She was a bullied child. She was a rape victim. She was a battered woman. She was a betrayed daughter and goddaughter. She was a refugee. But she is a survivor. In this memoir, author EMP narrates her life journey, sharing her hopes, her dreams, and her darkest moments. She shares the details about her upbringing in Hungary, her tormented childhood and teen years, her introduction to the man who would become her abuser, and her move to a foreign country. It Is Forgiven recounts her experiences of domestic violence, emotional and sexual abuse, and years and years of betrayal. She examines how one horrific event led to another and how the abuse escalated in both frequency and violence. It Is Forgiven tells the story of a battered woman and of her courage in escaping from the situation to benefit her and her young children. It is a story that inspires hope and encourages other women facing similar circumstances to speak out instead of suffering in silence.

It is Forgiven

Surviving abuse and betrayalBy EMP

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 EMP
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-8591-0

Chapter One

I have only a few memories of my life before age six. I remember being in preschool, playing in the pool there with my girlfriend, who became my best friend for life. On some other occasions of school, I was paired up with the tallest boy because I was the tallest girl.

When I was four or five years old, we had a family gathering, which is also quite memorable. As we were getting ready for a family photo, I asked my paternal grandmother for her beer, to sip off the foam. But instead, by the time the camera clicked, I had finished the whole glass. My grandma was utterly horrified, while I was grinning from ear to ear and couldn't deny what I had done; I was caught in black and white by the camera. That was my first and only glass of beer in my life to date.

I still vividly remember how afraid I was every time we walked by a pub on our way to visit my maternal grandfather. The patrons were drunk, loud and quarrelsome. Even when I got older, I remained fearful of such places, and I still avoid them. That fear was probably planted in me because my parents were always moderate drinkers.

However, I have no recollection of being born with a dislocated hip and living my first months in straps. I also have no memories of my paternal grandfather, who according to my mother loved and adored me deeply. She said that I was his favourite granddaughter, which caused jealousy within the family. He allowed me to do everything I wanted, even mess up his hair, which was a huge thing since he was a very orderly man. As I later learned, there was a reason for his love and favouritism: my grandfather appreciated clean people very much and I was always kept clean and neat and beautifully dressed...

This bond was broken very early, though, as I was only three years old when he died. Still, I never liked to "visit" him, because the moment I stepped through the gate of the cemetery, the air turned so cold that I shivered. Yet when we left and I walked out of the gate the air became balmy and warm again. I never understood why we had to go there. After all, he wasn't there.

I often missed him. Somehow I felt that he would have understood me no matter what. Sometimes I was quite angry and disappointed with him for passing on before I could even know or remember him. I missed that love and adoration he had apparently given me.

However, I do remember asking my parents for a baby and having a naming contest with them. And when I was six years old my wish came true—my brother was born. But instead of joy and happiness in our house, I mostly remember stress and frustration. He was a very demanding, fussy little boy and cried endlessly, which exhausted our mother. Most of the time she would begin crying in desperation, and yelling to release her frustration. When she had no strength left to deal with him, it was my duty to rock and push his pram until he fell asleep. Although I was always eager to help her with my baby brother, it wasn't particularly exciting to be with him when he wailed endlessly.

On one particular occasion my brother wouldn't fall asleep. My mother went through everything she knew, but it was no use. He was screaming in his pram, which I was again assigned to push forth and back, while our mother was screaming and crying in the kitchen. At age six it seemed to me that they went on screaming simultaneously for hours. Thankfully, after awhile our father came to my aid and the burden was lifted off my shoulders.

Regardless of his difficult infancy, and the fact that we fought and had arguments, as do nearly all other siblings growing up together, we got along very well.

I remember that each time our grandfather gave us chocolate bars, my brother ate his at once, while I had some and hid the rest, just in case. When I got home from school and wanted another piece of my chocolate, it was gone. Who had taken it? My brother of course denied everything, wearing an innocent "I don't know anything" expression. But this happened many, many times. My hidden chocolate was always gone. Finally, I had to do something about it, because I liked my sweets as well. Since I couldn't save my chocolates from him, I instead threw his favourite toy into the garden or onto the roof of the terrace: "Mickey is flying!"

As a child, I was really close to my mother's mom and sister, my godmother, and although we didn't have too much time together, we had a great relationship. I especially loved being with my grandma. She was so cool. She didn't even freak out when she learned that the son of her neighbour was interested in me, although we were barely ten years old at the time. He was the first boy who actually liked me and gave me my first little kiss, which quite honestly made me uncomfortable and ended that story.

My godmother, as a greatly talented violinist, was part of a symphony orchestra and lived in a big city. It was quite an adventure whenever I had the chance to be with her for a couple of weeks, which happened two or three times over the course of a decade.

I was also very close to my uncle (my mom's half-brother), who was a faithful friend or rather like a big brother to me. Whenever he came to visit us, I never left his side. He took me for short rides on his bike, taught me to play badminton, and was very patient when I repeatedly hit the air instead of the bird. But when I had finally mastered that activity, my father and I had many hours of fun.

I was really in my element when I could be with my uncle. He was one of the most important people in my life, even as I got older. I loved him so much, and was constantly trying to be helpful. Since he smoked, as his favourite little niece I took the privilege of protecting his health by breaking his cigarettes, one by one, into tiny pieces, or simply peeled off the wrappers right down to the filters. Who knows why, he never appreciated my help.

Altogether, I would on first consideration say that my childhood was pretty normal. On second thought, though, maybe it wasn't as normal as I would have liked it to be. I had great difficulties fitting in at school and at my swimming class. I was taller and skinnier than the other girls, and had shorter hair than most boys. Being a swimmer made it essential to have short hair, but not as short as mine. My mother cut our hair, and she was no hairdresser. Invariably, she always got one side shorter than the other, so again and again she had to readjust the length. When finally she was finished, not much hair was left on my head. And that earned me a nickname which haunted me for years, while my own name was forgotten ...

I lived in the midst of mockery and bitter sarcasm every day, and if that wasn't enough, at age eleven I had to wear glasses, starting with minus two lenses. That was the crowning touch to my humorous assets. The other children were brutal to me. I was a constant target of ugly jokes and cruel remarks. My classmates laughed in my face and made fun of me daily. They even made me nervous about my laughter. It was ridiculous to them, although I didn't know why; I didn't think that I was laughing much differently from the rest. Nonetheless, I started to observe how they laughed and tried to adjust mine to match, since theirs was accepted and "normal". But it didn't matter, and after a while I was even afraid to laugh.

I didn't understand what was wrong with me, why I wasn't likeable, why I wasn't good enough for other children...