Dear Family,
Interesting that I still call you "the family", since I really don't consider you family anymore? I don't know what else to call you.
I've been doing so much reading on bullying and people, especially women, who go off the derech because of the high pressures put on them from the "frum" world. I find it especially disturbing how many women are mistreated because of the erroneous and misleading words that people find in Torah.
In other words... people mistreat others, and use Torah (or the bible, or whatever religious doctrine one wants to use) as a way to justify bad behavior.
I should just make that my mantra.
It's sad really. As the past month has gone by, I've seen several tragic events occur, and the one thing that I can't get out of my mind is the concept that people seem to do for show. They will give to others for show, they will do for others for show, they will make things for others for show, they will pay condolence calls for show.. but when it comes to doing something for another, quietly, without fanfare, they don't want to.
Why is that? Why is the concept of doing just for the sake of doing such a difficult one? And then, the question of course leads to that of modesty. Why does the idea of modesty fall on the woman. Is the man not required to be modest as well?
I've been filling out the necessary paperwork for the kids to go back to school in the fall, and I'm amazing and disturbed at the emphasis that it put on the "no internet, no tv" policy, but there is no policy on the "be good to others and be respectful to your parents" policy.
I've had this idea about speaking to the little girl's teacher about emphasizing derech eretz more than the parsha, but I don't think that this will go over well. Anyone have any thoughts about that? I would have, at one point, thought that my former parents would have truly pushed that concept, but no longer, since they don't seem to think that respect is a problem.
I'm disgusted with how the little girl speaks to me. She thinks that I'm her friend. I keep telling her how much I love her, and that I will never, ever be her friend. I'm her mother. I don't want to be her friend. Different concept for her, and one that she's not quite accustomed to. I love her, I always will and nothing that she will ever do will change that. I've also begun to explain to her the why and how of this divorce.
She asked me why I don't speak with my mother and father anymore. She's almost 10 ka'h and I am going to eventually have to explain it to her. I can't seem to push it off any longer, so, I sat her down and had a somewhat frank conversation with her; explaining how I always tell her that no matter what she does I will always love her.. and how my parents did not tell me that.
I know that the conversation made her uncomfortable, and that at some point she is going to go back to M and tell her that I said it. But the truth is there and it cannot be denied. My father had said several times that unless I continue with therapy, his heart would be hardened to me (even though it turned out that I wasn't the issue), and my mother had told me at one time in my life not to come home), so there it is. Out there in the open. No matter what my children do, no matter what they become, no matter who they become, I will always love them.
I liken being a parent to flying a kite. At some point the string can get quite long, but as a parent, you can always know that you've got hold of that string. My parents cut the string. I never will.
Showing posts with label Jewish Domestic Assault. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jewish Domestic Assault. Show all posts
Monday
July 25, 2010: The Police Report
I was assaulted on July 25th, 2010.
The man who beat me up was my husband, your son-in-law, your brother-in-law, and your nephew-in-law. And you have him living with you. You took him in, and left me, broken and bleeding and alone.
I continuously use the repetition of the words "in law" because he is not family, though quickly became family while I became more and more lost.
People look at orthodox or observant Judaism as a beacon, something that should be held to a higher standard. The concept of "those things don't happen where we are" applies directly to where we are. Yet, there I was, lying broken and bleeding on my kitchen floor, screaming for the police department to come save me from the man, whom I had thought was going to kill me in front of my then 8 year old daughter.
In some way, I wasn't surprised. The calm prior to the storm had been building for some time. I knew he had pulled away from me, though I wasn't sure where he had pulled away to. I knew that help, at least for me, was not forthcoming, and that this battle, to whereever it was going to lead, was going to be one that I would more than likely be fighting on my own.
Depression became a constant companion. I knew there were others like me out there. But others truly like me, there weren't.
People from the family that I come from, from the prominence of the level of religious observance and political wherewithal that my family held, do not get depressed.. and certainly do not have divorce in their family...And this would have been my second.
As it was, I was broken. A failure to the name. I couldn't have "good healthy" children. My pregnencies were riddled with miscarriages, another burden of shame, and people were afraid to have me discuss anything of those sorts too.
Almost as though my failures as a wife and as a parent would be contaigious.
And yet, here I lie... broken, and bleeding.
When the police arrived, the whispers started... I must have done something, because the quiet nonassuming man that people had come to know would never have raised a hand towards me. And yet, the bleeding and bruising was on me.
My father did not come.
My mother did not come.
My brothers did not come.
Rather, my uncle came, in a way, to add more shame to my already failing sense of falling, and I threw him out of my home.
The police report offered little balm to an already ripped and bleeding wound. He admitted drinking, though his version of the report is barely coherent. Charges were not filed because of who my family was, shamefully, I allowed them to coerce me into doing what even I knew was wrong. It was the last time I would allow that to occur.
Here begins letters to a broken family. Letters that I wrote over the past year and then some, as the journey that I take, discovering who I am, as a Jew, being born a Jew, and knowing that I will die as a Jew, but not knowing if I wish to live as a Jew after being fully cognizant of how the Orthodox Rabbinic Jewish community runs rampant over it's women...
Stand silent no more do I...
Dear Abba,...
The man who beat me up was my husband, your son-in-law, your brother-in-law, and your nephew-in-law. And you have him living with you. You took him in, and left me, broken and bleeding and alone.
I continuously use the repetition of the words "in law" because he is not family, though quickly became family while I became more and more lost.
People look at orthodox or observant Judaism as a beacon, something that should be held to a higher standard. The concept of "those things don't happen where we are" applies directly to where we are. Yet, there I was, lying broken and bleeding on my kitchen floor, screaming for the police department to come save me from the man, whom I had thought was going to kill me in front of my then 8 year old daughter.
In some way, I wasn't surprised. The calm prior to the storm had been building for some time. I knew he had pulled away from me, though I wasn't sure where he had pulled away to. I knew that help, at least for me, was not forthcoming, and that this battle, to whereever it was going to lead, was going to be one that I would more than likely be fighting on my own.
Depression became a constant companion. I knew there were others like me out there. But others truly like me, there weren't.
People from the family that I come from, from the prominence of the level of religious observance and political wherewithal that my family held, do not get depressed.. and certainly do not have divorce in their family...And this would have been my second.
As it was, I was broken. A failure to the name. I couldn't have "good healthy" children. My pregnencies were riddled with miscarriages, another burden of shame, and people were afraid to have me discuss anything of those sorts too.
Almost as though my failures as a wife and as a parent would be contaigious.
And yet, here I lie... broken, and bleeding.
When the police arrived, the whispers started... I must have done something, because the quiet nonassuming man that people had come to know would never have raised a hand towards me. And yet, the bleeding and bruising was on me.
My father did not come.
My mother did not come.
My brothers did not come.
Rather, my uncle came, in a way, to add more shame to my already failing sense of falling, and I threw him out of my home.
The police report offered little balm to an already ripped and bleeding wound. He admitted drinking, though his version of the report is barely coherent. Charges were not filed because of who my family was, shamefully, I allowed them to coerce me into doing what even I knew was wrong. It was the last time I would allow that to occur.
Here begins letters to a broken family. Letters that I wrote over the past year and then some, as the journey that I take, discovering who I am, as a Jew, being born a Jew, and knowing that I will die as a Jew, but not knowing if I wish to live as a Jew after being fully cognizant of how the Orthodox Rabbinic Jewish community runs rampant over it's women...
Stand silent no more do I...
Dear Abba,...
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