But I was brave…

I have often felt like people  regretted having me in their lives, eventually.  Like I ware on people.  I come with a shelf-life… 

Even my foster Mom of over 14 years quit … in the end .. She will today say I used too be her foster daughter, or i pushed my way in, or that I tried to adopt her, not her wanting or trying to adopt me. 

My birth mom always said how much she hated me, wishing that I had never been born .. and in my later years my father screaming angry at me on the phone telling me he how fucking pissed he is because he should have just snuffed me years ago.  

Only feeling brave with the safety I felt from being on the phone , I replied – ya, you blew that one didn’t ya! I hung up so angry and a sense of relief.  Ok he’s just acknowledged a memory I had of my father holding a gun to my head at the ravine next to our home in Heron Street.  

I have rushes of hot and searing cold go throughout my body.  I remember some of the feelings of that walk with my father who had just woken me out of bed practically dragging me down our stairs and out the door.  No jacket, no shoes.  I can remember it was late.. I had been asleep for at least an hour before he woke me up.  The sounds of mash … my mom was sitting on the couch watching mash when we were on our way out.  I don’t have as clear of a memory of the incident as my father does.  He filled in the blanks for me when I started to dream about it night after night, night terrors, crying – same repetitive scenario playing itself over and over while I am supposed to rest

My therapist at the time said why didn’t I just flat out ask what he thought of my memory/dream.  He was able to tell me a couple things about that evening I needed to hear.  First he said, he couldn’t forget how strong willed I was through the deal.  I have pains in my knees .. now I can remember the crispy leaves from fall taking form. I feel twinges of pain in my knees from the twigs digging.  I do remember that both my parents absolutely hated crying – no snivelling she would say, her face full of anger and disdain. 

First off , my dad acknowledged my memory rather than to deny as per usual in out family.  He let me know I wasn’t crazy.  Holy fuck, this actually did happen.  Oh my god.  

Secondly, my dad said that I just didn’t move an inch – while he used the tip of rifle to aggressively taunt me, poking my head.  He said I didn’t cry.   

Even with out all the hurtful, demeaning, words dripping from his mouth.. surely I was to believe he was really going to harm me.  He said I didn’t start crying till we were almost back home.  

I remember the smoky smell, and the sound of cheers on the TV.  My mom cranked her head to see us coming back up the stairs.  I never forgot what she said .. scared-to-get-close-to-anyone

“Oh, she still alive? Fuck, Blackie.”  

Sometimes I think about what made me so brave that night? And what did those sobs as coming home mean ? Was I relieved? Or was I terrified of what was going to happen next.  If he couldn’t shoot me, then will he just beat me some more.  I think I cried in terror. I know I cried often afraid that I wasn’t going to make it out alive. That night, I believe I cried out praying someone would hear my pleas.  But I was brave…

My First Memory

My earliest memory is of my sister.  At the time she would have been seven years and myself four years old.  I can remember standing in my parents home, it’s hallway outside their bedroom door. I was standing silently watching the horror taking place inside.

My sister was crying, my mother and father yelling at her. My mom is holding up a dust pan to my sister’s face, she keeps yelling at her to “eat it!” My father is saying some of the same, with every word instilling the fear of god into her. It was poo. My sister was being forced to eat her own poo.

I can remember weird details about this closet, and my parents room.  I remember the bed being in front of a large window covered with dark curtains – that were always closed to keep others from seeing what was happening.  I remember looking inside the closet and seeing my moms pair of mint green high heals on the floor next to a pee stain my sister had left from being in there too long.  I can remember the sounds…the musky smell.

My sister spent most of her time in my parents bedroom closet.  This had been her punishment for past couple of years. My mom and dad said it was because she was a bad girl, that she was a thief and and liar. If she shit herself while being in the closet – she would be forced to eat it. How dare she shit in my parents closet… this is what they would say to her. I can remember watching this, thinking how gross this was, how awful this was…my poor sister. Seeing my sister being held by the back of her head by our mother and my father shoving a dustpan full of my sisters own poo was my first memory.  I can remember that no matter what – she was always in trouble.  For some reason they just hated her so much.

My mom and dad beat her frequently, and for no reason that I can remember witnessing. When I was older I would be told that she was a “fucking liar, and a thief…and Dad just can’t stand either!”

When she was allowed to sleep in a bed, instead of my parents closet – she usually shared a bed with me. We only had one bed in our shared room.  And, in my parents eyes – she didn’t really have a room.  She didn’t deserve one.  Each morning she would wake up immediately she would stand in the corner  with her nose facing the wall, as directed by my father prior.  He didn’t even have to tell her any more.

But most times they would just take her out of the closet and start a beating.  My dad always made beatings like an interrogation. He would ask us over and over why we did what we did wrong, and he would never accept the answer – even if it was the truth. Sometimes, we genuinely did NOT know what we did wrong.

He would smack us, punch us or flick us in the neck with his fingers hard and ask us to try again. This was a game, a very painful and exhausting game to play with my father. I can remember coming up with lies just to be able to come up with something in the hopes that my father would accept the story and give my body a break. I would hope for him to find some humor or empathy in my efforts and imagination and that he mchild-abuseight somehow magically change his mind this time.  Not likely. And, never for my sister.

Each time we give an answer he would look us with this horrible, terrifying, angry look and he would say something like “how can you be so fucking dumb, you fucking little lying bitch!” He would then slap us, sucker punch – or my favorite, flick us in the neck – hard.

Once he went over this, if he hadn’t gotten too mad and started the beating already, my father would then send us to our rooms to get ready for the beating. He would tell us to undress and lay facing down on the bed and wait for him. I can remember waiting for hours sometimes, only once can I remember my dad changing his mind after the long wait. All the while, from the beginning to end my ass is shaking uncontrollably with fear and anxiety. I always wondered “how bad will be it be this time?”