Second Hand Heart

         Here it is another warm and windy afternoon in Texas. The hot, humid weather can make you wish you were in a different place cool and refreshing. Somewhere where your mind can relax and everyday troubles seem so far away, another place, another time.

          I was born in Las Angeles, California and given up for adoption to a couple who loved children but could not have any children of their own. Up until I was seventeen, I grew up in Anaheim and finally Buena Park, California. I had lived within a dysfunctional family but didn't know it at the time. It took me thirty-seven years, (three failed marriages) to realize how abusiveness can be so apparent to everyone except the ones living it. I lived though, at least I can say that.


         My name is Elizabeth Marie Gassen and this is my story! I've decided to write this book in hopes of showing women who are in an abusive relationship whether it be parents, children, or spouses, that there is hope out there for us. We no longer have to live in silence or fear. We have a choice, a choice to live and be heard. A choice to live free from physical, verbal, mental and sexual abuse. We are people who are just as important to ourselves as anyone else.

          I was born Elizabeth Munson, but was adopted by the Perkins, a good, kind and caring family who lived mostly in middle class. Both were raised by alcoholics. I was actually born to Iva Geraldine and Floyd Edward Munson, September 19th, 1954. Iva already had six other children before me so it seems a new one was going to make their struggles even harder. So after conversations with the Munson's and Perkins', Baby Elizabeth went home from the hospital with the Perkins, Henry and Lorene. Mr. Munson was Mrs. Perkins youngest brother I found out later in life. I don't remember much about my early childhood. Bits and pieces every now and then pop up. I can't really remember too much it seems except I was just an ordinary little girl who dealt with a lot of abuse, but didn't know it wasn't normal at the time. There are things I do remember though like birthday parties and hanging out with my friends all day.

          Understand, my life didn't really start until we moved to Buena Park in the summer of '65, two weeks before my 12th birthday. All the houses looked the same from one to another for blocks around. We lived in what was called a track house, blocks and blocks of houses, all the same pattern, just different color schemes and scenery. Some had pools and some didn't, mine didn't. Mom was too afraid of someone drowning, so we went without. Everything was pretty much a normal layout, or so I thought.

         Around 1967 was when I noticed different kinds of small changes. That was the year my younger brother, Michael, came along. It was also the year I became aware of the fact I was being treated different than other kids. I was 13 years old, I had become more independent and rebellious. I was coming into womanhood. Over the early years my mom and I never got along. I was being punished for one thing or another. I remember was while my father was at work, I was backed into a corner and her hands smacked me so hard my head would spin or I'd loose my breath trying to escape, always my hands up trying to protect myself. I also remember being told that at one point being tied to a kitchen chair with a tea towel and put in a dark room, although to this day I still don't know why. Those memories still haunt me today.

         At fifteen I finally quit school. I just didn't feel like I fit in anywhere. As hard as I tried, I couldn't cope with all that was going on at home and at school too. From there I was shipped off to various family members until they too tired of me. Then at seventeen I married to get away from the drama of home, not realizing I was stepping into the second of numerous abusive relationships. This marriage lasted 13 long, painful years. After coming close to being killed several times, I decided I was done with the marriage. I went back home. Then got into another abusive relationship that lasted only seventeen months when he left me stranded. In '87 I met my third husband and that is when I began to understand what abuse really was and I lived with it for 20 years, but I refused to give up. I wanted to stay and fight until the bitter end.

         Today I take women into my home who have been in abusive relationships and help them try to heal and move on. At the same time, I have found it helps me to heal as well. I feel that if I can help save just one womans life, then everything I went through was worth it. Is it my calling in life? I'd like to think so.