Posts Tagged ‘AbUsE’
The beast has changed significantly over the years.
I love her more than I ever have.
I am still very much afraid of her.
I think of how much I feared the beast as a child and feel amazed that there were things that happened to me during my childhood that were so traumatic and yet I was scared to tell my mother. So I held these incidents inside until they disappeared and slowly they have crept their wayback into my life.
A life that was turning out to be pretty good at some points.
A life I miss dearly yet never want back.
I was scared that she would physically hurt me for allowing others to hurt me and that kills me inside. It pains me the most because this wasn’t just a fear, the beast would have done it and I can’t imagine ever having a child and hurting them so terribly yet the beast did it with such ease. I can’t remember a time I had ever felt safe growing up. I was in constant fear of elements in and outside of my home.
I can no longer have anger towards the beast. I let that go so long ago but I wish I could go back and help that little girl; protect her, tell her she that she will be ok, that she is not bad and that everything happening to her is not her fault.
In one of my treatment centers, one exercise I could never finish was one in which you were to find a childhood picture and speak to that child. I just can’t do it at the moment. I start to cry uncontrollable every single time I look at the picture I try the exercise with, I have to immediately put it away. I often get criticized for running away from my problems.
Running away kept me alive for many years and it is what I have learned to do to cope with dangerous things. It not only kept me alive but it kept me hopeful and happy and it kept me motivated to try and try until I suceeded. It helped me become owner of a coop, a college graduate a good employee. Its just isn’t so easy to change these things when you have been doing them since you were practically born; in one way or another.
The beast is very sad today and I feel so sorry for her. She was thrown away by her parents…literally, the beast was found in a dumpster. Both of her parents were alcoholics who suffered from mental illness and these traits were definitely passed down to the beast and her allergy to alcohol makes her the worst kind of drunk that there is…a dry one. I can speak to her childhood picture, although it is very emotional. I often wonder where all of these cycles began and if I will be able to stop this one.
The beast and her two siblings were “saved” by their grandparents who reminded them daily that they were not wanted and were an obligation that they would fulfill very minimally. They never owned any new clothing and spent their youth in a dark basement. She was raised with an iron fist and when the beast turned up pregnant at 16, she was kicked out of their house. The beast was offered a full scholarship to an amazing college right before that. She was told women did not go to college and that her job would be to serve her man and care for her family. A guidance counselor from her school went to the home to plead with her grandfather to allow the beast to pursue the opportunity and he was shown the door in a not-so-polite manner. The beast has genius IQ.
She idolized her grandparents if they were gods.
I never loved them.
At roughly the age of 6, I began to be molested by a teenage girl. She was the daughter of my landlord and it happened regularly until we moved when I was 11. It happened on the other side of the basement wall in which we lived. Quite often my mother was right on the other side of this wall. I sometimes wonder what she was doing at the exact time these sessions occurred. For years I lived with this memory and never spoke of it.
This is the first time.
I never even put it into words before today and as I type, I feel quite disturbed about it but not distraught as in many of my previous stories. I can only conclude that over the years I have come to terms with it somehow by thinking of it slowly and then more frequently until my mind sorted it out on its own.
I remember when it first came. I was drunk. I was bored. I went to my constant companion in times of loneliness…my computer. I was on a site that tracked old classmates and started going through some names of old classmates and came across the name of a girl I went to school with. This classmate had the same last name as the girl who did this to me and as I started to think about a birthday party my classmae had and the memory suddenly surfaced.
I am amazed how I can remember that moment so perfecly in my head.
The memories flooded into my brain quicker than I could keep up with. To this day every time I think of the woman who abused me, I think of my classmate.
Every single time.
Then I began to look for any information about this woman and found very little. As the years after progressed, I periodically checked on her and finally found a picture.
She looked mad.
The whole family was crazy.
There were 6 children that ran rampant and terrorized the neighborhood. The youngest was 2 years old when we moved there, the oldest 19. At any given time some or all of these children would be in the yard, shirtless, shoeless, filthy. Even their dog terrorized us and the neighborhood. He was finally put down after biting too many people. His name was Blackie and I hated him.
These children broke into our apartment so many times and trashed it, stole our belongings, broke my toys. I remember coming home one night and finding my roller skate in the toilet bowl, I cried when I saw it, I felt so invaded, so unsafe. The police would never do anything about it, even after we found my mothers imortant papers buried in the back yard. They always claimed there was no proof to arrest anyone. One of the boys chased me into the apartment once and set off a fire cracker. I was terrified. I remember the mother who coincidently had the same name as my abuser never looked at you, she always spoke staring at the sky. It was strange. She looked like a hippie and was filthy all the time.
Your life changes when you remember something of this nature. It makes you question your entire existence when you realize you had blocked out something so devastatingly important and you even start to wonder if certain life decisions were possibly based on this repressed memory somehow. It just really warps your whole sense of self and I have definitely changed dramatically.
I visited that house a few times in the past 10 years. One time I passed by and it was boarded up and looked like it has been the victim of fire. Years later, I went back and it was gone. There are two houses there now…I think I healed dramatically when I saw that the house was gone. I recall initially feeling so upset that it wasn’t there.. I felt I needed to see it but about a minute later as I drove home the feeling changed.
I felt peacefulness in my heart that day. I felt safer somehow. Imagine how rare it is that a home is torn down and the land is split into two plots. I feel that it was a gift from god. I truly do.
So many bad things happened there.
I can only imagine what the beast would have done had she know what happened back then but I believe it would affect her much differently today. I think it would really be too much for her to handle and she would be so saddened by it.
I will never tell her.
Every so often an old memory will pop into my head out of nowhere and it will stun me. It scares me because there are so many things I just push out right away and I know need to deal with them to function but some are so painful or shocking that It seems unbearable.
When I was a runaway, I “dated” a guy that sometimes would put me up in a motel. Drugs and prostitution were rampant in these motels. There was a beautiful little girl that lived with her mother. She was about seven years old with long blonde hair and a sweet disposition. Her mother would sometimes leave her with me and not return for days.
I was a complete stranger and her mother just left her.
There were several regulars that would rent rooms to do their drugs and use the women who lived there. They had good jobs, wives, families and this whole secret life. It amazed me. I found myself in a room full of men one night and this one woman and they were all smoking crack. It wasn’t until that very moment that I realized just how serious it was that a 16 year old girl was living a life like that. I was offered to smoke but refused. I made a promise to myself that day; I would never smoke crack or inject heroin. I had never been exposed to crack until that day and they smell of them smoking it out of pipes and beer cans repulsed me.
I can never forget that smell.
On this night I learned that the mother of this sweet little girl had been “lending” her out for crack.
I wanted to protect her.
I can never change that.
The day the beast took me to court is a day I always find difficult to relive. Not because she lied to the judge and said she felt physically in danger of me. Not even because she said she no longer wanted me, given up on me. I was too difficult – a troubled child.
What hurts the most about that day are the tears she shed when I was remanded into the custody of the court system. In less than 15 minutes I had been charged, found guilty and convicted of being incorrigible “a person in need of supervision” or “PINS” is what they called it. I was a PINS case and I wasn’t given a single opportunity to defend myself nor was my presence even barely acknowledged. Everyone was too worried about the single mother of three who had an uncontrollable monster at home. Somehow in my 15 years, I had become the BEAST.
As she was escorted out of the court room in hysterics, I witnessed the comforting arms of the court officers, consoling the beast, assuring her that everything would be ok, she did the right thing. And there I stood, watching this display, alone, handcuffed as even my own court appointed lawyer took her in his arms. Waiting for the bullshit to end, all I could think of is how I would get her back. Next, I was escorted to my cell to wait for the sheriffs to take me to my new home. I was now a possible foster child on my way to minimum security jail or as they referred do it – “reform school” That day was hard for me to swallow, but what was even harder was learning years later that the beast felt she was teaching me a lesson “for my own good” about obedience.
My first day at was much like many other girls that came and went. I had my intake interview where I was explained the rules of the facility and the point system. See, at my new home all activities of my daily routine would be graded by counselors barely out of high school who had no education, experience, or training on how to deal with a child like me. They would assign the appropriate amount of points that they felt I deserved and at 5pm each day I would be presented with a point sheet that held my evaluation. Personal hygiene, chores, eating manners, condition of my room, activities, wake up, lights out – ALL POINTS! All the time!
After intake I was brought up to the second floor where 6 apartments were set up and each one housed 14 girls. I would have 13 roommates of my own and only see the other inhabitants during meals and school. I was shown my room and abandoned to cry. They allowed you to do that on your first day, they wanted you to get it out so they wouldn’t have to deal with it later. That was the last time that I cried in my teens. From that day until the day my brother died, I did not shed a tear, not a single tear. Tears would not protect me from my lemonade being spiked with bleach, a fork stabbed into my arm or the riot that sent in over a hundred policemen and fireman to overtake my prison.
Tears were for the weak and I would make it out of this experience alive and when I turned 18 and could not be forced to do anything that I didn’t want to do, I would go to college and make a life for myself. I would become something, anything. I would never allow anyone to hurt me and tears were not an option towards this goal.
Sister Gertrude was tough, she took no bullshit and she was always there. I don’t think Sister ever slept, she couldn’t have. She supervised all of our meals; she just stood there at the front of the cafeteria and watched us eat. If anyone acted up during these meals, all would suffer. Sister Gertrude meant business. Ironically and what still makes me laugh to this day is that you were allowed to smoke cigarettes. This was our encouraged reward. My perception of religion was changing a bit.
A mean nun who pushed cigarette addiction to mold your behavior was just too much for me to comprehend on my first day.
Depending on the accumulation of points on your sheet, you could earn up to 5 cigarettes a day and 3 of these were after mealtime. Sister would turn on the smoke filter and one group at a time we would be called up to the front of the cafeteria. Since we were not allowed to carry cigarettes or any method of fire, sister held them for us, and we stood on line until it was our turn to light a cigarette off of a white candle held by a nun. It was the same ritual meal after meal day after day…unless.. someone acted up, and then our well earned cigarette privilege was lost and the bitch who caused it would pay later…in some way or another. Even though I was well into a pack per day by the time I was 12, I am convinced that it is here that my true addiction to cigarettes began because even when I am able to put in various months of surrender to these rolled up pieces of dirt, it is always the after meal cigarette that I miss the most.
The school was run pretty much the same as the living arrangements. You were to be in uniform at all times and had to wear a pin on your vest with your level number. Newcomers were automatically put on level 1 with basic privileges and could earn their way up or down, depending on behavior. Level 0 was the worst because you were not allowed to talk to anyone and anyone who was caught talking to you was automatically put on level 0. This level was the bottom of the bottom, no cigarettes, social interaction or food with the group. The only privilege allowed on this level was school. After that it was in your room for room restriction and T-table as they termed it, where you were forced to sit at a table for hours and stare at the wall. T-Table sentences were usually given in three hour intervals. Reading material of any kind was not permitted and if you slipped from your upright position, more hours of T-table were assigned. I don’t know why they called it that, but if the T stood for torture, it was a very appropriate name. I was put on this level every time I ran away and I found it a bit comforting, it was as if you didn’t exist and that was what I was used to – I loved level 0.
The school had its very own point system. At the end of each class, we were to be evaluated by our teacher and if, at the end of the week we earned enough points, we were given the opportunity to watch a movie on Friday afternoons in lieu of classes. It was not difficult to earn these movies as the classes were filled with girls of all ages and levels of schooling, so competing with 11 year olds was not too difficult and to my embarrassment I looked forward to these movies each week. Not because they were interesting or because I hadn’t already seen them before, but because it bucked the system. The school received government money for all classes we attended and most of these classes were barely more than coloring books and the basic survival skill of ensuring that the bitch sitting behind you didn’t fuck with you. The teachers at this school were in fear of us horrible human beings and if someone hunted you, a teacher would surely not get in the way.
I was brought to the “school” in the summer of my 15th year. I was evaluated by social workers, psychologists, psychiatrists’ school personnel etc. Every move I made from my behavior to my bowel movements was recorded for one month. After that month, “the school” made their evaluation and it was suggested to the judge that it would take at least 18 months to cure my behavior and he agreed. I would reform myself and then maybe I would be well enough to grace another family with my presence and become a foster child. From my experiences, I learned that the only thing families wanted from a 16 year old foster child like me was chores and sex. I was not about to become someone else’s slave and if I was going to fuck someone’s husband or daddy it would be on my terms, not against my will.
When I was escorted into the courtroom after my 30 day evaluation the handcuffs digging into my wrists, the beast was there. She didn’t acknowledge my presence or look in my direction, but seemed to be very upset upon hearing that I displayed behavior of an abused child. It was next mentioned that I was severely depressed and that I could be a danger to myself. The beast had heard enough, she lost control. Yelling at a judge who had no tolerance for white trash, she dug a deep grave for herself. “Always blame the mother, always blame the mother, she is from the devil.” “You are all alike, believe an evil child over her mother, she’s a liar.”
See, the beast thought I had told on her, sold her out, put blame on her. What she didn’t understand is that for some reason, still unknown to me I protected her. Not only did I not sell her out that time, but I never told anyone until now the story of her abuse. Maybe I wanted to protect her, or my brother, or maybe I was just ashamed. Whatever it was, the beast never would believe it and she didn’t speak to me again for over 2 years. What I didn’t know was that the judge sent the beast for a psychiatric evaluation of her own that day and the results of that evaluation were enough for the court system to fully take me out of her custody.
According to the legal system, I no longer had parents. I don’t know what the beast could have said or done to cause this because she had always been good at playing the victim, but whatever it was, it made her mad and as thankful I was that I was not at home, I feared for Jeffrey. The beast most surely punished him for my sins and the guilt of leaving him alone with the beast is still so shameful that I can not find it within to forgive myself. I abandoned him as Billy had done to me one year earlier.
As other girls earned weekend visits with their families, I spent mine eating and watching TV, making myself throw up and exercising in the middle of the night. I spent each of these weekends wondering why no one cared, why my now 19 year old brother never came on visiting Sunday or why my father who I barely knew didn’t even write me a letter.
I was alone.
The first time I realized that I was alone in this world was during infancy, which by the way also marks my first memorable act of spiteful behavior. Trapped (enslaved) in my crib by a mother who was indifferent to my screams, I did it. I did what no other child in that tiny insignificant apartment would dream of…but I did it anyway. Without thought or contemplation I was on my way to a lifetime of self destructive behavior. Or at least that’s what it was termed later in my life. But I didn’t care; it was my turn to cause pain.
On that lonely night, trapped in the dimly lit room I had finally had enough, so I took a shit in my already soiled diaper, removed it and proceeded to blissfully play with the warm wet chaos it encased. I applied the mess on the walls alongside my prison, and then on my legs, my arms, my face – everywhere, anywhere I could reach was destroyed by the only power I had in my infantile world. Excitement overcame me – I began to laugh uncontrollably. My very first, successful act of total and complete spite. I was ecstatic, although at that moment I was sure there would be many more accomplishments such as these, this one was special, it was my first.
The sound of a laughing child and happiness in the household must have thrown the beast off guard, she was approaching. I could not hear the footsteps or smell the heat of her anger, but I could feel her getting closer. I began this feat with a feeling of triumph, then fear, and then a who the fuck cares kind of attitude. My indifference quickly turned back into fear as I heard the turn of the door knob, the creak of the hinges and the weight of heavy footsteps as the beast staggered through the narrow doorway. Her expression was stark – full of anger. It didn’t take long for the monster within her to take control of the situation.
“What did you do, what did you do” followed by “You disgusting piece of shit what the fuck did you do” was sweet music dancing gracefully in my head. I was, as she had so delicately expressed – a literal piece of shit.
SCORE for me! I am winning. I was winning.
“Billy, get your ass in here now” What did she say?
“Get your sister in the tub right now” What’s going on? What is happening? Why is she calling my brother?
“Throw her in the fucking tub, get her out of here she is a dirty piece of shit”
My brother’s protests against touching his shit stained sister warranted him a firm slap across his face. With tears welling up in his deep blue eyes, my brother slowly picked me up and carefully transported me into the nearby bathroom. As I gazed into these compelling eyes, I could see pain and bewilderment as he tried to fight away the tears. I could also feel the hatred my brother had for me at that moment. He was wondering how I could do this to him – To Him!
“Put the water on, HOT – HOTTER” the beast shouted, louder, more forceful.
“Clean her so I can beat her good.” I still don’t understand that expression.
“Get that shit off of her, I can’t even look at her, FASTER, HOTTER, HOTTER!”
As the warm soggy mess of my spite was rapidly oozing down the drain, I escaped. I was suddenly in a different place, a good place, a place where mommies loved their babies. I went so far away that after a while, I couldn’t even feel the water that kept my skin a sinister shade of crimson for days later.
I can’t say I actually recall exactly what happened next, but I’m certain the punishment came and I’m confident that it was severe. A beating would be the next logical step in a home where a monster can become a mother simply by spreading her legs and where neighbors ignore cries in the night, simply because it is none of their business.
What I do remember is how I felt hours later as I lay in my previously shit soaked bed. That night I felt shame, I felt remorse, I felt guilt. Not for what I had done to my bed, my body or the beast, for all of that I was content, I felt this way for Billy, my brother. Of course she would involve him – punish both of us for my offense. Leave it to the beast to take all the joy away from me during my first act of spitefulness.