Fractured, Not Broken

By T.D. King

Fractured, Not Broken is an incomparable memoir, at times heart-wrenching and equally inspirational. King's story leads you through shocking and incredible ways in which abuse, abandonment, and disappointment have impacted her life. Despite the myriad obstacles she faced, she emerged with incredible resilience and stoicism. Though not a

• Language: English
• Publisher: toridawnking
• Release date: May 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088019030

Book preview

Part One: Childhood—The Formative Years

1

Someday, Things Will Be Different

Do you remember your childhood dreams? Growing up, I just wanted peace. I always envied kids living normal lives. I watched countless episodes of The Brady Bunch in astonishment. Was this how families were supposed to be? Laughter, adventure, love, and communication. To me, these were abstract and concealed concepts in a world fraught with hostility, violence, and discord.

Truthfully, I have very few memories from early childhood. It would be even more challenging to find pleasant ones. The few memories I do have are random and disconnected, like useless seashell fragments lying on a beach. This lack of memory must be some sort of defense mechanism to shield me from facing, as an adult, the daily life that was so traumatic for me as a child. I distinctly remember lying in bed at night as a young child, maybe six or seven, making mental lists of ways my life would be different, better, when I grew up… if I grew up.

While some things may seem innocuous in isolation or out of context, when pieced together and experienced in totality they combined to forge an existence that was intolerable. I can’t ever remember being happy, though I am sure there had to be solitary moments of joy. I only remember the little things and big things that solidified for me the need for escape. I still hear that inner voice beckoning me to break away, like a song in my head that I cannot silence.

I was an avid reader as soon as I learned. I don’t think I would have survived, psychologically, had it not been for books. Reading gave me a mental escape, every day. My favorite books were Nancy Drew mysteries. Somehow, the intrigue of trying to solve someone else’s problems meant I could, for a little while, pretend I was someone or someplace else.

I was also a devoted and gifted student. Not that either of my parents cared. School gave me an outlet. I thrived there. I had never received positive reinforcement or recognition at home. Academic accomplishments provided for me purpose, value and meaning in a life that otherwise tested my sense of self-worth.

Despite having so few specific memories, I have never forgotten the distinct feeling of mortality. I honestly thought I would never survive my childhood—the ever-present stress, dread and anxiety associated with simple things like going home from school—and, later, the guilt. I believe most survivors feel guilty. But why? Is it the conditioning by abusers that causes us to feel like we deserve less? Or is it because so many don’t make it—or they do make it, but with irreparable scars that make normal life impossible?

I struggle to this day with memories that still seem inconceivable, yet are true. Like something from a horrible movie. All I did know was living that chaos, every day, was not for me. I wanted a different life. I wanted a life like I read about in books or watched on The Brady Bunch. One that I fantasized about after discovering the possibility existed.

2

An Ordinary Day

I didn’t know how to reconcile the chaos inside our home with how we projected the outward appearance of a typical, all-American family. Though economically we were middle class, the chaos and unhealthy behavior was more indicative of how people misconceive poor or uneducated families.

My parents liked nice things. We lived in decent homes. We never wanted for anything, save for love or compassion. I specifically recall the pride my father exhibited on more than one occasion when acquiring the latest Lincoln sedan. We had family portraits done at Olan Mills. My mother’s hair and makeup were always perfectly done. We had school clothes and play clothes.

I know now it was all a facade—an elaborate ruse designed to mask the reality of our life. There were parties. Lots of parties. Not unusual for the ‘70s, I suppose. But were my peers exposed to this? Drugs weren’t the only thing on the menu during some of these parties. Sex was a frequent activity. Strange women, drugs, parties, orgies. My parents never even attempted to shield us from these activities.

How do young children process these scenes for which they have no basis of understanding? Watching my father beat my mother. Or the sexual acts. How do you explain walking in while he had her bent over the bed in the middle of the day? Honestly, I didn’t know any different. It was the only life I knew.

My typical day consisted of getting myself up for school, getting ready, and making my own breakfast. I was about five when my mother taught me how to make scrambled eggs so I could cook breakfast before school. After school I would stop by the neighborhood library. I would stay there as long as possible to avoid going home. Once I arrived home, I would go straight to my room if I could. My number one priority was to go unnoticed. I would do homework or read. With the ongoing hostility and partying, we rarely engaged in community or family activities.

The one oddity in it all was the pets in our home. My father loved animals and we had a variety of species. We had a dog, two cats, birds, fish, and even hermit crabs. In reality, the pets were treated better than we were.

We were a transient family. Not in a homeless sense but more in a nomadic way. We moved frequently. We were never in the same place more than two years. I attended four schools in just five years of elementary school (kindergarten through fourth grade). That kind of constant upheaval leaves an indelible mark on a developing child.

I quickly learned to keep to myself. Making friends was a useless endeavor. We didn’t have the ability to stay in touch back then. Making a new friend would only result in eventual heartbreak. I grew accustomed to frequent change. Later in life, it challenged