Soldier On

By Christine Rybak

Soldier On, A Memoir and Reminder, Abuse is Not Love

 

A young soldier overcomes mental struggles when she is sexually assaulted by a superior in the middle of the night while on exercise.

 

Childhood experiences and abuse suffered as an adult are not an unusual occurrence, however, through memories of trauma and real world solutions, one can learn to live their best life.

 

Unscrambling the complexities of relationship betrayals and the urgency to seek out help, the survival of a woman in her forties seeks to empower others in similar situations with the will to conquer uncertain circumstances and thrive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Rybak
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201119669

Book preview

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

SOLDIER ON

First edition. November 18, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Christine Rybak.

ISBN: 979-8201119669

Written by Christine Rybak.

Soldier On

A Memoir and Reminder,

Abuse is Not Love

Written by Christine Rybak

Copyright 2021

This book is dedicated to the hope for a             better world.

The pale colored walls in the kitchen seemed endless as I stared outward and contemplated my survival. The old antique laminate kitchen table top with steel trim was near my face as I was made to crouch onto the vinyl covered metal chair. My pants with an elastic waistband were abruptly pulled down to my knees. My father’s brown leather belt was doubled over and was swiftly struck against my backside again and again. The burning sensation of my skin rendered me speechless. Alone with my thoughts in silence I said to myself, ‘’I’m a girl’’.

The embarrassment became overwhelming. It seemed like forever that I would beg my parents to get my teeth fixed. A big gap in my teeth paired with a huge overbite. I couldn’t understand why they were denying me braces and help to fix my ridiculed smile. I was made fun of, called names for as long as I could remember. I tried not to show my face but it was difficult to keep my F over my teeth. At night I would press my upper teeth against the hard springs in the mattress before I fell asleep in hopes the pressure would somehow force my teeth back into my mouth and they would eventually straighten.

I couldn’t understand why my parents did not want to help me. They witnessed the name calling in my own home from my brothers’ friends and I was relentless in my quest to get help. My father had no dental insurance from work and in no way was going to sacrifice even a dollar to help his daughter get her teeth fixed.

The large closet door remained closed as I sat crouched in the corner with my crossed arms holding my knees together. Sitting on the concrete floor with my back against the corner walls, there I was lectured. In the basement, alone, and helpless, I had to listen to my father stumble on his words as he described his plight at work, his under appreciation and his low pay. His breath was harsh smelling from cheap rye as he stood in front of me breathing on me unloading his day’s demise.

My father sat to the right of me at the kitchen table. My sister sat to my left. I sat at one end of the table while my mother sat at the opposite end, although she mostly stood near the counter or serving dishes for the center of the dinner table. Not much was ever spoken during dinner. The clanging of utensils on dinner plates and slurps and chewing were the sounds of mealtime. My mother self-criticized after every meal whether it was tasty or not. She was seeking approval before she immediately began the chore of clearing the table and washing all the dishes by hand.

The crucial years of elementary school passed quickly. Not much recognition of childhood achievements is remembered. Nervousness and fear of getting struck on the backside after the father’s workday was finished caused me to retreat to my bedroom until dinner on most days. Homework was eagerly finished every day right after school. It was some extra time in my life where I could concentrate on important things, enjoying the learning and the accumulation of knowledge and problem solving.

It was the mid-eighties and the supreme court had made a ruling against beating a child. I didn’t understand but it was then when I felt free with less worry that my father would hit me. A bad day, just wanting to hit the bottle and get drunk after work or read his newspaper in peace, there was no time or interest to pay attention to me as a child.

School was challenging at times not having help from my parents when it came to school projects. Other parents produced beautiful book reports on special printed paper, organized and presented like journalists or scholars. I had to make do with what I had and it was clearly inadequate at times. There was the assumption that parents would assist their kids in writing endeavors and projects. I did not have that luxury. I did not get a desk to do my studies like my brother did. No place to do homework except on the floor at the living room coffee table.  On my knees after school at the coffee table while I watched little house on the prairie was my daily after school routine. I enjoyed homework despite the discomfort working on the floor.

It was grade 7 at the end of the year. We were all jammed in the school gym for a presentation. I was wearing shorts and a light-colored top sitting near the back. They announced my name. I heard my name being called out. I was in disbelief and shock. That afternoon I received an award for the highest math grade in the school! I was surprised and proud. I held in my hands a lovely little trophy on a brown plastic base. I felt special as I wrapped my hands around this acknowledgement in the form of a statue in gold. I received an award for something I did not know the teachers kept track of. So excited to show my parents at the end of the school day. Not so impressed I got a ‘’That’s nice’’ comment. Nothing more. A year in the making and my academic accomplishment seemed to go unnoticed. My unvalued achievement gave me confidence. My mother used to tell me how bright I was when I was a small child. I was 5 or 6