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.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
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.
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