My story - the abuse

As a warning, I probably will be going into detail about the violence of my childhood. Just preparing you.

As I stated in my last blog entry, I’ve decided to let the secrets out of my closet. I have done so over the years in recovery to a very limited degree simply because I didn’t want to offend other people, making them feel uncomfortable with the details of my past. However, I know today that it’s something I just need to let out of my body. I’ve never told a soul everything that happened to me or that I created for myself. While I don’t live my life today in my past, there is wreckage there that I am working on climbing my way out of. So here goes.

My childhood was one of happiness, but it also was filled with fear, pain and, I believe, anger. I was born as an American in another country. My mother was from another culture with certain beliefs. She was one of 10 children, I believe. Can’t remember the exact number. We came to the U.S. when I was three and settled into San Diego. From my earliest memories, there was strife. My mother was a closet abuser, my father was not. In my father’s presence, she was a doting mother, well put together, made sure my brother and I were well put together. I remember that I had over 20 dresses in my closet (I remember counting them). She would make sure I looked perfect as I walked out the front door each day.

However, when my father was away, either on a Navy Westpac or just for the day, this other person would come out in my mother. I don’t believe she knew how to handle children. I’m sure she was doing the best she could, although I didn’t understand that as a child. I remember tender times with my mother – her brushing my hair, painting fingernails, learning to cook with her. I would cherish those memories when the demon in her came out.

Little things provoked her. It could be that there was a dish in the sink, just one little dish, or it could be that I tried on her makeup without her permission. Really, there was no rationalization to it. I didn’t think I was a bad kid, certainly not one that deserved the anger she spewed towards me. Even to this day, I sit and question if I was really that “bad”. You can’t understand that sort of behavior, I know that it is true for me at least.

It would start with things like a pinch, grabbing my skin and twisting it as hard as she could. She always had nails, so they dug into me. Most of the time there were objects involved. She would grab whatever she could pick up and hurl it at me. Never towards my brother, just me. It was pots and pans, Tupperware and cans full of food, hot water, an iron. It was me running to escape, her chasing me until she won. At times I would scream, at other times I was silent. I took what she dished out. I learned that silence would deaden me to the pain. I tried everything I could to be “good”, thinking that if I did what she wanted that she wouldn’t hurt me. That didn’t work because it wasn’t quick enough or clean enough or whatever.

I had bruises on my body and went to school that way. I remember an incident where she found some Tupperware in the bedroom I shared with my brother. I don’t know who brought it in there – me or him – but I don’t think that mattered. It had stuff in it and she threw it at me. It hit my eye, dead on. I ended up with the hugest black eye you ever saw on a kid. At the time, I played tether ball at school. So when someone in the office at school asked me how I got the black eye, I told her I got it playing tether ball. I said the ball whapped me right in the eye. I remember the look in her face, as if to say, “Yeah right!”

The next thing I knew, I was talking with a social worker who asked me about my life at home. I didn’t understand at the time why she was being so nosey. My father was on a Westpac, had no idea what life was like at home. I wasn’t about to say anything to him. I loved my mother simply because she was my mother. So I protected her, along with myself. I knew I’d eventually, one day, be alone with her again and I knew the hitting would be worse than the last time. Child Protective Services (CPS) investigated our home and found everything to be in order. Of course it was … my mother was good at what she did. She was always impeccably dressed, smiled at you, looked you in the eye and was charming. People really liked her. How could you look at her and think she did anything close to what was really happening? Impossible!

Even though CPS cleared the family of all wrong doing, the people at school still suspected something was going on. I always tried to be the perfect child, whether that was at home or at school. The fear was always my mother hurting me, being too afraid to go home. Many times I would come home well after dark to spend the least amount of time at home with her as possible. I remember often hiding in the bushes near our home so that she couldn’t find me. I can still see me crawling behind the greenery, sitting on the dirt Indian-style and hearing her searching through every room, calling out my name, screaming out my name. The day would turn from afternoon sun to dusk to dark. I’d sit in the bushes, hour after hour. I feared this woman, to my very core. She inflicted great pain on me and it was pain I did not enjoy in the least. I was always having to explain away bruises or cuts to people.

When I was at school, I became like a Stepford child. I’d stay behind in class to help the teachers clean up. I remember wishing that they were my mom, secretly wishing it inside. I didn’t like the mother I had, the one that would raise her hand to me at a moment’s notice. My mother never hugged me, never told me she loved me. These are things you remember, even though it was so long ago. If I think back in time now, I don’t remember those things happening unless, of course, my father was around. I didn’t trust people. I kept my distance, always assuming they would hurt me as well. The only person in this world that I trusted or was close to was my father. So many times I wanted to cry to him and tell him what was happening when he was gone. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I buried these things inside of me. And I ate and I ate. The food was my comfort, my saving grace, my friend. It was whatever I was not getting in the world and it helped me escape.

For years, the abuse continued. I can’t recall exact ages, but I want to say I was 11 or 12 when the worst incident happened, the one where the truth was finally exposed. My father was away on a Westpac. It was during the summer or some event where we didn’t have to go to school but my mother was at work. She called me with a list of chores to do. One of my neighborhood friends came over to borrow some Comet. On the way back home, with bottle in hand, she shook the green Comet on the sidewalk leading from my front door to hers. I don’t know why – just being a kid I would guess. We were in an apartment complex and she was just in the next building over. My mother came home and saw the trail of Comet on the sidewalk. She was very angry because it was wasted. Comet today costs about $1-2, back then it was probably half the price. She burst into the apartment on absolute fire. I saw the rage on her face and knew she was horribly upset. And I knew it was at me.

The chase was on. I ran from the living room to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me, as if that was going to keep her out. She was in such a rage that she probably could have kicked the door down with one fell swoop. She was yelling me at the entire time about wasting the Comet. I was trying to explain to her that my friend did it, not me. The more I tried to explain, the angrier she got. She took a wire hanger from my bedroom closet. When I saw that, I knew she was going to do something horrible with it. I climbed onto my bed, crouching in the corner with a pillow protecting me. She untwined the wire hanger until it was one long cord. She told me to move the pillow. I refused and she told me that it was going to hurt less and be over sooner if I just moved the pillow. In my little child’s mind at the time, that made sense to me. I wanted it over sooner, whatever “it” was.

What “it” was was the beating of my life. I was wearing shorts and she hit me over and over with the cord. If you have a wire hanger in your closet, pull it out and look at it. Feel the weight of it. Imagine it in one long line, used as a weapon against your skin. She whipped my skin with it. She took one end and cut my thighs with it, knowing how sharp it was at just the right angle. I cried, I screamed. Loudly. I promised her I wouldn’t do it again. I don’t remember knowing what “it” was, but I said whatever I knew to say to get her to stop.

When the beating was over, she left the apartment. I think she went back to work. I was left on my bed, cowering in the corner, bloody, bruised. I can still remember the utter fear I was feeling then. I felt defeated, unloved and sure I deserved what she just gave me. I cried, alone in that room, thinking I just wanted to die. To this day, I don’t have any wire hangers in my home. People would always joke about the scene in that movie, Mommie Dearest, when the mother would scream, “No more wire hangers!” To me, it never was a joke. It hurt deep inside, because I would remember with absolute clarity the pain inflicted on me that day, and the subsequent fear.

The screams I made during that episode, I believe, saved my life. The neighbors heard me screaming, my mother yelling at me, the whole thing. They called the police. They came after my mother was gone. I can still see them questioning me. My brother happened to come home while they were there. He was hanging out with his friends when this all happened. They took us into protective custody. My brother was cowering in the back seat of the cop car. I was sitting in it brightly. It’s always as if I knew something good was going to come from this, even though I didn’t have that sort of insight as a child.

I remember going to the police station. They took a lot of pictures of my thighs, as evidence. By the time they did this, my legs were black from the scars and I think there was still blood. Some of the finite details are sketchy. We ended up going to the Hillcrest Receiving Home, called something different today. My father was allowed to come home from the sea. It was the first time in my life that I ever saw him cry. We were in protective custody for a week or so. I remember liking it better than I liked it at home. My parents soon began divorce proceedings after that.

That incident was the last time she hit me. She tried after that, but I finally defended myself. I stood up to her and told her I was not going to let her hit me any longer. I was bigger than her at that point. However, the emotional abuse escalated. You know that saying, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me?” Total BS. I’d rather have the sticks and stones any day of the week over the words. She knew how to inflict an immense amount of pain with her words. Lasting pain.

My father was granted full custody in the divorce. Things were fine for a while. They weren’t great, just fine. She had visitation rights and we had some good times. But she always bailed if she had a better offer, such as a chance at sex with a guy. My father moved to Germany for a job, I decided to stay in California with her, thinking the past is over now. Wrong! Things just got worse and worse. Finally, when I was 18, we both agreed it was time for me to go.

I don’t know where my will to live came from. Even though there were times I wanted to die after she was finished with me, I didn’t. When I came into OA and worked my steps the first time through, I made amends to her. She has not spoken to me since. That was 9 years ago. She has never taken any responsibility over what happened. In fact, when I have brought it up in the past, she has told me I am full of lies to the point where I actually started wondering. I still have scars on my body now that prove otherwise. In fact, last summer, I accidentally cut my thigh on a desk at work and the memory of that last episode came flooding back in a hot second.

I have always wondered what sort of lasting impact those years of abuse has had on my life. I know that I was never really a kid. I wasn’t able to be carefree. I was always in fear, always scared. I learned how to keep secrets, even if they hurt me. I learned not to trust people. Even to this day, I have to work hard at letting people into my heart. I even notice it with friends. It takes me a while to trust someone. It takes me a while to let the wall down and be my true self with people. I was worried about the sort of mother I would be around children, certain that I would pass on what was passed on to me. My first sponsor was pregnant and I remember being afraid to touch her tummy, for fear of getting too attached because I was sure that I would somehow hurt that child. If anyone knows me and knows how much I love children, then they would know how torturous that would be for me.

Where am I today with all of this? I have done a lot of work on my mother issues. I really have forgiven her, believing her to be a very sick individual. However, I continue to work on letting that wall down. I pray for my mother, wherever she is. I pray that God helps her realize she is a precious child of His, just as I am and we all are. All of this still hurts, I won’t lie. However, I make choices today to live here and not back there. I know there has been impact on my life, but in many ways I have turned these negative experiences into good. I work with children today, in a high school. I now have opportunity to mentor others and pay it forward. This doesn’t mean I don’t think about my mother or about the past. My father now knows the truth. I told him when I made amends to him. It was the second time in my life I have seen him cry. When it comes to me, well I’m still his little girl at 36. He loves me very much and takes the opportunity to tell me that whenever he can.

I felt the need to write about this because my story has been stuck inside my body for many years. This isn’t the only part of my story, but it is a significant part. I could go into much more detail, but I think this little snippet paints a good picture. A day at a time I am learning to trust more and be more open. I am told many times, every day, how wonderful a person people regard me as. I’m not saying that in an ego way, but more because I think God is showing me in a loving way that I am not the loser my mother made me out to be. Every day, I get to shine in His light.

My next post will be about the rape. Stay tuned.