Survivor....why I am who I am... Part 2

Part 2

By the time I was 11 years old, I was pretty self-sufficient. Evidence suggests, in my Hello Kitty diary, that I was writing in even then. Sharing my thoughts with my older self, knowing that one day I would look back and read what was written. My 5^th grade handwriting indented the pages when I was angry and danced playfully on the pages when I had some peace. I revisit that place on occasion. The nights when I would wake up and look into the night sky and pray. When I would get out my diary and write. I guess nothing much has changed since then.

This was the year, when my life would change. We moved into a new house and I started public school after years of Christian School. This was the year that I was defiled, almost raped and innocence stolen. This was the year I learned to not just survive, but fight, push back and live. It is amazing how it happens. How we, the victim are convinced that we brought this on ourselves, that we are the ones who invited it.

I started public school 2 months later. I had always gone to Christian School and had been sheltered from the wickedness public school thrives in. I was sexually assaulted by the boys in my class. I matured early on in life, so my breasts protruded more than most girls my age. Young boys grabbed and prodded at my protrusions and I learned how to fight. With words and fists I began to fight back. I sang a Christian song on stage for the talent, and punched with a Mike Tyson blow on the playground.

I made friends, who lived near my house and we took the same bus to school. One day, when we started walking home from school, a white van with blocked out windows drove up next to my friend and I as we walked on the sidewalk. The man, brown hair, hazel eyes, cleanly shaven started talking to us about what, I don’t remember. It felt wrong and forced and so I began to puff up my being to look bigger than I was. I started to be rude and disrespectful to let the man know we were not game. It enraged him. I could see his eyes turn from hazel to black and his sweet alluring tone turned violent.

He pulled out a gun, pointed it at me. “Run!” I told my friend. We started running the opposite direction of the way his van was faced. Thankfully it was the direction of home. We didn’t want him to know where we lived so we ran down a court and hid in the bushes. We could see the van as he slowly drove past the block trying to locate us. He kept driving and then turned the corner onto another street. We jumped out of the bushes and started running again. My friend ran to her house and I ran to mine. I hopped over bushes, ran through the roses and tore up my clothes and flesh and into my backyard. I grabbed the hidden key and then hid behind some bushes in the corner. I wasn’t sure if he saw me go into my backyard or not. I caught the van out of the corner of my eye as I pushed open the gate to my backyard. I sat there quietly for what seemed forever.

I waited. I heard my doorbell ring. I waited. I heard people talking. I waited. Finally, when I heard no more sounds, I peeked through the crack in the fence to see if the coast was clear. I noticed my window was not locked, so I pried it open and climbed into my house that way, instead of going to the front to unlock the door. I called my mom and told her what happened. She called the police.

The next day, at school, the police came and asked us to give a description to a sketch artist. We did. We never really talked about it again. To this day, I don’t even know if my friend has ever really talked about it. It all just got brushed under the rug. I didn’t remember the incident until a few years ago and it infuriated me.

By the time I got to 7^th grade, I had almost lost my innocence and had an encounter with a kidnapper. I went to middle school, but only found more sexual assaults. Young boys would grab my breast and laugh, others would grab me between my legs. It was degrading and devaluing. I felt powerless and the anger rose inside of me. At the same time, I was still raising my siblings, still making breakfast in the morning for them, still helping with homework in the evening, doing chores and making dinner. I still had to do my own homework, I played sports and ran for student office.

I began to realize that people in authority were not there to help me. Rather, they took the path of least resistance. This is about the time I started taking things into my own hands. At first I was pretty violent. I had zero tolerance for bullies. A boy grabbed my chest, I punched him in the face. The next one taunted me, grabbed my chest, and I punched him so hard, I broke his nose. The Vice Principal called me in, the parents of the boy told him they were going to press charges for assault. I told my mom what happened and she told the principal, “My daughter acted in self-defense.” When the parents realized what had really happened, they dropped their case.

At this point I realized I had a power. I did not have to stand back and allow bullies to abuse me. I could fight back. I could advocate for others. And I did. I began a life long journey of standing up to bullies, young and old. Fighting on behalf of those who have no voice. I learned how to beat the bullies at their own game. I used their own tactics against them, freeing many people from their oppression.

Starting line....

Why I am who I am... Part 1

I am an extreme advocate for those who are oppressed, discriminated against, demeaned and devalued, wounded, beat down, discouraged, timid and forgotten.

I am very vocal about my discontent to those who oppress. I had a revelation that people who intimidate, oppress, devalue or wound are really just BULLIES, grown up.

With that revelation, it made me realize that the people who dislike me, are the very people who are bullies. They don't like that I stand up for myself or others. They don't like that they can’t intimidate me or scare me or push me around. So they try to get others to dislike me by lying and gossiping about me and my family. Their way of life, BULLYING, is challenged by how I live my life, and it infuriates them.

Even my husband, at times, has a hard time swallowing my “in your face” approach to life, as he was created by God to embrace the world differently. Yet, he laughs at my rants and raves and hugs me as tears flow down my face in frustration at the pure wickedness that saturates the hearts of mankind. He, is patient, diplomatic, patient, quiet, and demolishes mindsets and oppression in a very covert manner. I wish I was more like him. It is an amazing gift and character trait that the Lord has given him.

I was not created that way. I was told my whole life that the way I approach this life is harsh, angry, aggressive, conflicting, intense, intimidating. So I spent the better part of my early years, denying who God created me to be. My denial did not change me, in fact, the more I tried to pretend I was someone else, that was acceptable to our society and the "church", the more I relied on who God made me to be to survive.

I am almost forty, arguably close to the half-way point of my life. The last 20 years have been spent in Parentland. Raising kids with the sole purpose of protecting them from what I experienced my first 20 years. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it solidified my being in Christ. The concrete of my soul set and I began to appreciate the raw nature of my existence.

Many people wonder at why I am the way I am. I did for many years and I am finally coming to that revelation. Let me show you, if you will, a glimpse into the making of Teresa Beukers:

I was born in the mid 70’s. Mom was a hippie, dad was a military man. Both grew up with extreme rejection. Dad was a product of rape, born to a 15 year old girl who had no one to turn to for help. Mom, was born to a mom who was treated like dirt by her husband, unfaithful and angry. Both were neglected. Dad ended up in an orphanage at the age of 7 and mom ended up raising her siblings in fear.

It was not a match made in heaven. They were both broken and lacked the experience of true love. I was the first born. They loved me and doted on me. I was their savior. I was looked at as the child who would keep their marriage intact. 3 years later, when my newness wore off, and marriage problems persisted, my mom announced a baby boy. The golden child, the very thing my father wanted more than anything. They worshiped him. They adored him. Even still, his deity was not enough to save their marriage. My father cheated on my mom, countless times and she was slipping into a world of hopelessness and depression, that she never recovered from.

My mom ended up in the hospital for “back surgery” after my brother was born. Years later, hints from friends and neighbors and herself told me otherwise. We stayed with Dorothy Woods, our next door neighbor, during her stay in the hospital. Dorothy, my surrogate mother, African American, funny, beautiful, amazing cook. She treated us like her own children. Rocked me on her lap as she sang to me. I loved her. I did not know that she was a “different color.” She was just Dorothy. A woman who loved my brother and I. She became the foundation of my love for people of all colors and races and religions.

By the time my mother came home from the hospital, my parents’ marriage was over. I recall fights and broken items around the house from my dad’s fits of rage. My mom was always sad. She was being bullied by him and did not know how to stand up for herself. She watched her father do it to her mom, and her mom slip into manic depression, so lacked the knowledge of skills to cope with the abuse. She stayed married to my father, tried to work it out, and tried to find faith.
She started going to different religions to find solace and healing. Not long after, she became pregnant with my sister. By this time, she was putting me on a bus every Sunday to go to the local Baptist church. I learned about Jesus. I felt love. I felt empowered. I felt peace. I learned that I had a voice. People listened when I spoke and were amazed at my hunger for truth.

One day, as I was playing my Fischer Price record player, with my Christian records, my dad yelled at me and told me to turn it off. I asked him why. I was 5 years old. I remember it vividly to this day. He was laying on the deep brown velvet couch in the living room. He didn’t want to listen to that Jesus nonsense and told me so. I remember thinking that he was wrong for telling me I couldn’t listen to something, just because he didn’t believe. I told him “no!’ He flipped out on me, grabbed me by the arm, threw me into my room and told me to stay there for being defiant. I did not cry. I refused to cry.  Looking back, I see now that at an early age, I saw the hypocrisy of his actions. He was being defiant towards God, but expected me not to be defiant towards him.

My mom carried my sister full term, and she was born 3 days after Christmas when I was 5 ½. Six months later, right before my 6^th birthday, my father walked out on his family. My mom was in her robe, holding my six month old sister, my brother, had just turned 3. I was standing there, next to my mom, holding my brothers hand, watching as he drove away. When he turned the corner, my mom walked into the house, put my sister in the swing, went into her room and just cried. It shattered her very core. So deep, that she was never able to recover. Even as she sat on her porch, diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, given 6 months to live, she told me how much she loved my father and how she had never fully healed from his abandonment and rejection.

She remarried 2 years later and I was swooped into another life of pain, rejection and abandonment. The first 5 years of my life proved to be the very foundation for who I am, even now. For me, life was cruel and unfair. It was unpredictable and harsh. I had to learn how to survive. I took care of my brother and sister as both my mom and step dad worked crazy hours. We had a nanny take care of us, when they were at work, so I was being raised by someone else’s standards during the day, and my mom and step dad’s standards during the evenings and my father’s standards on the weekends. It taught me how to be flexible and aware.

A year later they had a son, and so began my life of servitude. He was treated like a Raja, like I had read in Secret Garden. I started taking care of him when he was in his crib. Waking up in the middle of the night to give him a bottle or rock him to sleep. His room was upstairs next to mine and my parent’s room was downstairs on the other side of the house. They didn’t have monitors back then, they had older siblings. I became a mother at 10 years old. I did my sisters hair before school, I made lunches for all 3 of us. I helped with homework, set the table, did the dishes and changed diapers. I changed sheets when my sibling wet the bed and helped them with baths and chores. I was no longer a child, although I desperately wanted to be one.