. He desires
to heal you and restore your joy as well as release the clenched
fist of anger that deliverance can find its rightful place.
If nothing else, the power of hopelessness should have convinced
me to commit suicide, but that wasn’t God’s plan for my
life. Remember, the plans He has for you are for good and not
evil ( Jer. 29:11). He offers a perfect love with no strings attached.
Yes, there may still be bad days, but He will sustain and
keep you in His perfect peace.
Abuse, however, didn’t disappear from my life. Whenever
Mom had her “special moments,” she reacted with violent behavior.
Physical abuse can leave a relentless pain long after the
occurrence has ended; it can turn into emotional and psychological
trauma.
Every promise God has spoken He will keep. From the
residue of your sorrows and torrential storms of life, He will
make it all good as He restores the peace you’ve lost. Know that
your time is in His hands.
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Through the Eyes of Abuse
Don’t allow abuse of any kind to hold you in a spirit of oppression
while you try daily to take care of the business of your
life. Merely functioning is not progress but an illusion that your
troubles will disappear. My plea is to those who are in such situations
and feel there is no help. Perhaps you even believe you are
better off where you are. That is deception. Christ, the “Master
Key” to the door of your healing, awaits you. Receive Him into
your heart today and obtain life.
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A Quiet Despair