In the Hands of an Abuser

By Yvonne Griffin

A child who was tossed through the child protection system and lived with numerous foster homes/families. Each family was temporary with hopes of reunification with my family. I was subjected to worse situations in these homes that were supposed to be a place of providing me with my needs and safety. I suffered, physical, sexual, verbal and emotional abuse. I was pulled from homes as things happened, but punishment was never given to those who assaulted me. I found an outlet for taking my mind off what was happening to me but it only helped for so long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796060553

Book preview

IN THE HANDS

OF AN ABUSER

Yvonne Griffin

Copyright © 2019 by Yvonne Griffin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/31/2019

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Strawberry Patch

Chapter 2 Evil Is Alive!

Chapter 3 Easter Visitation

Chapter 4 Rude Awakening

Chapter 5 Bloodbath

Chapter 6 My Turn

Chapter 7 Another Story

Chapter 8 Freedom

Chapter 9 Not All that Bad …

Chapter 10 Deep Breath

Chapter 11 The Long Walk

Chapter 12 Home Alone

Chapter 13 Tattletale

Chapter 14 It’s Not My Fault

Chapter 15 Thrown Away

Chapter 16 Hello Again

Chapter 17 Cowgirl Up!

I found myself reading the bible and writing stories and poetry as a form of releasing my thoughts, feelings and pains. These are only a few of the several poems that I’ve written since I was 8 years old.

DEDICATION

*To my husband Luther Griffin

For praying for me and encouraging me to share my testimony.

*To my children Jr, Ivory, DJ, Zechariah, Jade and Xavier

For loving me in my weakness and through my healing.

*To my spiritual parents Vern and Doris Lebby

For praying me through my struggles and helping me to reach my calling.

I love you all very much!!

SPECIAL DEDICATION

*To all those that have been hurt at the hands of another, whether it was physically, emotionally or sexually. May this book help you to know that there is someone far greater that can help you to forgive and be restored. Forgiveness is key and believe me I know it is a hard thing to do.

May you find the true happiness, love and joy that is waiting for you.

*First and Foremost my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ

For saving me and choosing me for a purpose. For loving me even in my disobedience and yet giving me the boldness to share my story and continuing to elevate me in You.

FOREWORD

The writing of this book was quite the process for me. While I was writing this book, I found myself revisiting some traumatic times in my life. I found myself uncovering hidden anger and animosity that I assumed I had already dealt with. It brought about many emotions and some that were very hard for me to face. I began finding myself struggling with my emotions, and having to pray,fast and seek God’s face to deal with my hidden issues. Only after 14 years I have finished the book and have found freedom in the process of what I have been through. The only scars that I carry are the physical ones on my body, but they are a reminder as to my trials and tribulations. They are a reminder of my strength in Jesus.

          Daddy’s little girl, sweet and beautiful

          Big brown eyes and long brown hair

          Daddy’s little girl, smart and bright

          Fancy dancing feet

          Daddy’s little girl, Daddy loves you so much …

          Tears in brown eyes and tangled hair

          Daddy’s little girl … his lover at night

STRAWBERRY PATCH

I   HAVE SO many wonderful memories growing up as a child. And I had shared them with many. People had always said, What a wonderful life you had as a child. But if they asked me about my bad memories, then they would have said, Oh my god, how did you ever survive?

I remember sitting in a strawberry patch, picking strawberries off the vine and eating the sweet red berries. I was supposed to be pulling the weeds from around the vines. But the sweet smell was too much to keep from letting my curiosity to have the taste in my mouth. The warm sun shone down on me as I lay down between the rows of strawberries, looking up at the clouds in the sky and imagining what neat pictures I could see. And as they floated by, I wondered where they were going and where they would end up. Who would see the same clouds that I looked upon? Would they see the same picture that I did? Nestled among the strawberries, it was like heaven all around. I was a brown-faced little girl, tomboyish of sorts, had short hair with bangs, and the apple of my daddy’s eye. I loved long days when the sun was shining, and I was free to run and do what I pleased.

I didn’t know the history of my parents, how they met and how they ended up married. Did my father court my mother and ask her hand in marriage? Did my mother get pregnant and my father married her simply because he was the one responsible for the conception? Whatever the case, they were married, and they resided under the same roof in a house in Montana. My parents shared two children, a son and a daughter. I remember the times of fishing trips with my parents and the memories of the two playing and enjoying each other’s kisses and embraces. My father would hold an umbrella over my mother’s head to keep her cool in the hot sun. And she would wet a rag in a bucket of cool water and wipe his brow and neck to cool him.

Somewhere along the way, my father wasn’t enough for her mother, or my mother wasn’t enough for my father. My mother was drinking a lot, and I’d see her with another man many times. Before I knew it, my mother was no longer living in the home. As a young girl, I wanted nothing more than to have a parent not one who was ordered by the state or paid to be a guardian but a mother or a father whom I could run into their arms when I was frightened and scared. I wanted a parent whom I could go to and ask, But why? A parent whom I could count on to kiss my skinned knee and say, Now it’s all better. When I had a bad dream, I wanted a protective father who would run to my side and look for monsters under my bed. But instead, I cried while my daddy was being a monster, and he was the one who would wake me up from a not-so-peaceful sleep. I should have been able to look at my father and smile and receive a sweet kiss on the forehead, but instead, the only look I received from him was with lust in his eyes and sweat on his brows. This was the beginning of being removed from my home and placed in different foster homes or with extended family for long periods. I recalled memories of some, but they were not great. But some of the homes left a mark or a scar on my life forever.

I have many great memories about the time that I spent with my father, and I remember the times when my mother would come and pick me up to spend time with her. Who had custody of me, or did either have or just had an arrangement of visitations? Most visits with my mother only ended with me sitting in the back seat of the car with a can of Shasta and a bag of cheese curls and some snacks. I thought it was kind of fun at the time before I realized it was my mother’s way of keeping us occupied while she and her boyfriend were in the bar getting drunk.

Then she would come out of the bar with extra people who were all drunk, and she would pile everyone in the car and drive toward home to continue the party. I would be sitting on the lap of some smelly stranger who claimed to be my uncle or auntie. My mother would be yelling from the front seat to give my uncle or auntie a kiss. I hated it because they smelled bad and looked like they hadn’t washed up in a long time. Once we arrived to our little shack on the hill, I would jump off the lap of this random stranger and run into my mother’s room.

My mother’s home was a small shack without running water, and therefore, there was not a bathroom. The shack had three rooms. The first room you entered from the outside was the kitchen that had a fridge, stove, and kitchen table. The second room was our sitting area, and the third room was my mother’s room. Although we had electricity available, the shack was heated by an old wood burner that sat in the middle of the floor of the second room. Because we did not have running water, we had an outhouse that was used. Inside the outhouse were two holes cut in the seat so that both my sister and I could use it at the same time. On really cold nights, my mother had a slop bucket or a pail that we used to go bathroom in, and a lid was placed on top when it wasn’t used. We thought it was kind of neat that we could both go out to the bathroom at the same time. Although it was nice to have toilet paper, we weren’t always that lucky. We used an old newspaper and tore a piece off and rub and wrinkled the paper to make it smooth so when we wiped our backsides, we didn’t get hurt.

I mostly hated the parties that my mother had at her home because they always seemed to turn into fights, and I found myself hiding under the bed. There were times when the people who attended her parties were pretty nice, only because they brought candies, snacks, and goodies for us to eat. We didn’t know it then, but it was only to get us to leave them alone so they could carry on with their activities. Sometimes we might even get lucky enough to have a cashy uncle or aunt who would continually pull money out their pocket in exchange for a hug or a kiss on the cheek. By morning, my sister and I would be counting our dollars and planning on what we were going to buy from the super value in town. Of course, my sister and I were always careful not to tell our mother about our score of money the night before; otherwise, they would take it from us, and we would end up at the drive-through of the liquor store, and if we were lucky, we’d get a bag of chips and a can of soda. Even most of the time our trips to the town were to go to the liquor store, we would beg to go into the super value and get something. Of course, our parents wouldn’t know about our money and would give us some change from their pockets and off the floor of the car or from the ashtray. We would go inside the store and head straight for the candy aisle. We would load up with every sugary goody possible.

Eventually, our days of showing up late to school or not showing up at all caught up to us. Social workers frequently visited our home and sat with us and then alone with our mother. It was those visits that would seem like our mother was more caring. She would make sure our clothes were washed and hung, and we had a hot meal for breakfast and dinner every day. We got to ride the bus to school each day. We would race to the top of the road, and our momma would kiss us goodbye and would be waiting in the same spot when we’d come back. She would read to us, and we would help her make fry bread, which during this time seemed like it was every night. We would help our stepfather carry wood in each night and place it by the fireplace for that evening because that was what