According to the most adorable three-year old in my life, I’ve got “stripes” on my face. She said it in a conversation about our bodies. We talked about how her hands are small and my hands are big. Someday her hands will be big too. We also discussed the skeletal structure of the human forearm (it involves two bones – the radius and ulna) – oh yeah, she’s quite smart too.

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I wrote previously about what it means to be a bystander and that there are two types – passive and active. I also want to reiterate that passive bystanders are not bad people. However, when we are passive bystanders to a situation in which we can take action to improve the outcome, the results are bad not only for the target of harm but it’s also bad for us. As passive observers, we experience shame, self-blame, and even psychological trauma – an experience illustrated by train operators who witness death on the tracks.

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It saddens me to admit that I have been a bystander of domestic abuse pretty much my entire life. This isn’t to say I had an unhappy childhood – quite the contrary, my childhood was both privileged and happy. I had a home with my own bed, was fed nourishing and delicious meals daily, and two loving parents. Many children in this country can’t say that and I consider myself fortunate in many ways. I suppose it was my upbringing that gave me the foundation of strength and resilience I would need later in life to face what was to come; homelessness, disability, poverty, rape, assault, and abuse.

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I write about abuse, sexual assault, and trauma fairly frequently on this blog, but there is one aspect of domestic violence I have yet to address and that is domestic violence against men. That’s right – men are also victims of domestic abuse. And when it happens to men, they have a much more difficult time finding help in recovery.

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I woke up this morning with tears in my eyes. I had a dream about her and upon waking couldn’t shake the memory of it. Now sitting down to write this, I feel a chill run down my spine. I have personally survived horrors I previously could never have imagined. But those horrors pale in comparison to what a girl I once knew survived – and continues to survive every day to this very day and as long as she will live. In the interest of respecting her privacy, I will call her Rose.

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I remember one Sunday on the drive home from church, one of my parents got angry with me and forced me out of the car instructing me to walk the rest of the way home. We lived on a farm about five miles outside of town and I can’t say for certain how far it was I had to walk, but it was about a mile or less I would guess. I have no recollection as to why they were so angry or what it was I did or said. I don’t even remember which parent it was I had angered. Typically, when dad saw mom get mad at me he would get angry too. So it was likely both of them were upset.

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