I really don't think anybody sees this blog at all. I come on here, and pour my heart out, and not one person comments on it. I'm not technologically gifted. I have no idea how to link this thing up so that it goes everywhere in cyberspace that it needs to go to make a connection with anybody. It's so damn frustrating...
Last August, a reporter came and did an article that was supposed to be about how my parents were hoarders, and how my brother and I had hoarding tendencies because that's how we were raised. To my dismay, I was made the focus of the story and labeled an outright hoarder. Bad enough I suffer from severe emotional issues stemming from a lifetime of domestic violence...and now this. Both of these issues have a certain stigma that leaves a bad taste in people's mouths, so to speak. At a time when I need people to be there for me the most...most of them are pulling away from me.
Our house is mostly dirty and dusty with piles of stuff everywhere. No, we don't have hundreds of animals. No, we don't have bags of human and/or animal waste lying about the place. No, we don't have piles of rotten food with maggots and fruit flies all over them. What we have is a nearly 40 year old house that has never been properly taken care of, and it shows. The walls are covered with nicotine stains and cobwebs. There are rotting floorboards and holes in the walls that need to be repaired. The house needs a lot of work.
Since my mom passed away, her home equity loan has become a major issue. Her creditors are trying to force me to assume her nearly $50,000 debt or face foreclosure. They have broken their promises to me on payment arrangements before. I don't trust them. Now it comes down to getting help from compassionate people who are willing to help someone like me, or losing everything my family ever owned and being left out on the street. I promise you this...if it comes down to that, I will not stick around to see what happens next. I know you all know what I mean by that.
Mom always told me that things have to get better from here. They never have. No matter how hard we worked to make things better, it always blew up in our faces. Unless you are capable of greasing palms and lining pockets, face it, you're fucked. The poorer you are, the more eager people are to take what little you do have away from you. Only people with money have the right to be healthy and happy...the rest of us can go straight to hell. I wonder how long it's going to be after I've lost everything that somebody finally sees this blog and comments on it. By then it will be too late...in more ways than one.
One day, I would love to get off of disability and have a job doing something I love. I love to write. I love to take pictures. I am very good at both. I'm a little OCD, tending to correct errors in newspaper articles or other reading materials as I come across them because it drives me crazy if I don't. Nobody should ever feel like they are a useless human being just because they are incapable of earning a living, whether it be temporary or permanent. Narrow-minded people with their preconceived notions and their judgments think that their labels are enough to define me. I can assure you that they are not. I have depth of character. I have worth. I am a lot like my mother, and I couldn't be prouder about that. She was an amazing person, and I loved her dearly. I always will.
If I had never run the gamut of abuse throughout my lifetime and for so many consecutive years, I'm sure I would be a very different person. But, would I want to be? Be it physical, sexual, emotional, verbal or psychological, I have endured it all. Would I trade a peaceful happy childhood for the person I am today just so that people would like me better? Hell no. Screw them. I may be extra emotional, but I have strength in other areas.
I am tenacious. I could have allowed my pain to fuel extreme violence, sadism, cruelty and all sorts of unpleasant things. But I refused to choose that path. I love who I am, and I will never surrender my childlike tendencies to anyone. They will remain rooted at the very depths of me, and hopefully one day, the bitterness, skepticism and mistrust will eventually fade to a distant memory. It's unnerving how multi-faceted I am. My writing reflects childlike joy one minute, naughty humor and/or bitter sarcasm the next. People never know what I'm going to say next. I love to keep them guessing.
I want to have the chance for people to see me for who I really am...without all of the labels. Without all of the preconceived notions. Underneath all of the unpleasantness, there is a wonderful human being in here who is long overdue in saying..."You like me...you really like me!" ;)
Friday, June 3, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Addicts Don't Take Kindly To People Who Interfere With Their Cash Flow...
I thought that making the arrangements with the Credit Union would put an end to my brother's ability to control Mom's finances. It wasn't long before I found out how wrong I was. He was still absolutely furious with me for encouraging her to do what she did. He intended to make me very sorry for that. It wasn't long before he was intercepting me on the way to the mailbox and demanding that I hand over the bills. When I refused, he grabbed hold of the envelopes and pried my fingers off of them. He sorted through them on his way back to the house with me hot on his heels.
"We're not paying this, this, this, and this" he announced. "The hell we're not!" I argued. "We can wait on a couple of those" Mom said. "No we cannot!" I shot back. "I've been working too damn hard to get you back on your feet to let him screw things up for you again now!" My arguments were in vain. I had to resort to writing my checks a couple of days early and handing them off to Dad to be mailed from his house. On the occasions that he was not available to do that, I had to sneak out of the house and walk halfway across town to mail them from the post office. It was at this point in time Mom realized that she needed to get her property taxes paid before the house was sold right out from under her. Without consulting anyone, she decided to get a Home Equity Loan.
An assessor from Fairbanks Capital Corporation came over to the house to do an appraisal. He could tell that the house needed a lot of work. When he was finished, he walked over to me and looked me right in the eye. "You're ruining your mother's house!" he spat in disgust. He turned on his heel and walked away. I was stunned. "I haven't lived in this house for three years!" I snapped. "You've got some nerve making an assumption like that!" A family friend took Mom and I down to Chicago to sign the forms for the loan. She excused herself to use the restroom. As soon as she was gone, the guy with the papers looks at me and says "How did she get so far behind on her property taxes?" "You'll have to ask her" I replied. "She's the one who didn't pay them."
Mom wound up getting a $43,000 loan, nearly three times more than she actually needed. Worse yet, it had a variable interest rate. Even though the company knew she was living on retirement income alone, they did not advise her against it. They also refused to change the due date of the loan despite the fact that her fixed income would not be available until the third Wednesday of every month. Between the required house insurance, the wildly fluctuating interest and the late fees, they ensured that her loan would never be pared down. Nine years later, despite making monthly payments, she owes about $47,000.
A representative from Catholic Charities defined their actions as Elder Abuse. Unfortunately, Fairbanks Capital Corporation was a large financial institution, and Catholic Charities had just made the decision to only intervene when smaller, private lenders were involved. In other words, we were screwed. After the bills were paid, the remaining money was supposed to be used to fix up the house. Instead, Mom gave some money to Dad for his bills, then spent the rest without putting one dime of it where it was needed most. Once again, my brother had a lot to do with that. Despite the constant opposition from him, I persevered in making sure the bills got paid every single month.
It deeply disturbed me that my brother had absolutely no remorse for nearly bringing our mother to financial ruin. His philosophy is since he didn't ask to be born, she owes him. After all, it is her fault that he's here. He didn't ask for any of this, so why shouldn't she support him? Not only did she pay for his beer and cigarettes, he used her money to buy drugs. He had the top of the line packages for the cable and the phone. He had two newspapers delivered to the house. He would tell her he borrowed money from other people to help us out and make her give him money to pay them back (I'm certain that he exaggerated the amounts in his favor on more than one occasion). In other words, he was living the life of Riley until I moved back home and put a stop to it for our mother's sake. He really hated me for that...and it showed in so many ways.
"We're not paying this, this, this, and this" he announced. "The hell we're not!" I argued. "We can wait on a couple of those" Mom said. "No we cannot!" I shot back. "I've been working too damn hard to get you back on your feet to let him screw things up for you again now!" My arguments were in vain. I had to resort to writing my checks a couple of days early and handing them off to Dad to be mailed from his house. On the occasions that he was not available to do that, I had to sneak out of the house and walk halfway across town to mail them from the post office. It was at this point in time Mom realized that she needed to get her property taxes paid before the house was sold right out from under her. Without consulting anyone, she decided to get a Home Equity Loan.
An assessor from Fairbanks Capital Corporation came over to the house to do an appraisal. He could tell that the house needed a lot of work. When he was finished, he walked over to me and looked me right in the eye. "You're ruining your mother's house!" he spat in disgust. He turned on his heel and walked away. I was stunned. "I haven't lived in this house for three years!" I snapped. "You've got some nerve making an assumption like that!" A family friend took Mom and I down to Chicago to sign the forms for the loan. She excused herself to use the restroom. As soon as she was gone, the guy with the papers looks at me and says "How did she get so far behind on her property taxes?" "You'll have to ask her" I replied. "She's the one who didn't pay them."
Mom wound up getting a $43,000 loan, nearly three times more than she actually needed. Worse yet, it had a variable interest rate. Even though the company knew she was living on retirement income alone, they did not advise her against it. They also refused to change the due date of the loan despite the fact that her fixed income would not be available until the third Wednesday of every month. Between the required house insurance, the wildly fluctuating interest and the late fees, they ensured that her loan would never be pared down. Nine years later, despite making monthly payments, she owes about $47,000.
A representative from Catholic Charities defined their actions as Elder Abuse. Unfortunately, Fairbanks Capital Corporation was a large financial institution, and Catholic Charities had just made the decision to only intervene when smaller, private lenders were involved. In other words, we were screwed. After the bills were paid, the remaining money was supposed to be used to fix up the house. Instead, Mom gave some money to Dad for his bills, then spent the rest without putting one dime of it where it was needed most. Once again, my brother had a lot to do with that. Despite the constant opposition from him, I persevered in making sure the bills got paid every single month.
It deeply disturbed me that my brother had absolutely no remorse for nearly bringing our mother to financial ruin. His philosophy is since he didn't ask to be born, she owes him. After all, it is her fault that he's here. He didn't ask for any of this, so why shouldn't she support him? Not only did she pay for his beer and cigarettes, he used her money to buy drugs. He had the top of the line packages for the cable and the phone. He had two newspapers delivered to the house. He would tell her he borrowed money from other people to help us out and make her give him money to pay them back (I'm certain that he exaggerated the amounts in his favor on more than one occasion). In other words, he was living the life of Riley until I moved back home and put a stop to it for our mother's sake. He really hated me for that...and it showed in so many ways.
The Day My Brother Made A Threat That Couldn't Be Ignored...
The incident that finally made me move out was an ugly one. I had walked in on my brother and his friend's wife messing around in our living room once before, so I was not surprised when he brought her back to the house to engage in a little 'one on one'. He took this woman into our mom's bedroom, which is right across the hall from mine. "Turn up your stereo" he said as he started to close the door. "You won't want to hear this." I cranked up my stereo, but I still heard everything.
When it was finally quiet, I opened my door. The woman disappeared down the hallway and left. My brother stood in the doorway, a smug look on his face. "Nice" I said. "Your friend's wife. This is not a whorehouse. The next time you want to get together with her, you can go to her house or go to a motel." He was looking down at his hands, but not in guilt. "Well, we can't go to her house because she's married, and I don't have enough money for a motel." He looked me over and raised his eyes to mine. "Do you want to be my girlfriend?" he said.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The look in his eyes was revolting. My stomach turned over in utter disgust. "You're sick!" I spat. "There's something wrong with your head!" I crossed my arms over my chest and headed down the hallway. I needed to put as much distance between him and me as possible. Later on, I told our mom what he had said. "You have got to kick him out!" I told her. "He's getting much too dangerous for me!" To my shock, Mom remained silent. "Mom, he threatened me with rape! Please! You have two children, not just one...stop protecting him at my expense!" "He doesn't have anywhere to go" was all she said. "Then you leave me no choice" I told her. "It's either him or me, and you've just made your choice."
A friend of mine was going to be moving out of an apartment that I was very interested in, but not right away. She promised that she would mention me to her landlord. I always made sure that I locked my bedroom door at night, but the flimsy little flip lock would not offer any true protection if my brother was determined to do me harm. It had already been damaged by our dad, so it wasn't near as secure as it once had been. Everything was fine until I woke up one morning and discovered that I was nude. My nightgown lay on the floor beside my bed. I had never taken my pajamas off in my sleep in my entire life. I had to get out of there.
I wound up getting the apartment and I lived there between 1999 and 2002. It was a month to month lease. One day, my landlord informs me that a relative of his was moving to the area and needed a place to live, so he wasn't going to renew my lease. He gave me two weeks to move out. I panicked. I was only paying about $450 a month there. I knew it was going to be difficult to find another one in that price range, especially in two weeks. Mom kept begging me to move back home. "Your brother is a different person now...he's changed." At the end of the two weeks, most of my stuff was in a storage unit and I was back inside my nightmare.
To my shock, Mom's finances were in a complete shambles. Every bill she had was in arrears. Delinquency notices kept coming. Bill collectors kept calling. Her entire $50,000 retirement fund was gone. Her property taxes were three years behind. She was on the verge of losing the house. Her checking account had been closed. Her car was repossessed. "What in the hell has been going on around here?!" I cried. "You were always so good about paying your bills!" She finally admitted that my brother had a lot to do with what was happening.
He was not working, so she was supporting him. He went with her to the bank when she got her check and made her give him the money. When it ran out, he had her write checks against her balance until her account was closed. He called up the bill collectors and promised them partial payments then never followed through. "Nobody pays the full amount of their bills!" he snapped. "Everyone sends in partial payments!" "They're telling me they never got any payments!" I shot back. "The bills have to come first! Mom's about to lose the house for gods sakes!" I tried talking to the companies that were demanding payment in full to see if we could work something out, but it was too late. They had been given too many empty promises and were fresh out of patience.
The first thing I did was have Mom take me to the Credit Union. We added up what the bills would come to each month. That amount was automatically deposited into my checking account, and I took over paying the bills. When my brother found out what we had done...he backed me up against a wall, fist cocked. "You bitch!" he screamed. "This is your doing!" "Yes it is" I admitted coolly. "The bills have to get paid, and from now on, they will be." He trashed the house, screaming and yelling that we were going to go back and undo what we had done or else. With my encouragement, Mom stood her ground. The arrangement would stand.
When it was finally quiet, I opened my door. The woman disappeared down the hallway and left. My brother stood in the doorway, a smug look on his face. "Nice" I said. "Your friend's wife. This is not a whorehouse. The next time you want to get together with her, you can go to her house or go to a motel." He was looking down at his hands, but not in guilt. "Well, we can't go to her house because she's married, and I don't have enough money for a motel." He looked me over and raised his eyes to mine. "Do you want to be my girlfriend?" he said.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The look in his eyes was revolting. My stomach turned over in utter disgust. "You're sick!" I spat. "There's something wrong with your head!" I crossed my arms over my chest and headed down the hallway. I needed to put as much distance between him and me as possible. Later on, I told our mom what he had said. "You have got to kick him out!" I told her. "He's getting much too dangerous for me!" To my shock, Mom remained silent. "Mom, he threatened me with rape! Please! You have two children, not just one...stop protecting him at my expense!" "He doesn't have anywhere to go" was all she said. "Then you leave me no choice" I told her. "It's either him or me, and you've just made your choice."
A friend of mine was going to be moving out of an apartment that I was very interested in, but not right away. She promised that she would mention me to her landlord. I always made sure that I locked my bedroom door at night, but the flimsy little flip lock would not offer any true protection if my brother was determined to do me harm. It had already been damaged by our dad, so it wasn't near as secure as it once had been. Everything was fine until I woke up one morning and discovered that I was nude. My nightgown lay on the floor beside my bed. I had never taken my pajamas off in my sleep in my entire life. I had to get out of there.
I wound up getting the apartment and I lived there between 1999 and 2002. It was a month to month lease. One day, my landlord informs me that a relative of his was moving to the area and needed a place to live, so he wasn't going to renew my lease. He gave me two weeks to move out. I panicked. I was only paying about $450 a month there. I knew it was going to be difficult to find another one in that price range, especially in two weeks. Mom kept begging me to move back home. "Your brother is a different person now...he's changed." At the end of the two weeks, most of my stuff was in a storage unit and I was back inside my nightmare.
To my shock, Mom's finances were in a complete shambles. Every bill she had was in arrears. Delinquency notices kept coming. Bill collectors kept calling. Her entire $50,000 retirement fund was gone. Her property taxes were three years behind. She was on the verge of losing the house. Her checking account had been closed. Her car was repossessed. "What in the hell has been going on around here?!" I cried. "You were always so good about paying your bills!" She finally admitted that my brother had a lot to do with what was happening.
He was not working, so she was supporting him. He went with her to the bank when she got her check and made her give him the money. When it ran out, he had her write checks against her balance until her account was closed. He called up the bill collectors and promised them partial payments then never followed through. "Nobody pays the full amount of their bills!" he snapped. "Everyone sends in partial payments!" "They're telling me they never got any payments!" I shot back. "The bills have to come first! Mom's about to lose the house for gods sakes!" I tried talking to the companies that were demanding payment in full to see if we could work something out, but it was too late. They had been given too many empty promises and were fresh out of patience.
The first thing I did was have Mom take me to the Credit Union. We added up what the bills would come to each month. That amount was automatically deposited into my checking account, and I took over paying the bills. When my brother found out what we had done...he backed me up against a wall, fist cocked. "You bitch!" he screamed. "This is your doing!" "Yes it is" I admitted coolly. "The bills have to get paid, and from now on, they will be." He trashed the house, screaming and yelling that we were going to go back and undo what we had done or else. With my encouragement, Mom stood her ground. The arrangement would stand.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth...
We still lived at the old house at the time. I had a little blue Schwinn bicycle that I absolutely loved to ride. I was riding down the sidewalk towards my house, weaving the bike from side to side when I lost control of it. The handlebars slipped from my hands. The front wheel of the bike turned to the right, and I fell forward towards the left. The momentum slammed my two front teeth down on the sidewalk. Two men came out of their houses to see if I was alright. I remember hearing one of them say..."It looks bad...it looks really bad..." They offered to walk me back home, but trooper that I was, I shook my head and walked my bike the rest of the way by myself. I put my bike away in the garage and headed up the stairs to the second story of the house, crying all the way.
Mom heard me crying and turned around to see what was the matter. Her eyes flew open wide in shock. She spun around and grabbed the handset of the phone. I knew she was calling the dentist. I was terrified of the dentist. I grabbed hold of the cord and tried to pull the phone out of her hands. A tug of war ensued, which Mom easily won. It wasn't long before I found myself in the dentist's chair, slipping into unconsciousness for the two root canals I needed to have done. My left front tooth had only been chipped, but the right one had been demolished. They didn't have the white polymer fillings that are so popular this day and age back then, so they filled both teeth with silver filling. They actually used the silver to reconstruct what was missing of my right tooth.
I woke up from the anesthesia, crying my eyes out. My parents took me to a nearby restaurant to get something to drink. They told me to just stay put in the booth, and not to get up. There was a beautiful painting of horses on the wall that I just had to take a closer look at. I staggered out of the booth and made it halfway to the picture before my legs gave out. People were staring at me, wondering what could possibly be wrong with me. Thoroughly embarrassed, my parents helped me up and hurried me out of there. They took me to a fast food restaurant and bought me a chocolate milkshake instead. I guess they figured it would be a lot harder for me to get out of the car.
The silver filling was very obvious, and I was horrendously self conscious of my new appearance. I stopped smiling. I already had enough things to be teased about at school, so this turn of events was disastrous. I had to go to a speech therapist to learn how to talk without lisping. I no longer smiled openly for my school pictures...I grinned. The photographers would do everything they could to get me to flash my pearly whites, but I no longer had pearly whites to flash. I'm sure money was a big part of the reason my parents never got my teeth fixed, but I know for a fact it wasn't the only reason...at least for Dad. Anything that would make me less attractive to the boys was a plus in his book. He never had any intention of getting them fixed for that reason alone.
All through Junior High and all through High School, I hated my appearance so much that I loathed myself. Not only wasn't I thin, I had ugly teeth. I withdrew even deeper into myself when I wanted so much to come out of my shell. While I was attending college, the silver filling in my right tooth fell out. I had no choice but to go to a local dentist. I explained what had happened. He scraped as much of the silver filling out as he could, then filled my tooth with the new white polymer. He shaped it to look like a normal tooth. When he was finished, I couldn't believe my eyes...it was the closest thing to having a natural looking tooth that I'd had in years. He didn't even charge me.
Unfortunately, the polymer expanded and cracked the tooth. A chip of my real tooth popped off, leaving a hole above the filling that became difficult to keep clean. There were many hairline cracks through the remaining tooth as well. Also, as the enamel eroded over the years, my left tooth became darker and darker. I stopped smiling...again. Now, my left tooth is not only dark, it is very painful at the gum line. My right tooth still has the hole and the hairline cracks. I have complete strangers telling me to smile all the time, and all I will do is grin at them. I even have a t-shirt that says "I Smile, Because You've All Finally Driven Me Crazy!" I forgot I was wearing it one day. This guy actually called me on it because I wasn't smiling. I laughed, immediately embarrassed because I know he had seen my horrible teeth.
I also used to love to sing. I sang at home, I sang at school, I sang in choir...music was my life. I still remember word for word the first song I ever sang that my dad recorded, a song about a happy cowboy. I remember a music class in Grade School where we were learning about rests. When the puppy was in the doghouse, you clapped. No puppy, no clapping. I sang every single chance I got, and it brought me such joy. People were always complimenting me on what a good voice I had. Over the years, not only have the condition of my front teeth deteriorated, they have shifted as well. I can no longer sing clearly, and I spray and spit saliva when I do. It broke my heart, but I had no choice but to give it up. If I can't sing well, then I'm not going to sing at all. I am a shadow of my former self in that respect.
One of the first thing people notice about you is your smile. How I wish the condition of my teeth could match my personality. For once in my life, I would love to be able to open my mouth and smile, laugh and get to know people without being ashamed about the way that my teeth look. I have been ashamed for nearly forty years. When I think about how much my appearance has held me back over the years, all of the lost opportunities, all of the lost self-esteem, it's a crime. Dentistry should be available to everyone, not just the wealthy or the well-insured. Everyone should have the right to a healthy smile. It's something I have always dreamed of...but I have learned through bitter experience that dreams don't always come true...
Mom heard me crying and turned around to see what was the matter. Her eyes flew open wide in shock. She spun around and grabbed the handset of the phone. I knew she was calling the dentist. I was terrified of the dentist. I grabbed hold of the cord and tried to pull the phone out of her hands. A tug of war ensued, which Mom easily won. It wasn't long before I found myself in the dentist's chair, slipping into unconsciousness for the two root canals I needed to have done. My left front tooth had only been chipped, but the right one had been demolished. They didn't have the white polymer fillings that are so popular this day and age back then, so they filled both teeth with silver filling. They actually used the silver to reconstruct what was missing of my right tooth.
I woke up from the anesthesia, crying my eyes out. My parents took me to a nearby restaurant to get something to drink. They told me to just stay put in the booth, and not to get up. There was a beautiful painting of horses on the wall that I just had to take a closer look at. I staggered out of the booth and made it halfway to the picture before my legs gave out. People were staring at me, wondering what could possibly be wrong with me. Thoroughly embarrassed, my parents helped me up and hurried me out of there. They took me to a fast food restaurant and bought me a chocolate milkshake instead. I guess they figured it would be a lot harder for me to get out of the car.
The silver filling was very obvious, and I was horrendously self conscious of my new appearance. I stopped smiling. I already had enough things to be teased about at school, so this turn of events was disastrous. I had to go to a speech therapist to learn how to talk without lisping. I no longer smiled openly for my school pictures...I grinned. The photographers would do everything they could to get me to flash my pearly whites, but I no longer had pearly whites to flash. I'm sure money was a big part of the reason my parents never got my teeth fixed, but I know for a fact it wasn't the only reason...at least for Dad. Anything that would make me less attractive to the boys was a plus in his book. He never had any intention of getting them fixed for that reason alone.
All through Junior High and all through High School, I hated my appearance so much that I loathed myself. Not only wasn't I thin, I had ugly teeth. I withdrew even deeper into myself when I wanted so much to come out of my shell. While I was attending college, the silver filling in my right tooth fell out. I had no choice but to go to a local dentist. I explained what had happened. He scraped as much of the silver filling out as he could, then filled my tooth with the new white polymer. He shaped it to look like a normal tooth. When he was finished, I couldn't believe my eyes...it was the closest thing to having a natural looking tooth that I'd had in years. He didn't even charge me.
Unfortunately, the polymer expanded and cracked the tooth. A chip of my real tooth popped off, leaving a hole above the filling that became difficult to keep clean. There were many hairline cracks through the remaining tooth as well. Also, as the enamel eroded over the years, my left tooth became darker and darker. I stopped smiling...again. Now, my left tooth is not only dark, it is very painful at the gum line. My right tooth still has the hole and the hairline cracks. I have complete strangers telling me to smile all the time, and all I will do is grin at them. I even have a t-shirt that says "I Smile, Because You've All Finally Driven Me Crazy!" I forgot I was wearing it one day. This guy actually called me on it because I wasn't smiling. I laughed, immediately embarrassed because I know he had seen my horrible teeth.
I also used to love to sing. I sang at home, I sang at school, I sang in choir...music was my life. I still remember word for word the first song I ever sang that my dad recorded, a song about a happy cowboy. I remember a music class in Grade School where we were learning about rests. When the puppy was in the doghouse, you clapped. No puppy, no clapping. I sang every single chance I got, and it brought me such joy. People were always complimenting me on what a good voice I had. Over the years, not only have the condition of my front teeth deteriorated, they have shifted as well. I can no longer sing clearly, and I spray and spit saliva when I do. It broke my heart, but I had no choice but to give it up. If I can't sing well, then I'm not going to sing at all. I am a shadow of my former self in that respect.
One of the first thing people notice about you is your smile. How I wish the condition of my teeth could match my personality. For once in my life, I would love to be able to open my mouth and smile, laugh and get to know people without being ashamed about the way that my teeth look. I have been ashamed for nearly forty years. When I think about how much my appearance has held me back over the years, all of the lost opportunities, all of the lost self-esteem, it's a crime. Dentistry should be available to everyone, not just the wealthy or the well-insured. Everyone should have the right to a healthy smile. It's something I have always dreamed of...but I have learned through bitter experience that dreams don't always come true...
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Everything Will Look Better In The Morning...
The older my brother got, the more he and Dad locked horns in particularly violent episodes. The tension in our house was always thick enough to slice, making it damn hard to breathe at times. They were having a row about one thing or another that got way out of hand, but then everything simmered down and I thought it was over. That was until I walked out into the living room.
My brother had his fist wound up in the collar of Dad's shirt and had lifted him onto the card table that was set up in front of the picture window. This wasn't going to end well. I fled down the hall to my room and locked the door. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my stereo and cranked up the volume to drown out the screaming and the fighting. I hugged myself and rocked back and forth in a vain attempt at comfort. I was so sick of having to endure such things every single day of the week. There was never a break from it, no time to catch your breath, shore yourself up and prepare for the next living hell. It was violence and chaos, 24/7 in that house.
My door burst open. I scrambled to my feet to see the two of them fighting over the damn pistol. I ran over and tried to push them back out into the hall. I did not want them fighting in my room, and I didn't want that loaded gun in my room either. Dad had the pistol in his hand. My brother was wrestling furiously with him, trying to take it away. I was pushing both of their arms upwards. If that pistol was going to go off, I wanted it to go off at the ceiling so that no one would get hurt. My brother twisted Dad's wrist until the pistol was pointing in my face. He put his finger over Dad's finger on the trigger and started to squeeze. "Shoot her Dad!" he yelled over and over again. The trigger pulled back farther. I closed my eyes and pushed their arms up with everything that was in me.
The pistol popped out of their hands and hit the floor. I recoiled away from it, afraid that it was going to go off. It skittered across my wood floor into the jewel cases that my CD's were in, sending shards of plastic flying everywhere. They continued fighting and wrestling with each other back out into the hall. There were paper bags full of newspapers stacked against the wall for recycling. My brother turned his rage on those, pummeling the bags with his fists until his knuckles were bloody, scattering blood spatter and newspapers everywhere. I was still so in shock from the gun incident that I didn't even realize the police were there.
I found the pistol. It had come to a rest under my bed. I retrieved it and carried it by the handle with my thumb and forefinger like you would any disgusting thing and handed it to one of the officers. Then I went back down the hall and robotically began to clean up the mess of newspapers. One of the men followed me. "Everything seems to be all right now..." I ignored him and continued to pick up the papers. "Try to get a good night's sleep...everything will look better in the morning..." I stood up and gaped at him, then laughed out loud. I laughed without humor all the way down the hall. "You don't know us very well" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You'll be back."
Since my Dad had a FOID card, the pistol was returned to him (of course). There would be several more hellish incidents before Dad decided the only thing to do was to leave. It was the way that he left that totally sucked. Not for me of course, but for Mom. They had many arguments about my brother. Dad wanted to throw him out of the house (he was of age by now), but Mom dug in her heels. Choosing between her son and her husband was not something she was willing to do. Both of them were making our lives a living hell, and neither one of them would be the lesser of two evils; they were equally hellish, and then some.
Every time my brother would get into trouble, Mom would insist that he be bailed out. She and Dad got into huge arguments about this. Now, as much as I hated my Dad, I agreed with him that bailing my brother out every time he got himself into trouble was a really bad idea. He would never learn to be responsible for his own actions that way. If Dad refused to pay to get my brother out, Mom bailed him out on her own. Little did she realize that by doing so, she was creating a monster. Once my brother realized that Mom would never kick him out of the house and would back him up over her husband, it took all of Dad's power away. That's when he started sneaking around with Ann.
He met Ann at the local Moose Lodge. While Mom would play the video poker machines, Dad and Ann would sit at the bar and talk. This woman actually had the stones to tell my mom to her face that she would never have anything to worry about from her. Mom had suspected Dad of having affairs for quite some time, but she was never able to prove anything. One night, while my brother was out, he saw Dad's truck parked behind the Moose Lodge. Dad and Ann were inside. He came home and told Mom what he had seen. It was March of 1991. Mom confronted Dad about it, and they got into a huge fight. Despite the argument, they attended the St. Patrick's Day party at the Moose together. The pictures from that party show them smiling and happy. That night, Dad didn't come home.
Mom wasn't too terribly worried about it, but when he didn't come home the next day either...she was more worried that something had happened to him. Technically, it had. Dad made the decision to move in with Ann. He came back to the house at various times while we were all at work and started taking some of his stuff over to Ann's a truckload at a time. Dad and Mom had been married for 34 years. He told her if she wanted a divorce that she was the one who would have to initiate it. She refused. They were still legally married when he passed away in March of 2008, much to Ann's dismay.
None of their friends knew what to do or say. They all liked both of my parents a lot, and I'm sure it was very awkward for them to see Dad with Ann all of the time when he was still married to Mom. After everything that she had put up with from that man for 34 years he walks away from her and humiliates her by living openly with his whore across town. Mom wanted to kill herself. While riding in my car one day, Mom started crying and said that she wanted to jump out. I had been very supportive, comforting her, talking with her, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right. Hearing that from her stunned me. I exploded. "He isn't worth it!" I cried. "For crying out loud, will you stop and think for one minute what kind of hell life has been for you while he was in it? You deserve so much better than that! You're so much better off now! One day, you will see that!"
Unfortunately, we still had my brother to deal with. He picked up where my Dad left off and continued to make our lives a living hell. Out of the frying pan into the fire.
My brother had his fist wound up in the collar of Dad's shirt and had lifted him onto the card table that was set up in front of the picture window. This wasn't going to end well. I fled down the hall to my room and locked the door. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my stereo and cranked up the volume to drown out the screaming and the fighting. I hugged myself and rocked back and forth in a vain attempt at comfort. I was so sick of having to endure such things every single day of the week. There was never a break from it, no time to catch your breath, shore yourself up and prepare for the next living hell. It was violence and chaos, 24/7 in that house.
My door burst open. I scrambled to my feet to see the two of them fighting over the damn pistol. I ran over and tried to push them back out into the hall. I did not want them fighting in my room, and I didn't want that loaded gun in my room either. Dad had the pistol in his hand. My brother was wrestling furiously with him, trying to take it away. I was pushing both of their arms upwards. If that pistol was going to go off, I wanted it to go off at the ceiling so that no one would get hurt. My brother twisted Dad's wrist until the pistol was pointing in my face. He put his finger over Dad's finger on the trigger and started to squeeze. "Shoot her Dad!" he yelled over and over again. The trigger pulled back farther. I closed my eyes and pushed their arms up with everything that was in me.
The pistol popped out of their hands and hit the floor. I recoiled away from it, afraid that it was going to go off. It skittered across my wood floor into the jewel cases that my CD's were in, sending shards of plastic flying everywhere. They continued fighting and wrestling with each other back out into the hall. There were paper bags full of newspapers stacked against the wall for recycling. My brother turned his rage on those, pummeling the bags with his fists until his knuckles were bloody, scattering blood spatter and newspapers everywhere. I was still so in shock from the gun incident that I didn't even realize the police were there.
I found the pistol. It had come to a rest under my bed. I retrieved it and carried it by the handle with my thumb and forefinger like you would any disgusting thing and handed it to one of the officers. Then I went back down the hall and robotically began to clean up the mess of newspapers. One of the men followed me. "Everything seems to be all right now..." I ignored him and continued to pick up the papers. "Try to get a good night's sleep...everything will look better in the morning..." I stood up and gaped at him, then laughed out loud. I laughed without humor all the way down the hall. "You don't know us very well" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You'll be back."
Since my Dad had a FOID card, the pistol was returned to him (of course). There would be several more hellish incidents before Dad decided the only thing to do was to leave. It was the way that he left that totally sucked. Not for me of course, but for Mom. They had many arguments about my brother. Dad wanted to throw him out of the house (he was of age by now), but Mom dug in her heels. Choosing between her son and her husband was not something she was willing to do. Both of them were making our lives a living hell, and neither one of them would be the lesser of two evils; they were equally hellish, and then some.
Every time my brother would get into trouble, Mom would insist that he be bailed out. She and Dad got into huge arguments about this. Now, as much as I hated my Dad, I agreed with him that bailing my brother out every time he got himself into trouble was a really bad idea. He would never learn to be responsible for his own actions that way. If Dad refused to pay to get my brother out, Mom bailed him out on her own. Little did she realize that by doing so, she was creating a monster. Once my brother realized that Mom would never kick him out of the house and would back him up over her husband, it took all of Dad's power away. That's when he started sneaking around with Ann.
He met Ann at the local Moose Lodge. While Mom would play the video poker machines, Dad and Ann would sit at the bar and talk. This woman actually had the stones to tell my mom to her face that she would never have anything to worry about from her. Mom had suspected Dad of having affairs for quite some time, but she was never able to prove anything. One night, while my brother was out, he saw Dad's truck parked behind the Moose Lodge. Dad and Ann were inside. He came home and told Mom what he had seen. It was March of 1991. Mom confronted Dad about it, and they got into a huge fight. Despite the argument, they attended the St. Patrick's Day party at the Moose together. The pictures from that party show them smiling and happy. That night, Dad didn't come home.
Mom wasn't too terribly worried about it, but when he didn't come home the next day either...she was more worried that something had happened to him. Technically, it had. Dad made the decision to move in with Ann. He came back to the house at various times while we were all at work and started taking some of his stuff over to Ann's a truckload at a time. Dad and Mom had been married for 34 years. He told her if she wanted a divorce that she was the one who would have to initiate it. She refused. They were still legally married when he passed away in March of 2008, much to Ann's dismay.
None of their friends knew what to do or say. They all liked both of my parents a lot, and I'm sure it was very awkward for them to see Dad with Ann all of the time when he was still married to Mom. After everything that she had put up with from that man for 34 years he walks away from her and humiliates her by living openly with his whore across town. Mom wanted to kill herself. While riding in my car one day, Mom started crying and said that she wanted to jump out. I had been very supportive, comforting her, talking with her, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right. Hearing that from her stunned me. I exploded. "He isn't worth it!" I cried. "For crying out loud, will you stop and think for one minute what kind of hell life has been for you while he was in it? You deserve so much better than that! You're so much better off now! One day, you will see that!"
Unfortunately, we still had my brother to deal with. He picked up where my Dad left off and continued to make our lives a living hell. Out of the frying pan into the fire.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Mind Games My Dad Would Play...
There were so many reasons that I am amazed I even made it to adulthood. One of them was the realization as an adult that my dad was most likely very under the influence of alcohol when he was behind the wheel. Dad always had open beer in the car (when it was legal to do so, mind you). When it was no longer legal to do so, that did not stop him from going 'up and down the line' as he'd call it. He'd often take me with him when he did this.
Dad would drive from bar to bar, stopping to have a couple of beers at each one while looking for and/or waiting for any of his buddies to show up. He bought me all kinds of soda and snacks, gave me quarters for the jukebox, and even more quarters to play pool, pinball, darts, or that bowling game where you slide the puck over metal triggers and the pins pull up. I thought he took me with him because he wanted to spend time with me. He took me with him because he wanted to go drinking and he couldn't leave me at home by myself. All of the junk food and the quarters he gave to me that made me feel so special kept me quiet and occupied while he passed the time. Then he got back behind the wheel and risked driving from place to place with me in the car as he became more and more intoxicated.
I knew all of the places by heart; Al's Tap, The Moose Lodge, the VFW, Ralph's, Bud and Viv's, Four Corners, the list goes on and on. When we were on vacation, it was the holy trinity of The Uptown Bar, Rhodie's, and the Chatterbox. These were within walking distance of each other, two on the same side of main street, and one kitty-corner across the street from them. Dad never wanted to go anywhere that he couldn't have a beer. I don't remember him ever running out of it either. I would later learn that my dad took Librium, which my mom's doctor describes as 'powdered alcohol'.
When I was old enough to stay home by myself, Dad liked to 'fake me out'. He would ask me if I wanted to go for a ride with him (which really meant he wanted to go up and down the line). I would ask him to give me a few minutes to get ready (we're talking no more than five minutes at the most here people). He would sneak out of the house and get in the car. I would walk out the door to find a) the car pulling out of the driveway b) the car halfway down the block already or c) the car already long gone. After several episodes of this particular behavior, I said "If you really don't want me to go with you, please don't ask me to. Sneaking out and leaving me behind after you've asked me to go with you is just cruel, and there's no excuse for it."
He was also very cruel to me about my weight. It didn't matter that he was a major contributor to my extra pounds with all of the junk food he was always plying me with for one reason or another. It also didn't help that he had a sadistic side. There was a grocer in town called Fairway Foods that sold the most god-awful store brand canned spaghetti I had ever tasted in my life. Franco American it was NOT. Slimy, tasteless noodles in red-colored water that was supposed to be sauce. There was no flavor whatsoever. I was gagging on this stuff.
Dad asked me what was wrong. "This is nasty! There's no way I'm eating that!" I spat in disgust. "You...don't like it?" He stared at me, utterly incredulous. "No, it's gross!" He shook his head. "I don't believe it!" he said. I turned towards the wastebasket to throw the can away. "Give me that" Dad said. Puzzled, I handed it over. He set the can on the table and left. He returned with a piece of notebook paper and a black marker. He made a sign and propped it up next to the can. In big, block letters he had written: The Only Food That Becky Doesn't Like. A sizable arrow pointed in the direction of the can. I rolled my eyes and moved to take it down. "Leave it!" he snapped. "What? Why?" I asked. "I said leave it" he warned.
I knew that my brother's friends were going to see it....and so did he. I started to feel sick inside. I tried one last time. "But Dad..." "LEAVE IT OR ELSE!" he thundered. When my brother's friends came over, I could hear them laughing and joking about it. I was humiliated into the very dust. My heart screams anew in agony with the memories of wounds as fresh as the day they were made, the pain laying me open straight down to the bone with every word that I speak, every thought that I think, every letter that I type. I discovered that he derived a deep, sadistic satisfaction from humiliating me in front of the opposite sex.
We were at a place called Kozy's Pizza with family friends. One of their sons brought a buddy of his along with us. At this particular time in my life, I was a healthy 132 pounds, perfect for my age, bone structure and height (I was about 23 at the time). Dad asked if I had my camera with me. I told him yes, that it was out in the car. "Why don't you go and get it?" he said. "You could use the exercise anyway." Everybody laughed. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment; tears stung my eyes. I snatched the keys from his hand and stormed out the door.
There were several times at work (we had the same employer for awhile) where he insulted me freely about my looks in front of male co-workers. Mere weeks before he ended up passing away, he was still at it. McDonald's was having a 79 cent cheeseburger day. Each of us bought a sackful to take home to our families for dinner (we did not live in the same house, mind you). He asked me to carry his food for him. I had the two bags in my hands when we passed a table full of his friends. They called out and waved to him in greeting, smiling between the two of us, waiting for an introduction. "This is my daughter..." he announced to them. I nodded, smiled and said hello. He motioned towards the bags with his hands "...and these are all hers."
I closed my eyes as they roared with laughter; I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I stared at the back of my dad's head with tears in my eyes, thoroughly stung. "Was that really necessary? Why did you have to say that?" It disturbed me that he had nothing to say for himself. We got in the car; he drove me back to my house in silence. I mumbled goodbye and pushed the door shut behind me. Deeply hurt, I headed straight for the house and didn't look back.
Dad would drive from bar to bar, stopping to have a couple of beers at each one while looking for and/or waiting for any of his buddies to show up. He bought me all kinds of soda and snacks, gave me quarters for the jukebox, and even more quarters to play pool, pinball, darts, or that bowling game where you slide the puck over metal triggers and the pins pull up. I thought he took me with him because he wanted to spend time with me. He took me with him because he wanted to go drinking and he couldn't leave me at home by myself. All of the junk food and the quarters he gave to me that made me feel so special kept me quiet and occupied while he passed the time. Then he got back behind the wheel and risked driving from place to place with me in the car as he became more and more intoxicated.
I knew all of the places by heart; Al's Tap, The Moose Lodge, the VFW, Ralph's, Bud and Viv's, Four Corners, the list goes on and on. When we were on vacation, it was the holy trinity of The Uptown Bar, Rhodie's, and the Chatterbox. These were within walking distance of each other, two on the same side of main street, and one kitty-corner across the street from them. Dad never wanted to go anywhere that he couldn't have a beer. I don't remember him ever running out of it either. I would later learn that my dad took Librium, which my mom's doctor describes as 'powdered alcohol'.
When I was old enough to stay home by myself, Dad liked to 'fake me out'. He would ask me if I wanted to go for a ride with him (which really meant he wanted to go up and down the line). I would ask him to give me a few minutes to get ready (we're talking no more than five minutes at the most here people). He would sneak out of the house and get in the car. I would walk out the door to find a) the car pulling out of the driveway b) the car halfway down the block already or c) the car already long gone. After several episodes of this particular behavior, I said "If you really don't want me to go with you, please don't ask me to. Sneaking out and leaving me behind after you've asked me to go with you is just cruel, and there's no excuse for it."
He was also very cruel to me about my weight. It didn't matter that he was a major contributor to my extra pounds with all of the junk food he was always plying me with for one reason or another. It also didn't help that he had a sadistic side. There was a grocer in town called Fairway Foods that sold the most god-awful store brand canned spaghetti I had ever tasted in my life. Franco American it was NOT. Slimy, tasteless noodles in red-colored water that was supposed to be sauce. There was no flavor whatsoever. I was gagging on this stuff.
Dad asked me what was wrong. "This is nasty! There's no way I'm eating that!" I spat in disgust. "You...don't like it?" He stared at me, utterly incredulous. "No, it's gross!" He shook his head. "I don't believe it!" he said. I turned towards the wastebasket to throw the can away. "Give me that" Dad said. Puzzled, I handed it over. He set the can on the table and left. He returned with a piece of notebook paper and a black marker. He made a sign and propped it up next to the can. In big, block letters he had written: The Only Food That Becky Doesn't Like. A sizable arrow pointed in the direction of the can. I rolled my eyes and moved to take it down. "Leave it!" he snapped. "What? Why?" I asked. "I said leave it" he warned.
I knew that my brother's friends were going to see it....and so did he. I started to feel sick inside. I tried one last time. "But Dad..." "LEAVE IT OR ELSE!" he thundered. When my brother's friends came over, I could hear them laughing and joking about it. I was humiliated into the very dust. My heart screams anew in agony with the memories of wounds as fresh as the day they were made, the pain laying me open straight down to the bone with every word that I speak, every thought that I think, every letter that I type. I discovered that he derived a deep, sadistic satisfaction from humiliating me in front of the opposite sex.
We were at a place called Kozy's Pizza with family friends. One of their sons brought a buddy of his along with us. At this particular time in my life, I was a healthy 132 pounds, perfect for my age, bone structure and height (I was about 23 at the time). Dad asked if I had my camera with me. I told him yes, that it was out in the car. "Why don't you go and get it?" he said. "You could use the exercise anyway." Everybody laughed. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment; tears stung my eyes. I snatched the keys from his hand and stormed out the door.
There were several times at work (we had the same employer for awhile) where he insulted me freely about my looks in front of male co-workers. Mere weeks before he ended up passing away, he was still at it. McDonald's was having a 79 cent cheeseburger day. Each of us bought a sackful to take home to our families for dinner (we did not live in the same house, mind you). He asked me to carry his food for him. I had the two bags in my hands when we passed a table full of his friends. They called out and waved to him in greeting, smiling between the two of us, waiting for an introduction. "This is my daughter..." he announced to them. I nodded, smiled and said hello. He motioned towards the bags with his hands "...and these are all hers."
I closed my eyes as they roared with laughter; I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I stared at the back of my dad's head with tears in my eyes, thoroughly stung. "Was that really necessary? Why did you have to say that?" It disturbed me that he had nothing to say for himself. We got in the car; he drove me back to my house in silence. I mumbled goodbye and pushed the door shut behind me. Deeply hurt, I headed straight for the house and didn't look back.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
From Passive To Violent...My Last Straw...
I'll never forget the day that I became someone I no longer recognized. It was after the school trip to the Police Station that we had while I was still in Junior High. They had our entire classroom ride in the back of their 'paddy-wagon'. It was very small, with a bench on either side. There were no seats left, so I was stuck in the aisle. The vehicle turned a corner and I fell. I spent the rest of the ride being kicked and stomped by the other kids, with an occasional hand reaching out as if to assist me, only to be pulled back when I reached for it. More fibers began to snap apart and unravel. Once we got back to the school, it was time for Home Ec.
There was a gang of girls that nobody messed with in our school. Three of them were Karen, Kim and Rebecca. I walked into class, and Rebecca fatefully decided that she was going to bully me. She picked the wrong time. We had these god-awful molded plastic chairs with metal legs that were stackable that came in such appealing colors as Harvest Gold, Avocado Green and Terra Cotta; the colors of that particular era that remind me of assorted baby barf stains on a towel. Kim was at a sewing machine when Rebecca grabbed hold of one of these chairs and whipped it across the floor into my legs. Before I even knew what was happening, I seized that chair, lifted it high over my head and hurled it at her with murder in my eyes.
Her eyes flew open wide with shock. She ducked; the chair whizzed past her head, so close that a breeze tousled her hair. Kim stared between the two of us. I stood, fists balled at my sides, waiting. The gauntlet had been thrown at last, and Rebecca knew it. I so desperately wanted her to be stupid one more time so that I would have an excuse to break her fucking neck. Unfortunately for me, she chose to back down. They never bothered me again. Word started to get around that I was no longer an easy target. Some kids didn't listen.
One day while standing in line at the door of our classroom, the boy behind me decided to shove me. I wheeled around and slammed him into the door so hard I cracked the wall. "Don't you ever touch me again" I warned. He didn't. The fibers were snapping faster now, unraveling at an alarming rate. I did not like this person that I was becoming, but god help me I could not stop it, and people started to back off and give me the space I'd always wanted.
I remember bursting into a stream of obscenities in the hallway over something that upset me. A girl I knew named Pam stared at me, mouth agape. "What happened to the little girl I used to know who would never say a word like that?" she asked me. The words 'she's finally dead' exploded through my mind and echoed behind my lips, just waiting to be said. I felt sick with shame. "She grew up" I offered lamely. Pam shook her head and clucked her tongue at me as she walked away.
I had always felt this inner peace despite all of the turmoil. I had still managed to hang on to a good deal of innocence despite the events in my life that attempted to murder it outright. The peace had flown, leaving a disturbing, sinister hollow feeling in it's place. I was losing the fight to be a good person. I was losing me.
There was a gang of girls that nobody messed with in our school. Three of them were Karen, Kim and Rebecca. I walked into class, and Rebecca fatefully decided that she was going to bully me. She picked the wrong time. We had these god-awful molded plastic chairs with metal legs that were stackable that came in such appealing colors as Harvest Gold, Avocado Green and Terra Cotta; the colors of that particular era that remind me of assorted baby barf stains on a towel. Kim was at a sewing machine when Rebecca grabbed hold of one of these chairs and whipped it across the floor into my legs. Before I even knew what was happening, I seized that chair, lifted it high over my head and hurled it at her with murder in my eyes.
Her eyes flew open wide with shock. She ducked; the chair whizzed past her head, so close that a breeze tousled her hair. Kim stared between the two of us. I stood, fists balled at my sides, waiting. The gauntlet had been thrown at last, and Rebecca knew it. I so desperately wanted her to be stupid one more time so that I would have an excuse to break her fucking neck. Unfortunately for me, she chose to back down. They never bothered me again. Word started to get around that I was no longer an easy target. Some kids didn't listen.
One day while standing in line at the door of our classroom, the boy behind me decided to shove me. I wheeled around and slammed him into the door so hard I cracked the wall. "Don't you ever touch me again" I warned. He didn't. The fibers were snapping faster now, unraveling at an alarming rate. I did not like this person that I was becoming, but god help me I could not stop it, and people started to back off and give me the space I'd always wanted.
I remember bursting into a stream of obscenities in the hallway over something that upset me. A girl I knew named Pam stared at me, mouth agape. "What happened to the little girl I used to know who would never say a word like that?" she asked me. The words 'she's finally dead' exploded through my mind and echoed behind my lips, just waiting to be said. I felt sick with shame. "She grew up" I offered lamely. Pam shook her head and clucked her tongue at me as she walked away.
I had always felt this inner peace despite all of the turmoil. I had still managed to hang on to a good deal of innocence despite the events in my life that attempted to murder it outright. The peace had flown, leaving a disturbing, sinister hollow feeling in it's place. I was losing the fight to be a good person. I was losing me.
How A Nice Girl Began To Die A Slow Death...
Junior High was a miserable time for me. It was during the fitness conscious seventies, and I was my chubby old self. I didn't have beautiful teeth, I never wore blue jeans or revealing clothes...in a nutshell, I was far from cool. When I wasn't being shoved against walls or into doors by the students, I was being belittled and humiliated by some of the teachers.
There was the Math teacher, Mr. Kamin, who liked to give students failing grades for not writing their name on both sides of their assignments or failing grades on their homework if they worked a problem incorrectly on the board in class. There was the choir teacher, Mrs. Batts, who booted me out of choir when I had been sick for a week. She met me at the door when I got back. "Where do you think you're going?" she said as she blocked the doorway. "I'm coming to class" I said. "Not my class" she snapped, "you're out. You've been gone for two weeks." "I was gone one week." "That's two weeks in my time dearie" she announced smugly as she shut the door in my face.
There was a husband and wife team that would turn out to be the bane of my existence at that school. Mr. Mittel taught English. His wife, Mrs. Mittel, taught Phys Ed. Mr. Mittel was very much like Mr. Moroconi. The man had a volatile temper and his discipline bordered on sadism. If you were even one second late to his class, you had to stand with your back against the wall, arms straight out in front of you, palms up. Then he would have you slide down the wall until you were in a partial squat and make you stand like that for the entire class. Boys had heavy books placed on the palms of their hands.
God forbid if you got an answer wrong. If you were a girl, he slammed the palms of his hands down on your desk and screamed in your face. If you were a boy...the rest of the class watched in horror when he picked up a boy named Terry, desk and all, and hurled them both against the wall. This boy, though a known troublemaker, was still a child. He dodged Mr. Mittel and fled the classroom, tears streaming down his face, the teacher hot on his heels. "Get your ass back here!" he screamed at the boy.
All of us kids were so terrified of him that we never reported it. In those days (maybe even now), a teacher with tenure is going to be believed over some snot-nosed kid, especially if the accusations are particularly brutal. His wife was a total bitch as well.
Our gym suits were a one-piece, poly/cotton knit garment with a zipper up the front. The short sleeved top was patterned with thin, horizontal stripes of alternating maroon and white; the shorts were solid maroon. Our last names were written across the back in black permanent marker. It was our responsibility to take them home and wash them at the end of the week. I always remembered to bring mine back...but on this particular day, I was horrified to discover that I had left it at home.
Mrs. Mittel reassured me that there were plenty of spare suits kept on hand for just this purpose. I was led to a stack of available suits, and allowed to rummage through them. The largest size available was a good three sizes too small for me. I forced myself into it and barely managed to get it zipped. This suit left nothing to the imagination, especially my crotch and my butt crack. I felt a deep, searing shame swallow me whole. "Please, don't make me go out there like this" I whispered. She smiled and ushered me out into the gym.
Gym class was co-ed that day. Mrs. Mittel lined us up for calisthenics. I was placed in the back row, right in front of the boys. Every move I made drove the shorts up higher into my private parts, giving the boys an up close and personal look at things they never should have seen every time I had to bend over. Their laughter rang out behind me. I felt so violated. I was beyond mortified and utterly humiliated. Mrs. Mittel was enjoying herself at my expense.
By the end of class, I realized that I had actually numbed myself to get through it, just like I did at home. I automatically endured the humiliation, the shame and the pain by separating myself from it. I had become conditioned to dealing with cruelty, sadism, and torture in this manner, whether it be verbal, emotional, psychological, sexual or physical. Mrs. Mittel was smiling and smug. "Bet you'll never forget your gym suit again" she whispered.
I actually felt something inside of me die. Life was out to murder everything that was good in me, and I was fighting like hell in the only way I knew how to hold on to it. But like a rope that begins to fray, the sweet, non-violent, little girl who loved everybody started to wither away one fiber at a time. Beneath my gentle nature lay a massive dormant core of untapped rage. I hadn't acted on it yet...but it was coming...and it was to manifest itself in some ugly ways that would change what I loved about me forever.
There was the Math teacher, Mr. Kamin, who liked to give students failing grades for not writing their name on both sides of their assignments or failing grades on their homework if they worked a problem incorrectly on the board in class. There was the choir teacher, Mrs. Batts, who booted me out of choir when I had been sick for a week. She met me at the door when I got back. "Where do you think you're going?" she said as she blocked the doorway. "I'm coming to class" I said. "Not my class" she snapped, "you're out. You've been gone for two weeks." "I was gone one week." "That's two weeks in my time dearie" she announced smugly as she shut the door in my face.
There was a husband and wife team that would turn out to be the bane of my existence at that school. Mr. Mittel taught English. His wife, Mrs. Mittel, taught Phys Ed. Mr. Mittel was very much like Mr. Moroconi. The man had a volatile temper and his discipline bordered on sadism. If you were even one second late to his class, you had to stand with your back against the wall, arms straight out in front of you, palms up. Then he would have you slide down the wall until you were in a partial squat and make you stand like that for the entire class. Boys had heavy books placed on the palms of their hands.
God forbid if you got an answer wrong. If you were a girl, he slammed the palms of his hands down on your desk and screamed in your face. If you were a boy...the rest of the class watched in horror when he picked up a boy named Terry, desk and all, and hurled them both against the wall. This boy, though a known troublemaker, was still a child. He dodged Mr. Mittel and fled the classroom, tears streaming down his face, the teacher hot on his heels. "Get your ass back here!" he screamed at the boy.
All of us kids were so terrified of him that we never reported it. In those days (maybe even now), a teacher with tenure is going to be believed over some snot-nosed kid, especially if the accusations are particularly brutal. His wife was a total bitch as well.
Our gym suits were a one-piece, poly/cotton knit garment with a zipper up the front. The short sleeved top was patterned with thin, horizontal stripes of alternating maroon and white; the shorts were solid maroon. Our last names were written across the back in black permanent marker. It was our responsibility to take them home and wash them at the end of the week. I always remembered to bring mine back...but on this particular day, I was horrified to discover that I had left it at home.
Mrs. Mittel reassured me that there were plenty of spare suits kept on hand for just this purpose. I was led to a stack of available suits, and allowed to rummage through them. The largest size available was a good three sizes too small for me. I forced myself into it and barely managed to get it zipped. This suit left nothing to the imagination, especially my crotch and my butt crack. I felt a deep, searing shame swallow me whole. "Please, don't make me go out there like this" I whispered. She smiled and ushered me out into the gym.
Gym class was co-ed that day. Mrs. Mittel lined us up for calisthenics. I was placed in the back row, right in front of the boys. Every move I made drove the shorts up higher into my private parts, giving the boys an up close and personal look at things they never should have seen every time I had to bend over. Their laughter rang out behind me. I felt so violated. I was beyond mortified and utterly humiliated. Mrs. Mittel was enjoying herself at my expense.
By the end of class, I realized that I had actually numbed myself to get through it, just like I did at home. I automatically endured the humiliation, the shame and the pain by separating myself from it. I had become conditioned to dealing with cruelty, sadism, and torture in this manner, whether it be verbal, emotional, psychological, sexual or physical. Mrs. Mittel was smiling and smug. "Bet you'll never forget your gym suit again" she whispered.
I actually felt something inside of me die. Life was out to murder everything that was good in me, and I was fighting like hell in the only way I knew how to hold on to it. But like a rope that begins to fray, the sweet, non-violent, little girl who loved everybody started to wither away one fiber at a time. Beneath my gentle nature lay a massive dormant core of untapped rage. I hadn't acted on it yet...but it was coming...and it was to manifest itself in some ugly ways that would change what I loved about me forever.
Children Aren't The Only Bullies At School...
I've had my share of winners when it comes to teachers. With all of the turmoil at home, I was a very sensitive child (now I'm an overly sensitive adult; go figure). I already had one authority figure I was absolutely terrified of that I had to live with. I understand that teachers are only human and that they have a lot to deal with, but losing their tempers and abusing the students is inexcusable. You wouldn't believe the things a child can carry with them to their adult lives, and I'm naming names.
One of my homeroom teachers in grade school was Mr. Moroconi. We used to have some sort of classroom agenda form that was supposed to be filled out each week. My family had been on vacation, so mine was not completed. He slammed his hands down on my desk and with his face mere inches from mine screamed obscenities at me until I wet my pants. I was quaking with terror, so much so that my desk rattled. The next class I had was Science with Mrs. Revis. I walked in through the door, right up to the wall and leaned my forehead against it. My legs gave out; I collapsed, sliding down into a quivering, sobbing heap.
She helped me up and guided me towards the Nurse's Office. Mr. Moroconi was coming down the hall. I hid behind Mrs. Revis, burying my face against her back. "What in the hell did you do to this child?" she asked him. "I yelled at her because she didn't have her work done" he said. The nurse let me call my dad, who for some reason was at home that day. I somehow managed to choke out what had happened. Dad came down to the school. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and stormed into the classroom to confront the teacher. After a heated discussion, Dad came to the Nurse's Office to talk to me.
He did not comfort me. He did not ask me if I was alright. He didn't want to take me home, but I was too terrified to stay. On the way home in the car, he yelled at me for not having my work done and told me I should have stayed in school. I was devastated. For one split second, I thought he really cared about me. The heated discussion with my teacher was just for show. It did not matter that this man inappropriately cussed me out and scared me so badly that I wet myself. That's when I truly realized that I would always be on my own in situations such as these. I could not depend on him to back me up...ever.
That school had some real winners on it's staff. Mrs. Jones, the English teacher who accused me of tracing the Mallard duck I had drawn freehand. Mrs. Dixon, the Math teacher who said to me "Forget it, it's hopeless...you can't be taught! I give up! Go and do some puzzles or something...". People are only human. Under huge amounts of pressure, they will crack sometimes. But teachers should never take out their own frustrations, jealousies, or god knows what else on their students. They need to seriously think about the effect it can have...and if that's really how they want to be remembered years down the line.
One of my homeroom teachers in grade school was Mr. Moroconi. We used to have some sort of classroom agenda form that was supposed to be filled out each week. My family had been on vacation, so mine was not completed. He slammed his hands down on my desk and with his face mere inches from mine screamed obscenities at me until I wet my pants. I was quaking with terror, so much so that my desk rattled. The next class I had was Science with Mrs. Revis. I walked in through the door, right up to the wall and leaned my forehead against it. My legs gave out; I collapsed, sliding down into a quivering, sobbing heap.
She helped me up and guided me towards the Nurse's Office. Mr. Moroconi was coming down the hall. I hid behind Mrs. Revis, burying my face against her back. "What in the hell did you do to this child?" she asked him. "I yelled at her because she didn't have her work done" he said. The nurse let me call my dad, who for some reason was at home that day. I somehow managed to choke out what had happened. Dad came down to the school. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and stormed into the classroom to confront the teacher. After a heated discussion, Dad came to the Nurse's Office to talk to me.
He did not comfort me. He did not ask me if I was alright. He didn't want to take me home, but I was too terrified to stay. On the way home in the car, he yelled at me for not having my work done and told me I should have stayed in school. I was devastated. For one split second, I thought he really cared about me. The heated discussion with my teacher was just for show. It did not matter that this man inappropriately cussed me out and scared me so badly that I wet myself. That's when I truly realized that I would always be on my own in situations such as these. I could not depend on him to back me up...ever.
That school had some real winners on it's staff. Mrs. Jones, the English teacher who accused me of tracing the Mallard duck I had drawn freehand. Mrs. Dixon, the Math teacher who said to me "Forget it, it's hopeless...you can't be taught! I give up! Go and do some puzzles or something...". People are only human. Under huge amounts of pressure, they will crack sometimes. But teachers should never take out their own frustrations, jealousies, or god knows what else on their students. They need to seriously think about the effect it can have...and if that's really how they want to be remembered years down the line.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Bullies At School, Bullies At Home...
You hear so much about how kids are bullied at school, and I was no exception. I loved school itself, but hated going because there were so many other kids that went out of their way to make my life even more of a living hell than it already was. I started grade school when I was four. My birthday came late in the year, and my parents opted to go ahead and send me since I would turn five in the fall.
There were two boys (Tyrone and JJ) who would follow me after school until we reached a garden plot next to the sidewalk. They pushed me into this garden every single day. One day, they got arguing about whose turn it was to push me in and I kept walking. By the time they noticed, I was a good distance away from them and managed to run full out to my babysitters house before they could catch me.
I played hopscotch with three girls (Luann, Margaret, and Robin; I can still see their faces clearly, and this was a good forty years ago) who sang a song of their own composition in three part harmony as we played. Whenever it was their turn, they were alright; when it was my turn, I was all wrong. I was shoved off of swings into the gravel and had my face pushed into the snow more times than I can count by twins Sandy and Barbara. I refused to defend myself. I didn't want to stoop to their level. It made me an easy target; a sitting duck.
One of the most painful things that I remember came when we were having a Valentine's Day party in our classroom. We made pouches for the valentines out of construction paper and put our names on them. The valentines were put into each child's pouch. I had collected mine with the rest of the class and sat down at my desk. I went through and opened up each one. I turned one card over to find the words "You're a pig, find out" written on the back. Tears slipped down my cheeks. The teacher came over and I handed her the card. She flipped it over and read the back of it without a word. I could see that she was very angry, but she had no way of knowing who had done it.
My dad wasn't much help with any of this. He was disgusted by my weakness and was always trying to toughen me up. He actually forced me to go outside and fight a girl from our neighborhood. I refused because there was no reason for me to fight her. Angela wanted to kick my ass even though I had never done anything to her. Dad warned me that if I didn't get my ass outside and fight her, I would wish that I had. Either way, I was going to get a beating. I went outside and did what I'd always done; I turned the other cheek. She beat the living crap out of me.
I limped back to the house, tears streaming down my cheeks, choking on sobs. I reached for the screen door. My dad held it shut and scowled down at me. "You're no daughter of mine" he spat. He slammed the door shut in my face and locked me out of the house. I don't know how long I had to stay outside before I was finally allowed to come in. Dad would not even look at me. He spent the rest of the day giving me a snide comment here, a humiliating insult there. He never once asked me if I was alright, put his arms around me to comfort me or showed me any compassion at all. It was made very clear to me that I was an embarrassment to him.
To know that my own dad didn't want me...it demolished me. He wanted me to be someone that I just couldn't be; he refused to accept me as I was. He was going to make me the daughter he'd always wanted; a daughter he could be proud of, even if it killed me.
There were two boys (Tyrone and JJ) who would follow me after school until we reached a garden plot next to the sidewalk. They pushed me into this garden every single day. One day, they got arguing about whose turn it was to push me in and I kept walking. By the time they noticed, I was a good distance away from them and managed to run full out to my babysitters house before they could catch me.
I played hopscotch with three girls (Luann, Margaret, and Robin; I can still see their faces clearly, and this was a good forty years ago) who sang a song of their own composition in three part harmony as we played. Whenever it was their turn, they were alright; when it was my turn, I was all wrong. I was shoved off of swings into the gravel and had my face pushed into the snow more times than I can count by twins Sandy and Barbara. I refused to defend myself. I didn't want to stoop to their level. It made me an easy target; a sitting duck.
One of the most painful things that I remember came when we were having a Valentine's Day party in our classroom. We made pouches for the valentines out of construction paper and put our names on them. The valentines were put into each child's pouch. I had collected mine with the rest of the class and sat down at my desk. I went through and opened up each one. I turned one card over to find the words "You're a pig, find out" written on the back. Tears slipped down my cheeks. The teacher came over and I handed her the card. She flipped it over and read the back of it without a word. I could see that she was very angry, but she had no way of knowing who had done it.
My dad wasn't much help with any of this. He was disgusted by my weakness and was always trying to toughen me up. He actually forced me to go outside and fight a girl from our neighborhood. I refused because there was no reason for me to fight her. Angela wanted to kick my ass even though I had never done anything to her. Dad warned me that if I didn't get my ass outside and fight her, I would wish that I had. Either way, I was going to get a beating. I went outside and did what I'd always done; I turned the other cheek. She beat the living crap out of me.
I limped back to the house, tears streaming down my cheeks, choking on sobs. I reached for the screen door. My dad held it shut and scowled down at me. "You're no daughter of mine" he spat. He slammed the door shut in my face and locked me out of the house. I don't know how long I had to stay outside before I was finally allowed to come in. Dad would not even look at me. He spent the rest of the day giving me a snide comment here, a humiliating insult there. He never once asked me if I was alright, put his arms around me to comfort me or showed me any compassion at all. It was made very clear to me that I was an embarrassment to him.
To know that my own dad didn't want me...it demolished me. He wanted me to be someone that I just couldn't be; he refused to accept me as I was. He was going to make me the daughter he'd always wanted; a daughter he could be proud of, even if it killed me.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Trying To Make Sense Of It All: A Difficult Task, To Say The Least...
I can only imagine what it must have been like growing up without a mom, especially when there were seven kids for your dad to raise. Knowing as little as I do about my dad's side of the family makes it impossible for me to even hazard a guess. Grandpa raised Dad as a Jehovah's Witness, a shocking revelation considering that we celebrated every holiday under the sun. It did explain, however, why it was so easy for him to completely lose interest in those same holidays as we kids got older.
He loved animals and little kids only. I eventually realized that those are the only two life forms that will follow in blind obedience, never questioning morals, motives, facts, or other such nuisances. When I refused to stand idly by, when I refused to allow him to terrorize us unchallenged any longer, I was dead to him. Oh well...better to be dead to him than dead by him.
He used to ride his tricycle up and down the sidewalks, going from house to house, stealing the milk money out of the bottles. One day he was still pedaling when he realized he wasn't going anywhere. Grandpa had caught his son in the act and lifted him off of his tricycle by the collar of his shirt. He took him back to every single house he had stolen the money from and made him give it back. Then he took my dad home and threw him against a few walls.
There were other things I would learn over time. Dad hated religious people in general. They were all hypocrites in his eyes. One of his brothers and his wife were very religious, and very judgmental. They clucked their tongues and shook their heads, commenting on how sinful other people were while he puffed on his cigar. The obvious irony of the situation is what disgusted my dad...they were so eager to point fingers at everybody else, completely ignoring the fact that they were just as sinful themselves.
A man in my dad's neighborhood had some puppies he wanted to get rid of. He was going to kill them unless someone took them off his hands. Dad ran all the way home and wasted precious time begging his brother to let him have a puppy. His brother finally gave in. Dad ran all the way back and got there just in time to see the man kill it with an axe. The puppy jerked and twitched. Dad collapsed to the ground and just laid there, crying. It was a long time before he was able to get up again.
He dropped out of school after eighth grade and was given two choices by Grandpa; get a job or go into the service. Dad eventually wound up going into the Army. He served in the Korean War and drove an amphibious vehicle called a 'duck'. While in the service, Dad and some of the other guys got really drunk one night. They drove Dad out into the middle of nowhere and left him for dead. He almost did die that night.
Although there were very few pieces to the puzzle, it was enough to understand how certain things can cause the mind to unravel over time. Despite the fact that it did explain things, it was still no excuse for them. I wasn't about to feel pity for him; but I empathized with him. It didn't sound like he got to be much of a child himself.
It's easy to see why a child can be so torn. How could I still love somebody that hurt me so viciously and so much? Dad went out of his way to abandon me and push me away from him. I so desperately needed him to love me, be proud of me and accept me as his daughter. I needed to feel safe around him, to trust him. I needed to run to him and see the joy on his face as he swooped me up into his arms...
As soon as I heard his car pull into the driveway, I flooded with dread...especially if I was alone. Fear crawled it's icy fingers along my spine. I'd run full out for my bedroom, slam the door shut and frantically lock it as securely as I could. Then I'd curl up in a ball on my bed and keep as still and quiet as if someone had just broken into the house. It totally sucked.
I'm still trying to figure out what in the hell my purpose is supposed to be in life...why in the hell I was forced to endure such horrific things. It would be different if any of my dreams or goals had come true; love, marriage, children, a decent life. I have nothing but my nightmares to keep me company and bitter loneliness to cry myself to sleep with every night. I am fast becoming obsolete. I never dreamed my loveless childhood would become a loveless life. People have told me my whole life that things will get better...the Bastards lied.
He loved animals and little kids only. I eventually realized that those are the only two life forms that will follow in blind obedience, never questioning morals, motives, facts, or other such nuisances. When I refused to stand idly by, when I refused to allow him to terrorize us unchallenged any longer, I was dead to him. Oh well...better to be dead to him than dead by him.
He used to ride his tricycle up and down the sidewalks, going from house to house, stealing the milk money out of the bottles. One day he was still pedaling when he realized he wasn't going anywhere. Grandpa had caught his son in the act and lifted him off of his tricycle by the collar of his shirt. He took him back to every single house he had stolen the money from and made him give it back. Then he took my dad home and threw him against a few walls.
There were other things I would learn over time. Dad hated religious people in general. They were all hypocrites in his eyes. One of his brothers and his wife were very religious, and very judgmental. They clucked their tongues and shook their heads, commenting on how sinful other people were while he puffed on his cigar. The obvious irony of the situation is what disgusted my dad...they were so eager to point fingers at everybody else, completely ignoring the fact that they were just as sinful themselves.
A man in my dad's neighborhood had some puppies he wanted to get rid of. He was going to kill them unless someone took them off his hands. Dad ran all the way home and wasted precious time begging his brother to let him have a puppy. His brother finally gave in. Dad ran all the way back and got there just in time to see the man kill it with an axe. The puppy jerked and twitched. Dad collapsed to the ground and just laid there, crying. It was a long time before he was able to get up again.
He dropped out of school after eighth grade and was given two choices by Grandpa; get a job or go into the service. Dad eventually wound up going into the Army. He served in the Korean War and drove an amphibious vehicle called a 'duck'. While in the service, Dad and some of the other guys got really drunk one night. They drove Dad out into the middle of nowhere and left him for dead. He almost did die that night.
Although there were very few pieces to the puzzle, it was enough to understand how certain things can cause the mind to unravel over time. Despite the fact that it did explain things, it was still no excuse for them. I wasn't about to feel pity for him; but I empathized with him. It didn't sound like he got to be much of a child himself.
It's easy to see why a child can be so torn. How could I still love somebody that hurt me so viciously and so much? Dad went out of his way to abandon me and push me away from him. I so desperately needed him to love me, be proud of me and accept me as his daughter. I needed to feel safe around him, to trust him. I needed to run to him and see the joy on his face as he swooped me up into his arms...
As soon as I heard his car pull into the driveway, I flooded with dread...especially if I was alone. Fear crawled it's icy fingers along my spine. I'd run full out for my bedroom, slam the door shut and frantically lock it as securely as I could. Then I'd curl up in a ball on my bed and keep as still and quiet as if someone had just broken into the house. It totally sucked.
I'm still trying to figure out what in the hell my purpose is supposed to be in life...why in the hell I was forced to endure such horrific things. It would be different if any of my dreams or goals had come true; love, marriage, children, a decent life. I have nothing but my nightmares to keep me company and bitter loneliness to cry myself to sleep with every night. I am fast becoming obsolete. I never dreamed my loveless childhood would become a loveless life. People have told me my whole life that things will get better...the Bastards lied.
From Child To Hostage Negotiator: The Analyzing Begins...
My brother had a cast on his leg at the time. I can't remember if he fell off his dirt bike or what. There had been some tension between Dad and him all day. As usual, Dad made it very clear that he didn't think a whole lot of his son. Our dad worked in a factory, so he had this huge wad of keys that he carried around with him. He had the keys in his hand, yelling at my brother about some unknown offense. My brother got scared and started running away from Dad down the hall. Enraged, Dad whipped the keys as hard as he could into the back of my brother's thigh just above his cast. My brother screamed in pain and ran into his room.
I ran into my bedroom and locked the door, hoping that would be the end of it. I soon learned that hoping for the violence to end in that house was the ultimate exercise in futility. I turned on my stereo, cranked the volume and huddled cross-legged on the floor, shaking like a leaf. I listened to the music and let it wrap around me, singing along, slowly calming myself down...
Blood curdling screams ripped through me, cruelly snapping me back to reality. I scrambled to my feet and shot out the door, nearly running into my Dad...and his shotgun. I turned my head and looked into my brother's room. He was on his bed trying to back himself into the corner as far as he could go, tears streaming down his cheeks, terrified out of his mind. I looked back at our dad. What kind of a man pulls a shotgun on his only son?
I had gotten so used to seeing such horrific things that I had almost become passively accepting of it to the point that I functioned in a dreamlike state. I was no longer a child; I was a mediator...a hostage negotiator. "Dad, you don't want to do this" I said quietly. "Please, put the gun down." He was sweating profusely, trembling with rage, making sounds that told me he was really about to lose it. Mom came down the hall and attempted to help me reason with him. We finally managed to get him to back off. Mom took the rifle and put it away somewhere out of sight, and Dad did what he always did; he got in the car and left.
Along with the deep hatred that began to fester inside of me towards my father came an analytical side. What in the hell happened to this man that he would be so out of control? Was it really just the alcohol? There had to be a lot more to it than that... I started attempting to pick everything apart in my mind, note it, categorize it, explain it. I so desperately needed to understand. I needed to know why.
On the rare occasions that he wasn't being a total asshole for one reason or another, I tried to get him to talk. He never wanted to talk about his family. All I managed to get over the years were cryptic bits and pieces, a crumb tossed here and there. Sometimes he would just blurt significant things out, only to become tight-lipped if I attempted to ask him any further questions about it. I was trying to be someone he could open up to, someone he could trust; someone like his daughter. He didn't want me. He didn't want any of us.
My grandpa died of cancer before I was even born. Dad blamed the local hospital for not catching it in time. Apparently, they had missed the tumor in his chest. Grandpa wasted away until he was so weak and helpless that Dad had to carry him to the bathroom or any other room he needed to go to. He had become Grandpa's caregiver, and Dad admitted that seeing his dad that way was extremely hard on him. I so get that now that I am in the exact same position with Mom. It is one of the hardest things a child will ever have to face. I wish everyone could just grow old gracefully and pass away peacefully in their sleep one day. No one should ever have to watch their loved ones suffer until they die.
Grandma passed away when my dad was only three years old, leaving grandpa with seven kids to raise. Dad didn't have to tell me that he was the youngest...my brilliant powers of deduction helped me figure that out all by myself (:s). Having absolutely no clue what the birth dates for my aunts and uncles are, I am assuming that some of them had to be old enough to help Grandpa with the younger children after she was gone.
From what I understand, Grandma knew that she was sick and didn't say anything to Grandpa about it. When he finally found out, he was enraged that she hadn't told him. That couldn't have made things easy for him or the children to deal with, and it is very true that children will live what they learn. Grandpa had a temper and was prone to physical violence. Exactly what went on in that house after Grandma died, only the kids would know...and all of them are gone now.
I ran into my bedroom and locked the door, hoping that would be the end of it. I soon learned that hoping for the violence to end in that house was the ultimate exercise in futility. I turned on my stereo, cranked the volume and huddled cross-legged on the floor, shaking like a leaf. I listened to the music and let it wrap around me, singing along, slowly calming myself down...
Blood curdling screams ripped through me, cruelly snapping me back to reality. I scrambled to my feet and shot out the door, nearly running into my Dad...and his shotgun. I turned my head and looked into my brother's room. He was on his bed trying to back himself into the corner as far as he could go, tears streaming down his cheeks, terrified out of his mind. I looked back at our dad. What kind of a man pulls a shotgun on his only son?
I had gotten so used to seeing such horrific things that I had almost become passively accepting of it to the point that I functioned in a dreamlike state. I was no longer a child; I was a mediator...a hostage negotiator. "Dad, you don't want to do this" I said quietly. "Please, put the gun down." He was sweating profusely, trembling with rage, making sounds that told me he was really about to lose it. Mom came down the hall and attempted to help me reason with him. We finally managed to get him to back off. Mom took the rifle and put it away somewhere out of sight, and Dad did what he always did; he got in the car and left.
Along with the deep hatred that began to fester inside of me towards my father came an analytical side. What in the hell happened to this man that he would be so out of control? Was it really just the alcohol? There had to be a lot more to it than that... I started attempting to pick everything apart in my mind, note it, categorize it, explain it. I so desperately needed to understand. I needed to know why.
On the rare occasions that he wasn't being a total asshole for one reason or another, I tried to get him to talk. He never wanted to talk about his family. All I managed to get over the years were cryptic bits and pieces, a crumb tossed here and there. Sometimes he would just blurt significant things out, only to become tight-lipped if I attempted to ask him any further questions about it. I was trying to be someone he could open up to, someone he could trust; someone like his daughter. He didn't want me. He didn't want any of us.
My grandpa died of cancer before I was even born. Dad blamed the local hospital for not catching it in time. Apparently, they had missed the tumor in his chest. Grandpa wasted away until he was so weak and helpless that Dad had to carry him to the bathroom or any other room he needed to go to. He had become Grandpa's caregiver, and Dad admitted that seeing his dad that way was extremely hard on him. I so get that now that I am in the exact same position with Mom. It is one of the hardest things a child will ever have to face. I wish everyone could just grow old gracefully and pass away peacefully in their sleep one day. No one should ever have to watch their loved ones suffer until they die.
Grandma passed away when my dad was only three years old, leaving grandpa with seven kids to raise. Dad didn't have to tell me that he was the youngest...my brilliant powers of deduction helped me figure that out all by myself (:s). Having absolutely no clue what the birth dates for my aunts and uncles are, I am assuming that some of them had to be old enough to help Grandpa with the younger children after she was gone.
From what I understand, Grandma knew that she was sick and didn't say anything to Grandpa about it. When he finally found out, he was enraged that she hadn't told him. That couldn't have made things easy for him or the children to deal with, and it is very true that children will live what they learn. Grandpa had a temper and was prone to physical violence. Exactly what went on in that house after Grandma died, only the kids would know...and all of them are gone now.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
No Child Should Ever Have To Utter These Words...
My dad liked guns. He had a 38, a 22, and a military rifle that he got from god knows where. He slept on the couch in the living room with the pistol under his pillow. He made sure we understood full well that he kept it loaded. Most days after I got home from school, I would go straight to my room and lock the door. I would listen to music for hours on end, singing along, losing myself in the lyrics and pretending I was anyplace else but there...anyone else but me. I used to be a really good singer too, but was too self-conscious to do anything about it.
It was on one such occasion that I heard my dad raising his voice out in the kitchen. My heart sank. I reached for the volume and turned my stereo up louder to drown out what was sure to come. Of course, I could always still hear enough of what was going on to monitor whether or not it had escalated to the point that my assistance was needed. I was the one in the family who 'fixed' everything; smoothed everything over, calmed everyone down. I could always tell by my mom's voice exactly when Dad crossed the line from yelling to violence. This time, there was a tone to her voice that sent chills up my spine. I couldn't get out of my room fast enough. I ran down the hallway into the kitchen and froze.
Dad had Mom pinned with her back to the refrigerator, his left forearm pressed tight against her neck, the barrel of his pistol flush against her left temple. Her feet were paddling wildly, her terrified eyes rolled to look towards the barrel of the gun while tears streamed down her cheeks. I will never forget that image for the rest of my days...it seared deep into my brain like a brand. I was beyond horrified; scared out of my wits, but I had to get him to take the gun off of her. His finger twitched on the trigger. "Daddy stop it, that's enough! You're hurting her!" Nothing. "Daddy! Put the gun down now!" Still nothing. "Daddy let her go!" Before I knew what was happening, he spun around and pointed the gun right in my face. Mom screamed. I stood there and waited to die. Several terrible tense moments passed as he stood there, trembling with rage, pistol aimed point-blank at my face.
He finally stormed into the living room, put the pistol away, got into the car and peeled out of the driveway. We could hear the gravel ricocheting off of the house as he sped out into the road, tires squealing furiously on the asphalt all the way down to the end of the block. I still couldn't move. I was in terrible shock. I think my mother tried to comfort me, but I don't remember feeling anything. I knew there was something seriously wrong with my dad, but exactly what that was or why, I couldn't possibly tell you. I went into the living room and pulled the pistol out from under the pillow. I popped open the cylinder to check the chambers to see if it was loaded. Five bullets gleamed within. The empty chamber was past the hammer. Had he pulled the trigger, he would have killed us.I started to shake with more than fear...I shook with rage. I dumped the bullets into my hand, replaced the cylinder and put the pistol back just as I'd found it.
I didn't care what would happen when he discovered the bullets were gone. I didn't care if he ever found out that it was me. I was furious that he made it necessary for me, his daughter, his child, to ever utter such horrific words as "Daddy put the gun down", furious that he would ever put me in a position to see my mother with a gun to her head, furious that it was necessary to know how to empty the chamber of a fucking handgun to keep him from blowing our brains out. I wanted my childhood back, my innocence back; I wanted my daddy. This man couldn't possibly be my daddy. My daddy would protect us and love us, not point loaded guns at his own wife and daughter until they pissed their pants in terror. This man was a monster, and I was the monster's daughter.
I clutched my head in agony. No! Hell would freeze over before I would ever allow myself to be like him. I would do whatever it took to never walk the same path. I would never be a drunk. I would never be physically violent unless I had no choice but to protect myself. It tore my heart out to know that he would never be the kind, loving, supportive, nurturing father who would provide a safe haven for me from the rest of the world. I wanted him to hug me, ruffle my hair, encourage me and be proud of me. This man scared the living hell out of me, and it showed...
It was on one such occasion that I heard my dad raising his voice out in the kitchen. My heart sank. I reached for the volume and turned my stereo up louder to drown out what was sure to come. Of course, I could always still hear enough of what was going on to monitor whether or not it had escalated to the point that my assistance was needed. I was the one in the family who 'fixed' everything; smoothed everything over, calmed everyone down. I could always tell by my mom's voice exactly when Dad crossed the line from yelling to violence. This time, there was a tone to her voice that sent chills up my spine. I couldn't get out of my room fast enough. I ran down the hallway into the kitchen and froze.
Dad had Mom pinned with her back to the refrigerator, his left forearm pressed tight against her neck, the barrel of his pistol flush against her left temple. Her feet were paddling wildly, her terrified eyes rolled to look towards the barrel of the gun while tears streamed down her cheeks. I will never forget that image for the rest of my days...it seared deep into my brain like a brand. I was beyond horrified; scared out of my wits, but I had to get him to take the gun off of her. His finger twitched on the trigger. "Daddy stop it, that's enough! You're hurting her!" Nothing. "Daddy! Put the gun down now!" Still nothing. "Daddy let her go!" Before I knew what was happening, he spun around and pointed the gun right in my face. Mom screamed. I stood there and waited to die. Several terrible tense moments passed as he stood there, trembling with rage, pistol aimed point-blank at my face.
He finally stormed into the living room, put the pistol away, got into the car and peeled out of the driveway. We could hear the gravel ricocheting off of the house as he sped out into the road, tires squealing furiously on the asphalt all the way down to the end of the block. I still couldn't move. I was in terrible shock. I think my mother tried to comfort me, but I don't remember feeling anything. I knew there was something seriously wrong with my dad, but exactly what that was or why, I couldn't possibly tell you. I went into the living room and pulled the pistol out from under the pillow. I popped open the cylinder to check the chambers to see if it was loaded. Five bullets gleamed within. The empty chamber was past the hammer. Had he pulled the trigger, he would have killed us.I started to shake with more than fear...I shook with rage. I dumped the bullets into my hand, replaced the cylinder and put the pistol back just as I'd found it.
I didn't care what would happen when he discovered the bullets were gone. I didn't care if he ever found out that it was me. I was furious that he made it necessary for me, his daughter, his child, to ever utter such horrific words as "Daddy put the gun down", furious that he would ever put me in a position to see my mother with a gun to her head, furious that it was necessary to know how to empty the chamber of a fucking handgun to keep him from blowing our brains out. I wanted my childhood back, my innocence back; I wanted my daddy. This man couldn't possibly be my daddy. My daddy would protect us and love us, not point loaded guns at his own wife and daughter until they pissed their pants in terror. This man was a monster, and I was the monster's daughter.
I clutched my head in agony. No! Hell would freeze over before I would ever allow myself to be like him. I would do whatever it took to never walk the same path. I would never be a drunk. I would never be physically violent unless I had no choice but to protect myself. It tore my heart out to know that he would never be the kind, loving, supportive, nurturing father who would provide a safe haven for me from the rest of the world. I wanted him to hug me, ruffle my hair, encourage me and be proud of me. This man scared the living hell out of me, and it showed...
To say I've never had a great relationship with my brother would be the understatement of several centuries. He was always a very jealous sort when it came to having attention from our parents. He wanted it all...end of discussion. I have come to hate the words 'sibling rivalry' with a vehement passion. It is far easier to ignore the so-called 'normal' competition amongst siblings as something that can't be helped, even when it escalates into cruelty, brutality and outright abuse. The world is a violent place to be sure. Kids need to learn that other people aren't always going to be around to take care of them. However, kids are much smarter than people give them credit for. My brother not only knew what he was doing, he knew how to get away with it, and he started very young. There is a home movie of me crawling through the grass. My brother is seen running in, swatting me, and running away. He does this several times without punishment. Knowing that our dad had a volatile temper, my brother did everything in his power to make me cry. He knew that Dad couldn't stand to hear me cry, and that he would be angry with me. I was a very sensitive, insecure, fearful child, and my dad made it plain to me on several occasions that I disgusted him. Unfortunately, this made me very easy prey. My dad would stand over me, fists clenched. "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!" he roared. I would stare up at those huge fists, cringing in fear, tears streaming down my face, hiccuping and choking back sobs until I was hyperventilating in my attempts to stop. I could see the anticipation in my brother's eyes; they sparkled with icy delight at my distress while he waited to see if I was going to get a beating. If by some small miracle I manged to pull myself together, his disappointment was clear. He would now have to wait awhile to upset me again. If he tried again too soon, he would get in trouble himself. Alcohol played a very big part in our increasingly dysfunctional lives. Before we were even ten years old, Dad split a can of beer between two small glasses, sprinkled some salt on top to make it foam, then made us kids drink it. I always hated the taste, but drank it out of obedience...and fear of what would happen to me if I didn't. It became a daily ritual that I dreaded. I knew somehow that what he was asking us to do was very wrong. One day, I had finally had enough. I stared at my glass with tears in my eyes. "Drink it" he commanded. "No Daddy" I said quietly. "I don't like it." He became angry and started yelling at me. I cringed, waiting for the blows. "That's okay Dad" my brother said as he eagerly reached for my glass. "I'll drink her's too!" He drained the glass and smacked it back down on the table like a seasoned drinker. "That's my boy!" Dad praised. He turned to me and frowned in disgust. "Get out of my sight" he hissed. Things were never the same between us again. I think at that point he realized that I was going to be trouble. I wasn't going to go along with everything he asked us to do. I was far stronger than he ever could have realized, and I would prove that to him over the years in ways that would infuriate him beyond all reason. His perception of what constituted true strength was, to put it mildly, skewed wildly out of proportion. I was exactly who he wanted me to be, but he was too blinded by rage, drink, and god knows whatever else was going on in his head to ever see that. After years of putting us all through several levels of hell, Dad left when he realized our mom would never let him kick my brother out of the house. I thought things were bad when Dad was living there. Without him in the house, my brother now had free reign to be as brutal and cruel as he wanted to be. I still remember the day that he lost favor in our dad's eyes forever. Dad called me down the hallway into my brother's bedroom. "Guess what?" he spat. "Your brother's using drugs!" I was truly stunned. I knew that he drank (go figure), but I never thought that he would be stupid enough to get involved with drugs, especially since he was only about twelve or thirteen at the time. "No way" I said with conviction. "Not my brother." I could tell by the way he hung his head that it was true. From that day on, Dad went out of his way to make my brother's life a living hell. He'd put his arm around me and say, "This is my daughter. I love my daughter...but I hate you." He'd come into the living room and say, "Let's play catch!" My brother would jump up off the couch to go. "Not you" he spat, "I was talking to my daughter!" Needless to say, our dad's behavior only deepened the chasm between us and festered the resentment my brother had been feeling towards me all of our lives. It genuinely hurt me when our dad would do this; there was so much pain in my brother's eyes. I tried to tell him how I felt, but he refused to listen. If I persisted, he looked at me with such hatred that it tore me apart.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Predator Over Prey...
I love animals. We always had pets in our house; always. Both my brother and I were taught to have respect for animals; to take care of them, look after them and help them in any way that we could. I had a particular fondness for horses, as most little girls do. I don't remember my exact age at the time of this incident, but I was at least twelve. My dad bought some trailer stickers for my closet doors. Big, bright, colorful stickers of horse heads. One was a Palomino, the other, a black horse with a white blaze on it's face. He very carefully centered each one in the middle of a door. They were very pretty, and I loved them. I made it a point to thank him for them.
I was in a hardware store when I came across a rack filled with trailer stickers. There were two that stood out right away: a beautiful red fox and a raccoon that had a bright blue background. I bought them both and took them home. I very carefully applied them to my closet doors so that they were flat and straight, just as my dad had done. When I was finished, I had the fox above one horse head and the raccoon above the other, and it looked very nice. Quite some time passed. My dad had been in and out of my room several times and had seen the new stickers. He even complimented me on a job well done in regards to their spacing and application. He never gave me any indication that he had a problem with what I'd done, and I never dreamed he would have one.
I was busy cleaning my room one day. I had taken all of my knickknacks, lamps, and assorted things off of my dressers to dust and piled everything onto my bed. I had a full-sized, four poster bed. The canopy had been removed; the metal rods kept popping out of the plastic caps that were used to secure them. I was so busy with what I was doing I didn't even notice my dad come into the room. I turned to put something on my bed and there he was, standing with his arms crossed, staring at the decals on my closet doors in silence. The longer he stood there, the more uneasy I became. A small prickle of foreboding began to grow at his demeanor. I went back to what I was doing.
"You shouldn't have done that" he said quietly. I kept working. "You should never put predator over prey." I was hoping he would just drop the subject and go away, but it was not to be. "Did you hear what I said?" he snapped. "You should never put predator over prey." Dumbfounded, I stared at the decals in bewilderment. Never in my young life had I heard of a fox or a raccoon taking down a horse for food. Dad wasn't making any sense to me at all, and it was clear that he was getting angrier by the minute. He was looking at me, waiting for a response. I backed away from him until I was on the other side of my bed and pressed my back against the wall. His eyes grew shades deadlier. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Tears stung my eyes. "I don't understand..." I began. He lunged for me. Reaching all the way across the bed, he grabbed me by my long hair.
I was not a skinny girl. I screamed in agony as he dragged me by my hair across all of the stuff I had piled on my bed. I could feel my skin ripping on sharp edges, my hair ripping out of my scalp...I fell off of the bed, slamming to the floor at his feet. He savagely beat me, pounding me with his fists and kicking me, all the while screaming and rambling about predator over prey. "No Daddy!" I cried. "Stop! Please! You're hurting me!" I begged while attempting to protect my face and head from the blows. My brother and my mom fought to pull him off of me. Enraged, he wrenched himself free and came after me again. I recoiled in horror, throwing my hands up in defense.
He was grabbed and wrestled out of my bedroom and down the hallway. It took several minutes for my mom and brother to get him out into the kitchen. He was screaming and yelling, trashing the house, breaking things. I don't remember if he got in the car and left or what. I was still on the floor, curled up in a ball numb with shock, the rush of adrenaline still alleviating my pain. "Daddy" I whispered..."why Daddy"...I gingerly pushed myself onto all fours and attempted to stand, but I was trembling so violently that I had no control of my limbs. After several minutes, I finally managed to get to my feet.
I wanted to lay down on my bed, but it was covered with all of my stuff. I staggered around the room, putting everything back exactly where it belonged until I was finished. I peered into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear before tiptoeing to the bathroom. I did the same before returning to my room. I crawled onto my bed and curled up in misery. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and I was in tremendous pain. My mom came into the room, closed the door, and sat down on the bed next to me.
She wanted to know what I had done to make Dad so angry. "Nothing!" I whined. I proceeded to tell her exactly what had happened. She listened to me in silence, then left. Being a battered woman herself, I knew she wouldn't do anything about it. She never did. It was something she felt we had to endure together as a family. In those days, a man had every right to do with his family as he pleased...even if it meant beating them within an inch of their lives over nothing.
It broke my heart that my own daddy could put his hands on me in such violent and demeaning ways. I will never understand why he hurt me the way he did, but one thing is for certain; I will remember it in sordid detail for the rest of my life. My memory has been relentless and unmercifully detailed. My nightmares begin with veiled threats that explode with brutal clarity into full-blown horrors that I live through again and again. I always believed that love would set me free, but love has been as elusive as peace. I am broken, I am in agony, and I am alone...
I was in a hardware store when I came across a rack filled with trailer stickers. There were two that stood out right away: a beautiful red fox and a raccoon that had a bright blue background. I bought them both and took them home. I very carefully applied them to my closet doors so that they were flat and straight, just as my dad had done. When I was finished, I had the fox above one horse head and the raccoon above the other, and it looked very nice. Quite some time passed. My dad had been in and out of my room several times and had seen the new stickers. He even complimented me on a job well done in regards to their spacing and application. He never gave me any indication that he had a problem with what I'd done, and I never dreamed he would have one.
I was busy cleaning my room one day. I had taken all of my knickknacks, lamps, and assorted things off of my dressers to dust and piled everything onto my bed. I had a full-sized, four poster bed. The canopy had been removed; the metal rods kept popping out of the plastic caps that were used to secure them. I was so busy with what I was doing I didn't even notice my dad come into the room. I turned to put something on my bed and there he was, standing with his arms crossed, staring at the decals on my closet doors in silence. The longer he stood there, the more uneasy I became. A small prickle of foreboding began to grow at his demeanor. I went back to what I was doing.
"You shouldn't have done that" he said quietly. I kept working. "You should never put predator over prey." I was hoping he would just drop the subject and go away, but it was not to be. "Did you hear what I said?" he snapped. "You should never put predator over prey." Dumbfounded, I stared at the decals in bewilderment. Never in my young life had I heard of a fox or a raccoon taking down a horse for food. Dad wasn't making any sense to me at all, and it was clear that he was getting angrier by the minute. He was looking at me, waiting for a response. I backed away from him until I was on the other side of my bed and pressed my back against the wall. His eyes grew shades deadlier. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Tears stung my eyes. "I don't understand..." I began. He lunged for me. Reaching all the way across the bed, he grabbed me by my long hair.
I was not a skinny girl. I screamed in agony as he dragged me by my hair across all of the stuff I had piled on my bed. I could feel my skin ripping on sharp edges, my hair ripping out of my scalp...I fell off of the bed, slamming to the floor at his feet. He savagely beat me, pounding me with his fists and kicking me, all the while screaming and rambling about predator over prey. "No Daddy!" I cried. "Stop! Please! You're hurting me!" I begged while attempting to protect my face and head from the blows. My brother and my mom fought to pull him off of me. Enraged, he wrenched himself free and came after me again. I recoiled in horror, throwing my hands up in defense.
He was grabbed and wrestled out of my bedroom and down the hallway. It took several minutes for my mom and brother to get him out into the kitchen. He was screaming and yelling, trashing the house, breaking things. I don't remember if he got in the car and left or what. I was still on the floor, curled up in a ball numb with shock, the rush of adrenaline still alleviating my pain. "Daddy" I whispered..."why Daddy"...I gingerly pushed myself onto all fours and attempted to stand, but I was trembling so violently that I had no control of my limbs. After several minutes, I finally managed to get to my feet.
I wanted to lay down on my bed, but it was covered with all of my stuff. I staggered around the room, putting everything back exactly where it belonged until I was finished. I peered into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear before tiptoeing to the bathroom. I did the same before returning to my room. I crawled onto my bed and curled up in misery. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and I was in tremendous pain. My mom came into the room, closed the door, and sat down on the bed next to me.
She wanted to know what I had done to make Dad so angry. "Nothing!" I whined. I proceeded to tell her exactly what had happened. She listened to me in silence, then left. Being a battered woman herself, I knew she wouldn't do anything about it. She never did. It was something she felt we had to endure together as a family. In those days, a man had every right to do with his family as he pleased...even if it meant beating them within an inch of their lives over nothing.
It broke my heart that my own daddy could put his hands on me in such violent and demeaning ways. I will never understand why he hurt me the way he did, but one thing is for certain; I will remember it in sordid detail for the rest of my life. My memory has been relentless and unmercifully detailed. My nightmares begin with veiled threats that explode with brutal clarity into full-blown horrors that I live through again and again. I always believed that love would set me free, but love has been as elusive as peace. I am broken, I am in agony, and I am alone...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
That's When I Knew...And I Was Never The Same...
I've always had very vivid dreams and unusually vivid dream recall. I also have recurrent dreams that I can remember from childhood. Most of them lull me into a false sense of security before springing something horrific on me. I have trained myself to wake up when I feel I am in danger. Too bad that theory doesn't apply in real life.
I was too young to realize what was happening to me, so of course, I thought I was dreaming. At first, I would just feel uncomfortable, then I would burn with pain, but never enough for it to wake me. It almost felt like I really needed to pee until the sensations crossed a threshold into a discomfort that I forced myself to endure. One night, the burning pain was so intense I sat bolt upright in my bed. Still groggy with sleep, I watched a shadowy figure slip from my bedroom into the hall. By the height and build, there was only one person it could be. I had absolutely no idea what my dad had been up to, all I knew was that it hurt. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I finally understood what he had been doing.
The realization didn't come to me right away, you understand. It took me awhile to put two and two together. I'm just grateful that it didn't hit me while I was being intimate with my fiance. The experience had been so different that I didn't make the connection until I suddenly realized, much to my horror, what had been going on. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. My head began to swim. A revulsion I never knew could exist exploded throughout my entire body. Bile surged up my throat. A bewildering mixture of emotions collided within me until I was forced to accept what I refused to believe...my Dad had touched me...he had done things to me in my sleep...things 'down there'.
The images that came to mind repulsed me. So much betrayal...so much shame...so much rage. I wanted to tear him limb from limb, rip his junk off, beat the living shit out of him. I was his child...his child...and he... I couldn't wrap my head around it. I wanted to peel my own skin off to remove his touch from my body, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. Those sensations would still be in my mind. I wanted them gone, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to make them go away. Unidentified triggers still set me off, inducing fight or flight, paralyzing fear, or intense grief.
Some nights when my mom was out bowling with her league, my dad would put the stereo on and ask me to dance with him. I never wanted to. He always held me too close; it felt creepy and weird. He danced so close to me that his pelvis rubbed against mine. The little voice inside my head that had been nagging me about the way he was dancing with me began screaming like a siren. I pushed him away in disgust, hurried down the hall to my bedroom and 'locked' the door. The lock I had was a joke; it was a thin little piece of metal that flipped closed in front of the door. It could be easily unlatched by slipping an envelope through the crack and jostling it upwards. To make matters worse, my lock had been severely damaged; bent backwards from one of the many times my dad had kicked the door in.
The knob began to turn. The door gave quite a bit, but held. Dad demanded that I open it, but I refused. He could have easily kicked it in or flipped the lock as he had done so many times before, but for some reason, he didn't. He pounded on my door for quite some time, yelling and cussing up a blue streak. To my utter amazement, he eventually stopped and went back out into the living room. Even after he cranked the stereo up as loud as it would go, I could still hear him yelling and cussing me out. I huddled in my room, trembling in fear, waiting for him to pass out or fall asleep. I was hoping that Mom would hurry up and get home. I didn't trust the man, and I didn't want to be left alone with him anymore. He frightened me in ways that terrified me. Now that I'm a grown woman, I finally understand why...and I will be thoroughly revolted by it until the day that I die.
I was too young to realize what was happening to me, so of course, I thought I was dreaming. At first, I would just feel uncomfortable, then I would burn with pain, but never enough for it to wake me. It almost felt like I really needed to pee until the sensations crossed a threshold into a discomfort that I forced myself to endure. One night, the burning pain was so intense I sat bolt upright in my bed. Still groggy with sleep, I watched a shadowy figure slip from my bedroom into the hall. By the height and build, there was only one person it could be. I had absolutely no idea what my dad had been up to, all I knew was that it hurt. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I finally understood what he had been doing.
The realization didn't come to me right away, you understand. It took me awhile to put two and two together. I'm just grateful that it didn't hit me while I was being intimate with my fiance. The experience had been so different that I didn't make the connection until I suddenly realized, much to my horror, what had been going on. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. My head began to swim. A revulsion I never knew could exist exploded throughout my entire body. Bile surged up my throat. A bewildering mixture of emotions collided within me until I was forced to accept what I refused to believe...my Dad had touched me...he had done things to me in my sleep...things 'down there'.
The images that came to mind repulsed me. So much betrayal...so much shame...so much rage. I wanted to tear him limb from limb, rip his junk off, beat the living shit out of him. I was his child...his child...and he... I couldn't wrap my head around it. I wanted to peel my own skin off to remove his touch from my body, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. Those sensations would still be in my mind. I wanted them gone, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to make them go away. Unidentified triggers still set me off, inducing fight or flight, paralyzing fear, or intense grief.
Some nights when my mom was out bowling with her league, my dad would put the stereo on and ask me to dance with him. I never wanted to. He always held me too close; it felt creepy and weird. He danced so close to me that his pelvis rubbed against mine. The little voice inside my head that had been nagging me about the way he was dancing with me began screaming like a siren. I pushed him away in disgust, hurried down the hall to my bedroom and 'locked' the door. The lock I had was a joke; it was a thin little piece of metal that flipped closed in front of the door. It could be easily unlatched by slipping an envelope through the crack and jostling it upwards. To make matters worse, my lock had been severely damaged; bent backwards from one of the many times my dad had kicked the door in.
The knob began to turn. The door gave quite a bit, but held. Dad demanded that I open it, but I refused. He could have easily kicked it in or flipped the lock as he had done so many times before, but for some reason, he didn't. He pounded on my door for quite some time, yelling and cussing up a blue streak. To my utter amazement, he eventually stopped and went back out into the living room. Even after he cranked the stereo up as loud as it would go, I could still hear him yelling and cussing me out. I huddled in my room, trembling in fear, waiting for him to pass out or fall asleep. I was hoping that Mom would hurry up and get home. I didn't trust the man, and I didn't want to be left alone with him anymore. He frightened me in ways that terrified me. Now that I'm a grown woman, I finally understand why...and I will be thoroughly revolted by it until the day that I die.
The Runaway
I was a good daughter. My brother got in enough trouble for the both of us (and then some), so I kept my nose clean and stayed out of trouble. I was a very modest girl who never intentionally wore revealing or racy clothing. I say 'intentionally' because I have always been chunky, and it was difficult to find age appropriate clothes that didn't fit me like a glove. Out of necessity, most of my clothes had to be bought in the Ladies Department. The proportions were always off, and the styles were nothing like what the other kids my age were wearing. It only served to make me even more self conscious than I already was.
Dad began making inappropriate comments about my appearance as I got older. He was crass, crude, and intimidating, letting me know just how he felt in very disturbing ways. Dad didn't like any shirt that alluded to the fact that I was becoming a young woman. I began to hear "I hate that fucking shirt, it's too tight" no matter which one I wore, and "I can see your crotch" no matter what pants I wore. He never came right out and asked me to change. He escalated his intimidation and crude remarks until he was shouting them for the entire house to hear.
In the summertime, Dad took my brother and I miniature golfing at a small, family run place that was never very busy. I was wearing modest, poly knit shorts that came to just above my knees in length. There was absolutely nothing inappropriate about the style or the fit of these shorts whatsoever. Two boys that were about my brother's age were playing the course behind us. It became clear that my dad was getting very agitated about something. Each time he looked back at those boys he was even angrier than before. "They won't stop checking you out" he snapped. "They're looking you up, and they're looking you down."
I was mortified. I had done absolutely nothing to encourage them. In fact, I hadn't even noticed they were there until Dad called my attention to them by behaving like an idiot. He became increasingly insulting and accusatory, insinuating that I was purposely enticing them like some wanton little tart. As usual, he managed to completely sabotage what could have been a very pleasant outing by concocting imaginary indiscretions and blowing everything way out of proportion. I really hated him for that.
I used to have a favorite shirt that I loved to wear. It was an ultra-soft jersey knit short-sleeve tee in navy blue that had bright red stitching, making it appear inside out. There was a beautiful rainbow patch sewn right in the middle of it. There was nothing inappropriate about this shirt whatsoever, but for some strange reason, my dad hated it with a passion. He refused to tell me why he hated it so much. One day, he walked into my bedroom unexpectedly and saw me wearing the shirt again. He went absolutely ballistic and demanded that I take it off.
I wasn't wearing a bra. I wrapped my arms around myself and shook my head, horrified by the look in his eyes. He seized me and violently attempted to wrench the shirt off of me. I fought hard to protect my modesty, but to no avail. The shirt got stuck around my head with my arms straight up in the air, my bare breasts bouncing wildly as he fought to tear the shirt from me. He yanked so hard I thought my neck would break before he finally managed to pull it free. I watched helplessly as he stretched my beloved shirt over one of the bedposts and ripped a hole in it. Then he used his hands to rip the shirt apart until it was beyond repair.I stood there burning with shame, still making lame attempts to shield my breasts from his eyes. He turned to me with smug satisfaction. "There!" he spat in triumph. "Try to wear it now!" He whipped what was left of the shirt into my face as he walked by and stalked out of my room.
Enough was enough. I got dressed, picked up my bible and ran away from home in the middle of the night. I walked all the way across town to a friend's house, but she wasn't at home. I called another friend in a neighboring town and they came and picked me up. I waited until the next day to call home and let my mom know that I was alright. I was gone for two whole weeks before I finally relented and told her where I was.
I was not happy to learn that Dad was coming to pick me up. As I headed down the sidewalk, I noticed a brand new stereo sitting on the back seat. I didn't want a fucking stereo...I wanted an apology. Not once did he ever apologize to me for any of the things he'd done. It was so like him to think that buying me off would make everything alright. I was far from alright. It made me sick to look at him. I did not want to go back to that house with him. No daughter should ever have to be afraid of their dad the way that I was afraid of mine...
Dad began making inappropriate comments about my appearance as I got older. He was crass, crude, and intimidating, letting me know just how he felt in very disturbing ways. Dad didn't like any shirt that alluded to the fact that I was becoming a young woman. I began to hear "I hate that fucking shirt, it's too tight" no matter which one I wore, and "I can see your crotch" no matter what pants I wore. He never came right out and asked me to change. He escalated his intimidation and crude remarks until he was shouting them for the entire house to hear.
In the summertime, Dad took my brother and I miniature golfing at a small, family run place that was never very busy. I was wearing modest, poly knit shorts that came to just above my knees in length. There was absolutely nothing inappropriate about the style or the fit of these shorts whatsoever. Two boys that were about my brother's age were playing the course behind us. It became clear that my dad was getting very agitated about something. Each time he looked back at those boys he was even angrier than before. "They won't stop checking you out" he snapped. "They're looking you up, and they're looking you down."
I was mortified. I had done absolutely nothing to encourage them. In fact, I hadn't even noticed they were there until Dad called my attention to them by behaving like an idiot. He became increasingly insulting and accusatory, insinuating that I was purposely enticing them like some wanton little tart. As usual, he managed to completely sabotage what could have been a very pleasant outing by concocting imaginary indiscretions and blowing everything way out of proportion. I really hated him for that.
I used to have a favorite shirt that I loved to wear. It was an ultra-soft jersey knit short-sleeve tee in navy blue that had bright red stitching, making it appear inside out. There was a beautiful rainbow patch sewn right in the middle of it. There was nothing inappropriate about this shirt whatsoever, but for some strange reason, my dad hated it with a passion. He refused to tell me why he hated it so much. One day, he walked into my bedroom unexpectedly and saw me wearing the shirt again. He went absolutely ballistic and demanded that I take it off.
I wasn't wearing a bra. I wrapped my arms around myself and shook my head, horrified by the look in his eyes. He seized me and violently attempted to wrench the shirt off of me. I fought hard to protect my modesty, but to no avail. The shirt got stuck around my head with my arms straight up in the air, my bare breasts bouncing wildly as he fought to tear the shirt from me. He yanked so hard I thought my neck would break before he finally managed to pull it free. I watched helplessly as he stretched my beloved shirt over one of the bedposts and ripped a hole in it. Then he used his hands to rip the shirt apart until it was beyond repair.I stood there burning with shame, still making lame attempts to shield my breasts from his eyes. He turned to me with smug satisfaction. "There!" he spat in triumph. "Try to wear it now!" He whipped what was left of the shirt into my face as he walked by and stalked out of my room.
Enough was enough. I got dressed, picked up my bible and ran away from home in the middle of the night. I walked all the way across town to a friend's house, but she wasn't at home. I called another friend in a neighboring town and they came and picked me up. I waited until the next day to call home and let my mom know that I was alright. I was gone for two whole weeks before I finally relented and told her where I was.
I was not happy to learn that Dad was coming to pick me up. As I headed down the sidewalk, I noticed a brand new stereo sitting on the back seat. I didn't want a fucking stereo...I wanted an apology. Not once did he ever apologize to me for any of the things he'd done. It was so like him to think that buying me off would make everything alright. I was far from alright. It made me sick to look at him. I did not want to go back to that house with him. No daughter should ever have to be afraid of their dad the way that I was afraid of mine...
Monday, January 3, 2011
This Is One Trip I Never Should Have Taken...The Sore Throat From Hell...
I was fifteen, it was winter, and I was a Sophomore in High School. I woke up with a bad cold and a horrible sore throat, so Mom let me stay home from school. My brother wanted to stay home too, but he wasn't sick. He argued with Mom until she finally gave in to him. I rolled my eyes. I was so damn sick I just wanted to be alone, and I did not want to be alone with him.
I tried to lay down and go back to sleep, but my throat was on fire. I took some cold medicine, then went down into the basement to get a fire going in the fireplace. We did not have a finished basement, but the area directly in front of the fireplace was set up with a large braided rug on the floor and a few pieces of furniture nearby. I turned on the radio and sat in front of the fire, letting the warmth seep in until I was toasty and content.
My brother came downstairs with a mug in his hand. "I made you a cup of hot chocolate from scratch" he said as he descended. "I'm stirring it with a fork so that the sugar doesn't stick." I thought it was odd that he would bother to do such a thing, because my brother never did anything nice for me for no reason. Though skeptical of his motivation for such a gesture, I had no reason to mistrust it. The creamy chocolate was surprisingly delicious. The hot liquid felt so good to my throat, soothing the inflamed tissue and easing the pain. I drank it all.
It wasn't long before I had an uncontrollable urge to get up and get moving. I headed towards the back of the basement to go through some boxes. My brother came back downstairs and called me over to him. He popped in a cassette tape of one of his friends goofing around and singing off key. It was hilarious, so of course, I laughed. I sank to my knees and fell to my side on the floor, laughing until I cried. My sides hurt and I couldn't catch my breath. I started to panic. I begged him to please turn off the tape. He waited until I was writhing on the floor in agony before he finally turned it off. He made no move to help me up. He headed back upstairs, and I headed back to the boxes.
I was trembling and shivering in waves. I found some notes that my friends had written to me in school, and I laughed and shuddered obscenely while trying to read them. It wasn't long before my brother was back, standing on the stairs, watching me. "Beck, I hate to tell you this..." he began. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I knew there was something wrong with me, but nothing could have prepared me for what he said next. "You're tripping on Acid." The first thing I did was look at the floor. My mind grabbed hold of the word "tripping" and took it literally. My vision rippled like water on the surface of a pond as I looked down at my feet. That's when it hit me...Acid...LSD. My own brother had drugged me.
Horrified, I snapped my eyes to his and blurted out "How could you do this to me?!?" My voice came out whiny, extra high-pitched, and he laughed hysterically. I ran for the stairs and shoved him viciously out of the way as I passed him, frantically scrambling and clawing my way up the stairs in my attempt to get away from something I could not. I fled through the kitchen and towards the living room, gasping and sobbing hysterically. I was dead set against drugs, always had been. It was an embarrassment for my brother to have such a goody two-shoes for a sister, and he never let me forget it. He often told me "Don't you DARE tell anyone at school that you're my sister. If you do, you'll be sorry..."
I ran into the living room and froze. The shag carpeting was alive, writhing and seething like millions of maggots on a corpse, the roar of the wriggling mass deafening to my super sensitive senses. I looked down at my feet. Maggots were crawling all over my shoes, crawling up my legs... I. Freaked. Out. My brother grabbed me by the arm and forced me down onto the couch. He put his arm around me, grabbed my hand and started rubbing the back of it, trying to help me through my bad trip. I shoved him away from me, leapt up off of the couch and wheeled to face him. "What you do with your body is your business!" I screamed. "You had no right to do this to mine! How could you do this to me?! WHY did you do this to me?!" He hung his head and gave me some lame-ass excuse about how he wanted me to be able to say that I had done drugs at least once. I felt sick. I frowned at him in stunned silence for a few moments. "I will never trust you again" I hissed. "Don't ever bring me anything to eat or drink again, I will not take it from you, even if it is sealed. Do you understand me?" I turned my back on him and walked away, bile rising in my throat and tears stinging my eyes. This 'trust me so that I can betray your sorry ass' game that was so prevalent in my family was getting very old.
My brother spent the rest of the day attempting to get me to laugh and enjoy myself while under the influence of the drug. "Might as well not waste it" he said. As if I was going to be able to enjoy myself under the circumstances. What a fucking idiot. He saw me looking out the window when he went to get the mail, so he pretended to slip and fall in the snow by the mailbox. It made me sick just to look at him; it made me sick just to hear his voice. I was so afraid that Dad would be able to tell that something was wrong with me, but he attributed my extra-glossy eyes to my bad cold. If he found out my brother had given me drugs, it would be his death. As angry as I was, I did not want his blood on my hands.
Ever since Dad discovered that my brother was involved with drugs, he had it in his head that I would not be able to resist them either and that I would inevitably follow in his footsteps. It irked me to no end that all of my vows to the contrary were completely dismissed. Dad was convinced that I had no mind of my own and that I would be helpless to resist the influences of the drug culture that was so prevalent at that time. For example, one day some of my friends came to pick me up and my brother asked them for a ride. Dad saw him get in the car with us and freaked out. He chased the car down the road, eyes popping, fist shaking, screaming at the top of his lungs "Don't you DARE get her started on drugs, do you hear me?!" much to my humiliation and shame.
Somehow, I managed to make it through the rest of the day without Dad finding out that anything was wrong. I crawled into bed and closed my eyes in exhaustion, hungry for sleep and escape. Brightly colored arrows drifted in to view from all different angles and ricocheted wildly before my eyes. I buried my face in my pillow and choked back a sob. "Enough!" I cried out to the darkness. "I did not do this to myself! I did not put this crap in my body! Please God, make it stop..." and I remembered nothing more.
I tried to lay down and go back to sleep, but my throat was on fire. I took some cold medicine, then went down into the basement to get a fire going in the fireplace. We did not have a finished basement, but the area directly in front of the fireplace was set up with a large braided rug on the floor and a few pieces of furniture nearby. I turned on the radio and sat in front of the fire, letting the warmth seep in until I was toasty and content.
My brother came downstairs with a mug in his hand. "I made you a cup of hot chocolate from scratch" he said as he descended. "I'm stirring it with a fork so that the sugar doesn't stick." I thought it was odd that he would bother to do such a thing, because my brother never did anything nice for me for no reason. Though skeptical of his motivation for such a gesture, I had no reason to mistrust it. The creamy chocolate was surprisingly delicious. The hot liquid felt so good to my throat, soothing the inflamed tissue and easing the pain. I drank it all.
It wasn't long before I had an uncontrollable urge to get up and get moving. I headed towards the back of the basement to go through some boxes. My brother came back downstairs and called me over to him. He popped in a cassette tape of one of his friends goofing around and singing off key. It was hilarious, so of course, I laughed. I sank to my knees and fell to my side on the floor, laughing until I cried. My sides hurt and I couldn't catch my breath. I started to panic. I begged him to please turn off the tape. He waited until I was writhing on the floor in agony before he finally turned it off. He made no move to help me up. He headed back upstairs, and I headed back to the boxes.
I was trembling and shivering in waves. I found some notes that my friends had written to me in school, and I laughed and shuddered obscenely while trying to read them. It wasn't long before my brother was back, standing on the stairs, watching me. "Beck, I hate to tell you this..." he began. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I knew there was something wrong with me, but nothing could have prepared me for what he said next. "You're tripping on Acid." The first thing I did was look at the floor. My mind grabbed hold of the word "tripping" and took it literally. My vision rippled like water on the surface of a pond as I looked down at my feet. That's when it hit me...Acid...LSD. My own brother had drugged me.
Horrified, I snapped my eyes to his and blurted out "How could you do this to me?!?" My voice came out whiny, extra high-pitched, and he laughed hysterically. I ran for the stairs and shoved him viciously out of the way as I passed him, frantically scrambling and clawing my way up the stairs in my attempt to get away from something I could not. I fled through the kitchen and towards the living room, gasping and sobbing hysterically. I was dead set against drugs, always had been. It was an embarrassment for my brother to have such a goody two-shoes for a sister, and he never let me forget it. He often told me "Don't you DARE tell anyone at school that you're my sister. If you do, you'll be sorry..."
I ran into the living room and froze. The shag carpeting was alive, writhing and seething like millions of maggots on a corpse, the roar of the wriggling mass deafening to my super sensitive senses. I looked down at my feet. Maggots were crawling all over my shoes, crawling up my legs... I. Freaked. Out. My brother grabbed me by the arm and forced me down onto the couch. He put his arm around me, grabbed my hand and started rubbing the back of it, trying to help me through my bad trip. I shoved him away from me, leapt up off of the couch and wheeled to face him. "What you do with your body is your business!" I screamed. "You had no right to do this to mine! How could you do this to me?! WHY did you do this to me?!" He hung his head and gave me some lame-ass excuse about how he wanted me to be able to say that I had done drugs at least once. I felt sick. I frowned at him in stunned silence for a few moments. "I will never trust you again" I hissed. "Don't ever bring me anything to eat or drink again, I will not take it from you, even if it is sealed. Do you understand me?" I turned my back on him and walked away, bile rising in my throat and tears stinging my eyes. This 'trust me so that I can betray your sorry ass' game that was so prevalent in my family was getting very old.
My brother spent the rest of the day attempting to get me to laugh and enjoy myself while under the influence of the drug. "Might as well not waste it" he said. As if I was going to be able to enjoy myself under the circumstances. What a fucking idiot. He saw me looking out the window when he went to get the mail, so he pretended to slip and fall in the snow by the mailbox. It made me sick just to look at him; it made me sick just to hear his voice. I was so afraid that Dad would be able to tell that something was wrong with me, but he attributed my extra-glossy eyes to my bad cold. If he found out my brother had given me drugs, it would be his death. As angry as I was, I did not want his blood on my hands.
Ever since Dad discovered that my brother was involved with drugs, he had it in his head that I would not be able to resist them either and that I would inevitably follow in his footsteps. It irked me to no end that all of my vows to the contrary were completely dismissed. Dad was convinced that I had no mind of my own and that I would be helpless to resist the influences of the drug culture that was so prevalent at that time. For example, one day some of my friends came to pick me up and my brother asked them for a ride. Dad saw him get in the car with us and freaked out. He chased the car down the road, eyes popping, fist shaking, screaming at the top of his lungs "Don't you DARE get her started on drugs, do you hear me?!" much to my humiliation and shame.
Somehow, I managed to make it through the rest of the day without Dad finding out that anything was wrong. I crawled into bed and closed my eyes in exhaustion, hungry for sleep and escape. Brightly colored arrows drifted in to view from all different angles and ricocheted wildly before my eyes. I buried my face in my pillow and choked back a sob. "Enough!" I cried out to the darkness. "I did not do this to myself! I did not put this crap in my body! Please God, make it stop..." and I remembered nothing more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)