Life with the black demon

Sandra Pašić

LIFE WITH THE BLACK DEMON

Psychological confession

Bihać, 2021

Sandra Pašić

LIFE WITH THE BLACK DEMON

PUBLISHED BY:

Visual Marketing Agency

PUBLISHER:

Isa Šarić

EDITED BY:

Sedžida Beganović-Isaković, LLB and master manager

REVIEWERS:

Ass. prof. Vildana Aziraj-Smajić, MD, PhD,

the specialist of clinical psychology

Sedžida Beganović, LLB and master manager

DTP:

DEAL EL TANT

PRINTED:

in Fojnica by Printing house Fojnica JSC

PRINTED IN:

500 copies

Translated by Ermina and Šejla Švraka, 2021

© All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to my psychologists and nurses at Bad Homburg (Day Clinic) who helped me face the truth, ground myself in the real life and not to live in the past.

I owe a special gratitude to my husband Admir Pašić who has stayed by my side all these years and through all of my tribulations. He has never left my side, even when I was at my worst, he was always there for me and kept our marriage and our children safe.

I want to thank my father-in-law Brko (Omer) who has shown me what a real father should be like. He was always my support, counsellor, help; he was always looking for the best in me and for a solution to every problem.

I am also grateful to my mother-in-law Samira, a wonderful person. She was always by my side and a great support from the beginning. I love her very much because she is such a fair and wonderful person to have.

My brother-in-law, Ami, is like a real brother to me. We have so much in common, our topics, respect and appreciation for each other. Thank you for all the conversations and advice.

A special, and perhaps the greatest support came from my dear Indira, a friend, a sister-in-law, a “sister.” She is a marvelous person. She has always been not just my support, but also my tower of strength. She would always find the best way to reach out to me. She was my motivation, even when I was ready to give up on writing this book, she encouraged me. She cried with me countless of times, she calmed me down (sometimes with the help of tranquilizers), she embolden me…

I would also like to thank my colleague Nejra, with whom I remain in touch on a daily basis, who listened to me and gave me some useful advice. She never turned her back on me despite her own personal problems and illness. My blue-eyed beautiful girl has been my support since day one.

I want to thank Mehmed Jahić – Meho, who was always there both for me and my family, for our daily conversations. Thank you for your understanding, and even when I didn’t show sincere gratitude, you didn’t mind that. He and his wife Sabaheta are wonderful people. It is a great honour for me to be able to call them my friends.

I met some wonderful people, and made new friendships throughout my treatment. I don’t have many friends, but those few I do have I can proudly call my sincere and true friends.

I am grateful to everyone who helped me in any way!

Sandra Pašić,

the autor

PREFACE

To write a story about one’s life is hard for everyone, I think. It is especially hard for someone who has had a kind of life or a portion of that life that they wouldn’t wish on their worst enemy. Especially when you know that because of your truth and pain, you will immediately run into resistance, disapproval, misunderstanding, condemnation, gossip and everything else that comes with an unpleasant story. Nevertheless, I have decided to write a story about my life. For my own sake, for truth, God, and all those who were or will be in similar life situations. Let this be a lesson to everyone.

This is my story. Sad, painful, difficult, unpleasant, odd, truthful, but my own nonetheless.

I want to dedicate this book primarily to children who were or will be victims of domestic abuse, especially by their fathers, but also abused in general. I have to share my pain. Let everyone, and especially children of the world learn the lesson of this story. Let no one go through what I experienced and let no one feel the “bite of the black demon,” the bite of pain and suffering of life. Let this confession be a lesson for every child who has experienced and who is still experiencing the bites of their loved ones.

Such pain, such feeling, trust me, no human can endure. Yes, I know, my own family will criticise me, condemn me, because it is shameful to reveal such “stuff.” No one understands the kind of wounds I carry inside of me. No one knows what kind of life I’ve had. Life wasn’t easy for me. I didn’t have any support. My loved ones turned their backs on me. I grew up with no support or firm embrace which I craved my whole life. Understanding and support was what I lacked the most.

I look back at the past. Life, like a black demon, wasn’t easy for me. The burden I was carrying blocked my view and hearing… I couldn’t hear nor see anything around me, including the people or what was happening. Sometimes, when I thought about myself, I thought that if I opened up, I could overcome “the black demon.” I hoped I would have the support of my loved ones, or at least that they would feel sorry for me and my fate.

I fell, got up, knelt, fell again and got up again. It’s a fight. Even today. I’m still fighting. I live with my struggle; I go through this pain with a broken heart and a doleful look.

I ask myself: where is this strength and power coming from?

After everything, the story which has been told and shared, I can say that the misery which lay at the bottom of my heart has come to an end. I’m not ashamed anymore. What’s more, I am proud. I spoke out. Let no one be ashamed or have second thoughts about speaking openly and loudly about the pain which is concealed by shame, and barricaded by inhibition.

We should not keep quiet; we should not seal our mouths, barring them to speak up. We should speak. We should share our pain. There is always somebody in the world who will listen.

I waited and carried the pain that was killing me. I did not have the courage or strength to fight the “black demon.” I thought it was my end and that I was doomed to fail, to sacrifice myself.

That was all I thought about because I didn’t know there were professionals who could help me. Thank God, I found those people at a clinic in Germany. Doctors and experts helped me to finally open up and start my recovery. They advised me to let everything out. I listened to them and gathered my strength and started writing my life story. The very decision to start writing helped me immensely.

I got rid of the burden, got rid of the pain, the suffering, and now I walk with my head held high. I am not afraid. I am now a brave woman and a strong, respected mother and wife.

I want to say to all the victims of abuse: don’t be silent, don’t hide everything inside of you, don’t wait for a better tomorrow, open your mouths and raise your voices now.

No one deserves to be abused, to be punished by violence. Let everyone know that only the voice of justice and reason prevails. Like every other victim, I will too, after all,

be condemned by those who are silent and covered by “a blanket of shame”, but also by those who are not worthy of understanding.

Everyone deserves to live, love and be loved. Everyone wants me to think and pay attention to them, even though I’ve been doing just that all these years. Trust me when I say I can’t do that anymore, I have to think of myself from now on.

All these years I have never thought about myself, because if I had, this story would have seen the light of day a long time ago. I constantly thought about what everyone else would say. People talk even when everything is wonderful, let alone when they can enjoy someone else’s misery. My growing up means realising that humans are the only monsters in this world. There are exceptions, of course.

I never thought about this, but I realised that my father had the number 666 in his date of birth. The Bible says that the number 666 is the number of the “BEAST” or the antichrist or the devil.

I declare with certainty that my father bore a stamp with the name of the beast on it.

As I reached this part of my story, I realised that the title of my book “Life with the Black Demon” with three sixes always coincided with my life.

The black demon, in reality, is my depression, fear, pain, suffering, nightmare, sadness, despair and everything else I had experienced over the years.

And after the story is told, they condemn me. And now, just as before, they condemn me, make fun of me, say it’s not true, that I did it for the benefits, etc. I know it’s all true. And that’s why I will look in the distance with a smile on my face. I want to be content. Everyone deserves happiness, including me, with honour and with my head high. After everything I’ve been through, I want to sail the waves of life!

And no matter what, I am ready to forgive, embrace and to wish the guilty ones to rest in peace, because it is human to forgive. It won’t be my burden anymore...

No matter how dark the night is, it will pass...

The rays of the rising sun awaken hope for a new day of our lives...

Make the most of that day, sail across all the beauties that life has to offer!

Part I

My childhood

N

ight, long and cold. Memories penetrate deeply into my soul. Feelings are awakened. I can’t fall asleep.

I can’t keep this to myself any longer. I have to say what hurts me. I have to begin, but, from where? Begin from where? From the deep dark past that haunts me constantly?

It’s in my dream again.

My childhood wasn’t a happy one. Those were the days of sorrow and misery. Perhaps I was marked, maybe it was only fate, or a test or a lesson for others. Who knows?

My entire upbringing and my childhood are marked. There was no joy, no happiness, and if there was any, it was fake.

Already at the age of four I felt, in some way, that I was going to be one sad child. Even though I was innocent, I only wanted, like every other child in the world, to be happy. Ever since I was little, I felt that no one loved me, though my mother claimed otherwise. I had a sense of rejection in every single way. The heavy burden I carry inside of myself is the burden of sorrow, hatred and loneliness. It tears me apart.

At the beginning of the war, way back in 1992, we moved, or better said we evaded, from Orasac to Bihac… due to the state of war.

I remember that period. I remember the grenades falling, leaving children traumatized for life. Residents of the building we lived in would often stay in hallways, ourselves among them. I remember the cries and screams which provoked fear and trembling in my bones. Much like other children, I was not aware of what was happening.

I know that, every day, I went together with my mother and sister to get food that was distributed to the refugees. I remember going with my mother to the river Una to do our laundry. There was no water, no electricity. Coldness and freezing weather outside, mother had to wash the laundry in the cold water for us to have something clean to wear. I felt sorry for her.

Day by day we lived that way… Days, months went by. Our father was not with us that day.

I heard crying, moaning and groaning from the other room. Wooden accordion doors divided the living room and the kitchen. I didn’t understand anything then, I only remember that mum had a big belly and that she was lying on the floor with so much blood, her legs spread in a gynaecological position, while another woman was kneeling in front of her. It was our neighbour R.V. I was looking confound and I couldn’t understand anything. All of a sudden, I saw a small baby in my mother’s arms. My brother arrived to this world. I was both joyful and sad at the same time, because he would get more attention and love.

During that period, the events regarding my sister are all blurry to me.

Night fell. We all fell asleep. I loved sleeping next my dear mummy the most. I loved her scent, her warmth, I just felt protected next to her and I knew that no one could do me any harm. I was a little girl.

My father kept returning home constantly, but he also kept going away somewhere. I heard my mother say that he was on the frontline and that he had to go to war. Even then, as a little girl, I didn’t feel any bond with my father.

That night the doorbell rang, immediately followed by a knock. Mother went to open the door. Father was standing there with two strangers, a woman and a man. My mother didn’t know those people either. I heard my father swearing at the door and hitting mother. The people who were with him did not even say a word, nor did they try to help my mother. I felt tremendous fear. I shook like a leaf. I was cold, even though the heat was spreading throughout the house from the old stove. My mother kept the fire burning so that it would be warmer for us during the night as well. Still, I was cold.

There was no electricity that night either, only two candles on the kitchen table illuminated the room. Mother was cooking something on the stove, prepared the hors d’oeuvre,{1} all by my father’s orders of course. I remember that I had to sit with all of them the whole time that night. Even though I could hardly keep my eyes open, I couldn’t even dream of going to bed. It was all in vain.

I remember my father’s words:

- Come here you fucking bitch!

Who could he address in such a way to but my poor mother? Mum couldn’t even cry. I watched her tremble with fear and obey father’s orders.

I heard my mother anxiously saying:

- Wait, old man, don’t do that in front of other people, calm down, please.

I went to hug my mother, but I was slapped immediately. He wouldn’t let me approach her even. Those people, strangers to us, did not lift a finger to prevent father from doing this.

I don’t even know what happened that night. Somehow the night passed.

It was dawn. My sister and I went to play outside with the other kids. On our return to the house, we saw that our father wasn’t there. I was happy he wasn’t there. Unfortunately, my happiness did not last long.

Father returned again. Alone this time. Usually, late at night, hell and agony begin for us in the house. He placed plenty of alcohol bottles in front of him, he sat there, cleaning his rifle. Suddenly, for no reason at all, he got up and hit my mother. My sister got scared, of course, as well as I did. My brother lay in a brown wooden crib, still a little baby. The beating started, and then the crying, imploring, begging... It was painful to watch my mother defending herself with all her strength, begging my father to let her go.

I will never forget her words:

- Don’t beat me, I beg you. Don’t let the kids see.

My father wasn’t fazed by it. He continued as he pleased. I couldn’t take it anymore and I said:

- Let her go, father! Don’t beat our mum.

Surprised by my reaction, he turned to me, wondering where I found the courage to meddle in this affair. He glared at me, red-faced and wide-eyed, grabbed me and lifted me up, then threw me to the floor with all his strength. At that moment I instantly urinated my clothes. When he saw the wet pyjamas and when he realised I peed myself, he got even angrier. He pulled the belt out of his pants; I remember it well, it was brown, and he began hitting every part of my body uncontrollably. He didn’t pay any attention to me, didn’t even look where he was hitting. The more I cried and begged him to stop, the more hits I suffered.

All in tears, my mother begged him to let me go, saying he would kill me like that, but no! He neither heard nor wanted to hear either my mother or me, nor did he have any compassion for any of us at that moment. Ultimately, my mother’s plea made him even angrier. Enraged, he grabbed his rifle and hit mom on the head with it.

My God, I will never forget how my mother got up with difficulty after the blow, and was totally disoriented, confused, and crying. Blood effused down her face in great quantity. For me, it was - horror. I almost fainted due to the shock I experienced. I was afraid to approach my mother, but I wanted to hug her so much, I wanted to wipe the blood of her face, comfort her, and tell her that everything would be fine, even though I knew it wouldn’t. He sent my sister and me to bed.

I went to my room. I couldn’t sleep. How could I fall asleep when the music was playing so loudly? I could hear him swearing. I wanted to get up, I gathered all my strength, because I was afraid of his reaction. I had an odd feeling, or rather, I felt a strong uneasiness deep inside me. And yet, there I was, in the living room. Fortunately, he didn’t say anything to me, but I heard my mother say to him:

- Put that rifle down, you’re going to kill someone.

He, furious and with a strange look on his face, got up and fired two bullets into the wall. He shot right above the crib where my brother was sleeping. My little brother’s cries echoed throughout the room. That small innocent being did nothing wrong. My father, angered by my brother’s crying, got up and shook the crib as strongly as he possibly could. Brother didn’t stop crying, and father didn’t let my mother comfort my brother, not even to try to calm him down. No, he didn’t want that, instead, he picked my brother up and threw him back in the crib. Mother stood up, covered in so much blood that her face was barely visible. A terrifying sight! Terrible images in front of my eyes. Stomach cramp, pain in my soul. I thought my mother was going to die. I don’t even remember how that night passed.

Father did not want to sleep next to mum. We finally went to our room. He remained sitting in the living room, drinking, smoking cigarettes and listening to loud music. We fell asleep fearfully and with some difficulty. Before I fell asleep, I was afraid he would enter the room and beat us all. Although I was a little girl, I was not afraid for myself, I only wanted to protect my mother from him ever coming close to her...

A new day dawned... We woke up in the morning and he was still sleeping in the living room. The day passed, night came... and, unfortunately, it all happened again.

I couldn’t understand why those problems concerning my father always happened after nightfall. Alcohol on the table; he’s drinking, and I sense a disaster of some sorts.

Uncertainty again. Fear. I started shaking... His unan- nounced guests arrived out of nowhere. I didn’t know them.

My mother was told that someone from her side of the family was going to war, someone close, I don’t remember well, but I think it was my mother’s brother. She was very sad, but my poor mother wasn’t even allowed to cry. It was too much for my father. He couldn’t stand my mother’s grief. Instead of compassion, he became aggressive. The mother was silent, did not speak, did not utter a word. He would quickly find some reason just to beat us.

It was very cold outside that night, it was snowing. We all had to be lined up next to each other, as close to him as possible. He hit my mother, but she quickly got up and ran to the hallway. I ran after her, but my brother and sister stayed with him. We knew what awaited us. Another night of beatings, pleas, tears, begging, to no avail.

Mother and I ran away from home. We tried to find a place where we could spend the night. We knocked on our neighbour’s door... Neighbour S.Z. let us into her house. I lied next to her daughter who was lying on a mattress placed on the floor. It wasn’t long before the doorbell rang. It was the father. He asked the neighbour if she knew where we were, if we were with her.

The neighbour answered:

- They’re not here, you’ll have to look for them somewhere else, I’m alone with the kids, my husband isn’t here and I can’t let you in.

Father believed what he was told. We all fell asleep, filled with fear.

New day. My mother woke me up:

- Get up, Sandra, we’re going to your granny’s.

We were on our way. It was freezing outside. We arrived at my granny’s. As soon as we were able to briefly recount what happened, we heard my father entering granny’s house. In terror, we jumped out of the window and fled into someone else’s garden. There was a tractor in the garden. We hid under the tractor and waited to see what was going to happen. We could hear my father’s voice. Granny called our names and said that my father had calmed down and that he wouldn’t hurt us. We believed granny and went into the house. Father was sitting on the couch, his hand was covered in blood. Mum asked him what happened to his hand, and he replied that he hit our neighbour’s glass door and injured himself. A conversation ensued. He promised not to hurt us, neither me, nor my mother, and begged us to return home with him.

Of course, once again, mum believed his words. Maybe she didn’t believe my father’s promise, rather, she wanted to go to my brother and sister, because he left them all alone back in our flat.

The next day mum and dad went somewhere. My sister and I were left alone in the flat with our brother. Father said that they would be back soon, and that we were supposed to keep our house and brother safe and keep the fire burning.

Having this freedom to ourselves, my sister and I went out on the balcony and called the names of the other children outside. When the children noticed us, we hid ourselves. Our brother was sleeping in the crib. While we were playing like that, we completely forgot the task our father had given us. When I remembered my obligation to keep the fire burning, I went to stoke the fire, terrified of what would happen if he noticed. The fire was out. At that instant I felt chills down my spine, and knew immediately that there would be consequences.

- O my God, what should I do now? Father’s going to beat me when he comes back.

I was frightened and shaking, and my sister looked worried. We both cried. Even though we were just little children, the idea came to us to start another fire. I took a lot of paper from a cardboard box used for storing the firewood which was next to the stove. I lit the paper in the stove on fire, and I threw a used match stick in the cardboard box, not noticing that it was not completely burnt. A big flame appeared immediately. We panicked. I was not afraid of the fire but of the consequences that followed for what I had done. I had to find a solution. We took the cardboard box with fire inside of it and dragged it across the hallway, so that we could throw it out onto the balcony. My sister found spare keys on a shelf in the hallway, she quickly unlocked the door of our flat and went to our next-door neighbours for help. The neighbours managed to put out the fire. Traces of ash remained in the hallway, and also, naturally, the smell of smoke.

After about thirty minutes, father and mother returned home. Neighbour R.V. was with us and tried to explain in the simplest way what had happened, but without much success. Seeing his anger and her own defeat, she stopped explaining, simply said goodbye, turned around and left.

I knew what was coming. He immediately started yelling at me and my sister and through all that shouting and swearing, he started beating us. He hit me first as hard as he could, he lifted me and threw me on the couch. I bit my tongue and blood ran out of my mouth. He turned and started beating my sister. My sister was weak and skinny, a gentle little girl.

Our mother tried to calm him down in every way imaginable to make him stop beating us. Somehow, she succeeded. Father calmed down. They told us to go outside and play with the other kids. My sister and I didn’t really like playing with the kids from the neighbourhood because they mostly made fun of us or were afraid to hang out with us, knowing what kind of father we had. On top of all that, they used to laugh at me because I stuttered a lot. I could hardly produce two sentences together without stuttering or getting stuck on some words. I don’t know why, but I felt rejected during that period. Awful feeling.

I was very jealous of the other children who had wonderful parents, and especially wonderful fathers. It pained me when I saw fathers hugging their children because we didn’t have that. The three of us, my sister, my brother and I were unhappy kids.

The next day, mother made lunch, a soup of some sorts. We were all sitting at the kitchen table, while my father was swearing and yelling. Although I got hungry playing with other kids, I immediately lost my appetite. Who could eat in such a situation, listening to all that noise and being under such stress? He was terribly moody and angry because the soup didn’t have any meat in it.

He stood up, lifted the lid from the bowl of soup, spat into it, and said:

- Motherf…ers, now you can eat!

I immediately got the urge to vomit, but we had to eat. There were three scoops left on my plate, which I really couldn’t finish. It bothered him, and my mother signalled me with her look to force myself to eat, just so he wouldn’t beat us. The lunch was finally over. We helped our mother clear the table. His mood swings were so frequent, unreasonable, and unpredictable. He gave us money to go buy ice cream at the ‘Trova’ patisserie, which was located near our building. They had the best ice cream in town. We came back, played a little more just outside the building.

Night fell. By the grace of God, father was calm.

We all went to sleep. We all slept in one room. Mum and dad slept on the bed, and we slept on the mattresses on the floor. My sister and brother had been asleep for a long time, but I couldn’t sleep at all. Even though we couldn’t fall asleep sometimes, we were never allowed to show it. We simply pretended to be asleep.

At one point I heard a faint noise. The bed was creaking and mum’s moaning. Something was happening. The fact was, my father and mother were having a sexual intercourse, but I didn’t know what that meant at the time. All I knew was that I wasn’t supposed to speak, even breathe, lest they would discover that I wasn’t sleeping and that I could hear them. It came to an end, finally.

In the morning, it was as if nothing had happened. We set off, with dad and mum, to our uncle who lived about two miles from us. We went there so that mum and dad could plant a garden at their place. I enjoyed it, because I loved spending time with my nieces. My parents decided I should stay with them for a few days. I was very happy. We played a lot and I felt freedom there.

Those three days passed quickly. I came home to my parents. That day my father and mother bought me some new clothes and a school bag.

I started the first grade of a primary school in 1996. The school was located in a park in Bihac, and it was called “KULEN-VAKUF - ORASAC.” I was excited about starting school. I was an excellent student, even though I stuttered a great deal.

A lot of kids imitated the way I spoke and made fun of me, which was difficult for me. They would even run away from me and say:

- “Stutter girl” is coming.

Like in any other school, naturally, there were some bad marks from time to time. I got bad marks in maths mostly: adding and subtracting. Every time I got a negative mark, my mother would do some exercises with me. She wouldn’t let me go out until I did my maths assignment. Kids were always playing outside the building: playing hide-and-seek, with marbles, or skipping of a rubber band. I loved playing it the most. My knees were constantly injured and in scabs, because I often fell on my knees, mostly when riding the bike.

During that period, everything I did was controlled and limited. When I was told to come inside, I had to stop playing immediately and obediently go into the flat. That was hard for me, because when I played with other kids who didn’t tease me, I was very happy. I didn’t have to listen to quarrels, insults, and I wasn’t beaten.

One day, my father came home wounded. I saw the wound on his leg, an open wound, blood everywhere. A medic came in every day to treat his wound. My father had severe shrapnel pain. Later I found out how my father sustained injuries. He was sitting with some drunk people in a room and he detonated a bomb. He received shrapnel in his leg, which created pressure later on, but also pain. One night he was in so much pain and said he felt something moving in his leg, and that he felt like ants were walking over him. He ordered me to take eyebrow tweezers and take out the shrapnel that appeared right on the surface of the skin. I never did something like that, of course; I was scared, which is why I refused and said I didn’t dare to. He got so angry and shouted:

- Take it out right now. What are you afraid of? Take it out now!

I gathered my strength and took the tweezers and with my hand, trembling, managed to pull the metal out of his leg. When I saw that I had succeeded, I was pleased with myself. From that moment on, I wanted to be a nurse. My father praised me and said that I did a great job, that I was his son, not his daughter, that I was brave like him and that I should never be afraid of anyone, because he was not afraid of anyone either.

In the evening some guests arrived again, a man, a woman and two children. Since they were small children, I didn’t want to hang out with them. My brother and sister played with them, and I went to the living room to sit with my mom.