I didn't write down the day, but I remember it well.
I was walking down Water Street, in Port Townsend, Washington. Water is the main street in the Beautiful Victorian seaside town. It was a perfect day, weatherwise, and an all around perfect day to start living. It started when I was at the beginning of the "downtown" area. I said "Hi" to a woman, and she said "Hi" back. I smiled, and she smiled.
Up until that very moment, I had been living in a shell, afraid to talk to anyone, because I was taught that nothing I could say mattered, or was of any value at all. In fact, I felt like it was bothersome for people to even hear my voice, or have me around. This was one of very few occasions that I could get away from my very abusive mother. I had stayed with my Uncle, and Aunt in New Mexico for a couple of months the 2 previous summers, and they showed me love. I felt good around them, so when they invited me to stay with them in their new place, I was excited! At that time in my life, I had a new friend, Ian, who liked me for who I was, and it was amazing. Because of that, I started seriously contemplating why I wasn't social. I had thought about it before, but just tried to accept it. The kids didn't hate me, but I just was there. I didn't get invited to birthday parties, or even to just hang out. I could have been just as funny as any of them, if I wasn't afraid to speak. I wasn't deformed. I started to wonder if I was holding myself back.
After a lot of thought, and fear, I made a decision; I was going to allow myself to be myself, unrestrained. What did that mean? I had no idea. However, I saw people who would just speak to other people, and not be ridiculed, and I wanted that. How was it possible? I didn't know. How would I figure it out? Just try. It was a scary idea! The thing that made it possible was the idea that, if I failed, and people thought I was some jerk fool kid, and laughed at me, or hurt me in any way, I would go home, and never see them again. I knew pain, and although I didn't welcome it, I wasn't afraid of it enough to let it stop me.
The months leading up to going to visit my relatives were easier than most, because I had something. My life had little more than pain until then. Now I had something; not as strong as a purpose, but something like it. I had possibility... I had.... hope... For the very first time. If all was lost, I would always remember that feeling, and keep it deep down with the few pretty things that my mother couldn't touch.
The very moment I got into my Dad's car to go to the airport, it started. I was smiling freely. I was free.
My Aunt and Uncle noticed the spring in my step.
I sprung right down to Water street. I was free, but nervous, and apprehensive. I almost bailed out. Almost.
It was uncomfortable at first, but I looked at people, instead of the ground. I even looked some in the eyes. They looked back pleasantly. It fueled my fire.
"I'm going to talk to the next person I see.".
I couldn't back down. Ian and I would subtly challenge each other, and it helped.
A woman was walking toward me. I panicked.
"Pretend you're looking at something in the window!"
NO.
I HAVE to do it!
"She can already tell you're acting weird, because you are weird."
Maybe not?
"She'll hurt your feelings"
Maybe....
"Hi!" I smiled.
"Hi" She smiled back, and....
that was it.
My life changed right then. Thank you, nice lady. You have NO idea...
The rest of the day, I actually chatted with strangers! No one hurt me in any way. They laughed when I said something that I thought was funny. They cared about what I had to say, and spoke back. People even changed what they were doing to talk to me!
Oh, glorious day! I had never imagined such joy. I would not look back. I was a person; a real life talking, playing, living person that people wanted to pay attention to!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
All suffers
It's very difficult for a person to understand another's level of impairment due to the way they were both raised.
I like the Buddhist idea that everything suffers. I used to believe that some people didn't, and those who did, suffered according to the trauma they endured, and were on my scale. For instance, my friend's sister, who was crushed when she got a brand new Mercury Montaro, instead of the Jeep Grand Cherokee that she wanted, didn't really suffer according to me; she just threw a fit. It was an important, and difficult lesson, when I understood that she really felt suffering. Her scale was much different than mine. I would like people to understand this, because I feel like a failure most of the time, because I can't work, and do things the way most do. I struggle to get basic things done daily. I have to muster motivation, and my memory is really bad. I am mentally handicapped. Not in the sense that comes to mind with that phrase, though. My IQ tests around 135. I just don't have the drive to do anything with it.
I try so hard, just to appear okay.
I like the Buddhist idea that everything suffers. I used to believe that some people didn't, and those who did, suffered according to the trauma they endured, and were on my scale. For instance, my friend's sister, who was crushed when she got a brand new Mercury Montaro, instead of the Jeep Grand Cherokee that she wanted, didn't really suffer according to me; she just threw a fit. It was an important, and difficult lesson, when I understood that she really felt suffering. Her scale was much different than mine. I would like people to understand this, because I feel like a failure most of the time, because I can't work, and do things the way most do. I struggle to get basic things done daily. I have to muster motivation, and my memory is really bad. I am mentally handicapped. Not in the sense that comes to mind with that phrase, though. My IQ tests around 135. I just don't have the drive to do anything with it.
I try so hard, just to appear okay.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Pain and misery begin, and shape my story, but are not the theme. They are the protagonists that keep me on edge, focused on my purpose of living as fully as I can, taking notes, and writing it down. I sum it up in this phrase "We who endure tragedy understand the strength of a stem, from the struggle of the deepest roots, to the edges of the triumphant flowers".
This blog is dedicated to my memoirs, as accurately as I, and those involved remember them.
My story begins with the birth of a girl in Minnesota in the late 50s. She is a runt; the 5th child of a woman past her birthing prime, at about 40. This was before there were drugs to "help" women squeeze out a litter of children, when they shouldn't have had any. This runt eventually became my Mother. She was born with spinal Menengitis, and soon had a fever that literally cooked parts of her brain. My Grandmother agreed to try an experimental treatment, and my Mother was the first person to ever survive it. Her nuclear family is not very open to talking about tings that are emotional, so I don't know much about her childhood.
"She was always strange", was about all I could get one to say.
She had health problems, including Asthma, so the family moved to Phoenix, Arizona, where the air was clear (at that time in history).
She would stand in a corner of the tall Oleander bushes that lined the back yard for long periods of time. No one knew what she was doing, or thinking.
One time, my Grandmother found her in the bathroom, bleeding from a cut she had made in her thigh, and according to my Mom, said strernly" Stop being stupid, and clean up.". From what I know, my Grandmother probably wasn't derisive in that moment, and probably showed what sympathy she could. My Grandmother was a loving, caring person, butcame from an Old World Bavarian stock that just didn't possess much sympathy.
When my Mother was in her preteens, the family was on one of their vacations in Baja Mexico, where my GrandFather liked to dive. My mother and Aunt were on their way back to the campsite from town when they were met by Mexican boys who sexually assaulted them,mostly my Mother, since she was older. My mother never told anyone, until I was in my teens.
During the '60s, my mother followed the Hippy trend, and tried hallucenogens. All I know of that is the time when she was on the hood of a '50s car, and slipped, cutting herself on the hood ornament. It was significant to her.
One day, when my Mother was about 16, her brother brought his friend Carl over when she was reading a book, sitting in a chair in the living room, in a nightie. The friend was enamored, as he had not been very experienced with girls. They talked, and eventually dated, and did drugs together. Carl was and still is a devout Christian, and would debate my Grandmother about the validity of her Catholic beliefs, which according to him was a "Cult".
When my Mother was 17, she became pregnant. My Grandmother would joke "Where was his Bible, then? If he ust held onto it, like he usually did, she wouldn't have become pregnant". In those days, abortion wasn't much of an option, especially to a devout Christian, so they would get married. Being too young, they asked my Grandfather to give them legal permission. He would not. My Grandfather was a very loving, giving man, but he did not approve.
When she turned 18, they got married on a hill in the desert, and a few months later, my older brother was born. My father worked on cars to get by, and I have no idea what my Mom did. 1 year
They rented a house together, and about 1 year later, she was pregnant again. I came to find out when I was in my 20s that I was another accident. My Grandparents (and probably Aunts, and Uncles) helped my parents with raising us. I don't know when, but at some point, when I was a few months old, it became obvious that we were being abused. My kind and gentle Grandfather told my Mother that if she didn't stop, she would be disowned. My Father's Father was long gone, and it seems that he was glad to be away from his Mother, so there was no influence from his family. Finally fed up, my Grandfather told my Mother to leave, and never come back, because she was beating my 1 year old brother. My Father's ideology was fro The Bible; "Spare the rod, spoil the child". We were in no danger of being spoiled.
Fortunately, my fist memory is a good one. I was sitting on my Grandfather's lap, in his chair, looking up at his face. It made me feel safe. He had a hole in his throat, due to cancer surgery. It didn't bother me at all. He died of Cancer when I was almost 2. Finding themselves with kids, and a home, my Parents decided to try to make a family. They wanted to have a girl, so they got pregnant with awaht they hoped, and almost expected to be a girl. Her name would be "Leah". They had another boy when I was about a year and a half old. When he was only a few months old, I hit him on the head with a glass bottle, spliting it open while his skull hadn't formed yet. You, my appreciated reader probably have an idea where I would have learned that behavior from. Luckily, there wasn't permenant damage.
2 years
My next memory was a mundane one. When I was about 2, we went to look at a home that my Dad's friend built. I was thirsty, and far too small to get to the sink. I don't know where my parents were, so I pulled out the kitchen drawers, making stairs to climb to get to the sink, and get myself a drink. I remember my first steps, too. We were at my Dad's Mother's trailor house, where I was always very bored, and ignored. My brothers and I were not to be seen or heard. We were to mostly sit quietly out of sight. I was able to pull myself up to the coffee table, and walk around it, leaning on it the whole time. I decided to try to walk without it, and took a few steps to the middle of the room. When I fell, I crawled back, and kept trying. I finally had a way to entertain myself. If you asked them, my parents would have no idea when I took my first steps.
Shortly after my younger brother was born, my Mother started to have epilleptic seizures, because the parts of her brain that cooked were scarred, and would "misfire" once in a while. My father gathered his firends to pray the demons out of her. They laid their hands on her, spoke in tongues (for those who don't know, it's psychobabble that religious people think is a language directly from God), and didn't stop until they were satisfied. To their surprise, she still had siezures.
My memories for the next few years are vague recollections of doing my best to not be seen, or heard, and enduring abuse. Occasionally, I would hear my Mother go into a seizure. She would start nto speak, and would usually repeat parts of some thing, most commonly "I..I..I...". She would freeze in a motion, of attempting to sit, or lay down. One of my brothers, or I would come, and help her to a safe position, clear her of potentially dangerous objects, and monitor her. It was instinctual, and very conflicting. I would feel compelled to help this person who hated me.
My mother was and is a very angry, bitter person. My Father admitted to me somewhat recently that when we lived in the rented place, he barely resisted the urge to end the misery she caused. He looked over at her sleeping, lifted a pillow, and started the process of smothering her to death. He would say that Jesus told him not to. I wish his jesus would have shut the fuck up.
3 years
At some point, my Grandparents decided to lift their disownment. I assume it was because they felt that my brothers and I needed help. I believe this is the year that I started to dissociate. I would stare off into nothingness. It was my only reprieve. I would get stuck, and sometimes my mom would get offended, and slap my face.
4 years
WE had a babysitter named "Dee". At the time, all I knew was that she was a kind young person in her teens. I have a very starnge memory of my parents leaving one evening (probably for the first time), and I was crying. Even then, I didn't know why. I was glad that they were gone, but they were all I knew. Soon, I settled into the idea of them leaving, and was glad when they did, because Dee would pay attention to us, read stories, sing songs; "Drifter, how I loved Youuu..." I can still hear her husky voice. She must have been the one who taught me how to read, begin to write, and become interested in art. I was able to read a bit when I started Kindergarten.
5 years
We went to a big strange place without my brothers, met my Kindergarten teacher, and looked around the room. Somehow I knew what was happening. It was a little scary, but I was looking forward to being somewhere better for a while. Somehow I knew it wouldn't be worse. I suppose it's because no one treated me as badly as my Mother, and recognised the trend. Also, my Mother didin't abuse me in front of other people, except her friend Sally, who was the wife of my Dad's business partner.
JIM and SALLY. My Dad opened a car repair business called "Der WerkShop", specialising in VolksWagens. Jim "Caveman" was his business partner. He was a character. He had never cut his hair, as fas as I could tell, and you could barely make out the gaunt shape of his face. He was tall, and thin, and was what I would call a "Biker", even though he didn't ride. He had the voice of what I know now to be a classic Alcoholic, and tried to surpress his natural tendency to curse. He would laugh one mi nute, and curse angrily the next, but was a generally pleasant person. He reminded me of cartoons of old prospectors, especially the way he would bob his head while cursing. His wife Sally was very similar to my Mom, except that she was an Alcoholic, too, while my Mom was not. Jim and Sally had a son, and daughter, slightly younger than me. She and my Mom would joke about using us to do their housework, and would talk about punishing us, in a way that sounded almost like competition.
I walked to KinderGarten by myself, about a mile. I got in trouble for dancing in my desk. I remember my teacher being impressed that I could read, and write a bit. I remember learning "The Farmer in the Dell". It made me happy to think of the happy farmer, his wife, and their cheese. Maybe it's what inspired me to dance...
6
In first grade, I remember my teacher, Mrs. Connell, showing us a way to remember names that apparently worked; we sat "Indian" style, and slapped our knees, clapped our hands, and snapped our fingers to a beat, while saying names. By 1st grade, I was bored, and my teacher became concerned. I was painfully shy. One of my most embarrassing moments that haunted me for many years was; Everyone had just formed a circle, sitting on the floor to do an activity, and I wouldn't sit down because I had to go to the bathroom. I had recently developed a resistance to defacating. I still don't know why. I think it's because I felt vulnerable, when sitting there. I imagine that my potty training was traumatic. My teacher asked why I wouldn't sit down. With all the attention of the kids looking at me, I got really nervous, and scared. Finally, I cried and said "I have to go to the Bathroom". The kids laughed, and Mrs, Connell, of course, allowed me to go.
I didn't participate well, and was held back to repeat the 1st grade.
At this time, the abuse became more ritualistic, patterned. My Mom would find something to get mad about, and make us wait either in her room, or ours. I have to tell you, dear reader, that I am crying, and feeling nervous writing about this.
I would wait in my room, knowng that at some point my Mom would call me into her room, or drag me in there, pick a leather belt, and say "Bare it". I would pull down my pants, and lean over the end of the bed, as she would begin hitting me with the belt. Depending on how mad she was, she would usually try to hit my butt, but often would be in a frenzy, and just flail, and hit me wherever. I wouod try to move around, when a certain place would be too painful. Depending on how many times she would hit me, I would have her hit my back, and legs. I would cry, and scream, and I think she liked it, because sometimes it seemed that she would be satisfied earlier, and stop. Most of the time, I believe that she hit me until she was tired. She was usually sweaty when she told me to get out. She had a leather belt that had metal rings woven into it that she seemed to use when she was particularly angry. She had one with a pattern cut out of stars that was almost as bad, and one that was just flat leather.
Mostly, she would get angry, and hit us either with her hands, or whatever was around; pieces of wood, roope, branches... One time she broke a Saguaro Cactus rib on my back.
She would joke to Sally that she had "slaves". One time, while folding socks, she was verbally abusing me, and I called her a selfish bitch.
Around this time is when she started poisoning me outwardly. When I would say someting she didn't like, I would have to drinking drain cleaner. She was into trying to sell "Amway" products, and they had a drain cleaner/ declogger called "LOC". I remember exactly what it tasted like, and how it burned my throat, and stomach. If I tried to throw it up, she would pinch my nose shut. I was a sickly looking kid; gaunt, pale, thin, with sunken dark cicles around my eyes. I was malnourished.
7
Early in the second round of the 1st grade, they decided to test me, and see what degree my retardation was, so they'd know what to do with me. I took an IQ test, which I remember being the first truly interesting thing I'd done. I scored 133 to everyone's surprise. They out me into the 2nd grade, right away. They realised that I wasn't doing my work because I was bored.
We lived in what would be considered the "inner city", even though Phoenix doesn't really have a "downtown". In second grade, I learned that kids weren't all good. Being very shy, I was picked on, and only had one friend, Shannon. Shannon was a boy that came from a dysfunctional home, too. His parents were alcoholics, andhis Father was supposedly an ex-Green Beret, who had to kill other special operations men when they were wounded, so they couldn't get left behind, and give away inteligence. His was Mother was nice, and was mostly drunk, and quiet.
I would stay at his house on occasion.
On the way home from school, I'd find different paths through the neighborhood, and abandoned lots. In a lot near my house, I found a clearing in some brush that had pornography in it. I was fascinated. I asked my Dad about sex, and he gave me his typical reply of "You're too young to know about that. I'll tell you when you're older. One night, I was staying at Shannon's house, and we played "Doctor" with his sister, mostly putting band-Aids on eachother. I decided to try to do what I saw in the magazines. By this time Shannon had gone to sleep.
It didn't work. My part was happening, but it didin't go in. I didn't know why at the time, and gave up. I knew it was for grown-ups, and just figured it wasn't supposed to work yet.
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
This blog is dedicated to my memoirs, as accurately as I, and those involved remember them.
My story begins with the birth of a girl in Minnesota in the late 50s. She is a runt; the 5th child of a woman past her birthing prime, at about 40. This was before there were drugs to "help" women squeeze out a litter of children, when they shouldn't have had any. This runt eventually became my Mother. She was born with spinal Menengitis, and soon had a fever that literally cooked parts of her brain. My Grandmother agreed to try an experimental treatment, and my Mother was the first person to ever survive it. Her nuclear family is not very open to talking about tings that are emotional, so I don't know much about her childhood.
"She was always strange", was about all I could get one to say.
She had health problems, including Asthma, so the family moved to Phoenix, Arizona, where the air was clear (at that time in history).
She would stand in a corner of the tall Oleander bushes that lined the back yard for long periods of time. No one knew what she was doing, or thinking.
One time, my Grandmother found her in the bathroom, bleeding from a cut she had made in her thigh, and according to my Mom, said strernly" Stop being stupid, and clean up.". From what I know, my Grandmother probably wasn't derisive in that moment, and probably showed what sympathy she could. My Grandmother was a loving, caring person, butcame from an Old World Bavarian stock that just didn't possess much sympathy.
When my Mother was in her preteens, the family was on one of their vacations in Baja Mexico, where my GrandFather liked to dive. My mother and Aunt were on their way back to the campsite from town when they were met by Mexican boys who sexually assaulted them,mostly my Mother, since she was older. My mother never told anyone, until I was in my teens.
During the '60s, my mother followed the Hippy trend, and tried hallucenogens. All I know of that is the time when she was on the hood of a '50s car, and slipped, cutting herself on the hood ornament. It was significant to her.
One day, when my Mother was about 16, her brother brought his friend Carl over when she was reading a book, sitting in a chair in the living room, in a nightie. The friend was enamored, as he had not been very experienced with girls. They talked, and eventually dated, and did drugs together. Carl was and still is a devout Christian, and would debate my Grandmother about the validity of her Catholic beliefs, which according to him was a "Cult".
When my Mother was 17, she became pregnant. My Grandmother would joke "Where was his Bible, then? If he ust held onto it, like he usually did, she wouldn't have become pregnant". In those days, abortion wasn't much of an option, especially to a devout Christian, so they would get married. Being too young, they asked my Grandfather to give them legal permission. He would not. My Grandfather was a very loving, giving man, but he did not approve.
When she turned 18, they got married on a hill in the desert, and a few months later, my older brother was born. My father worked on cars to get by, and I have no idea what my Mom did. 1 year
They rented a house together, and about 1 year later, she was pregnant again. I came to find out when I was in my 20s that I was another accident. My Grandparents (and probably Aunts, and Uncles) helped my parents with raising us. I don't know when, but at some point, when I was a few months old, it became obvious that we were being abused. My kind and gentle Grandfather told my Mother that if she didn't stop, she would be disowned. My Father's Father was long gone, and it seems that he was glad to be away from his Mother, so there was no influence from his family. Finally fed up, my Grandfather told my Mother to leave, and never come back, because she was beating my 1 year old brother. My Father's ideology was fro The Bible; "Spare the rod, spoil the child". We were in no danger of being spoiled.
Fortunately, my fist memory is a good one. I was sitting on my Grandfather's lap, in his chair, looking up at his face. It made me feel safe. He had a hole in his throat, due to cancer surgery. It didn't bother me at all. He died of Cancer when I was almost 2. Finding themselves with kids, and a home, my Parents decided to try to make a family. They wanted to have a girl, so they got pregnant with awaht they hoped, and almost expected to be a girl. Her name would be "Leah". They had another boy when I was about a year and a half old. When he was only a few months old, I hit him on the head with a glass bottle, spliting it open while his skull hadn't formed yet. You, my appreciated reader probably have an idea where I would have learned that behavior from. Luckily, there wasn't permenant damage.
2 years
My next memory was a mundane one. When I was about 2, we went to look at a home that my Dad's friend built. I was thirsty, and far too small to get to the sink. I don't know where my parents were, so I pulled out the kitchen drawers, making stairs to climb to get to the sink, and get myself a drink. I remember my first steps, too. We were at my Dad's Mother's trailor house, where I was always very bored, and ignored. My brothers and I were not to be seen or heard. We were to mostly sit quietly out of sight. I was able to pull myself up to the coffee table, and walk around it, leaning on it the whole time. I decided to try to walk without it, and took a few steps to the middle of the room. When I fell, I crawled back, and kept trying. I finally had a way to entertain myself. If you asked them, my parents would have no idea when I took my first steps.
Shortly after my younger brother was born, my Mother started to have epilleptic seizures, because the parts of her brain that cooked were scarred, and would "misfire" once in a while. My father gathered his firends to pray the demons out of her. They laid their hands on her, spoke in tongues (for those who don't know, it's psychobabble that religious people think is a language directly from God), and didn't stop until they were satisfied. To their surprise, she still had siezures.
My memories for the next few years are vague recollections of doing my best to not be seen, or heard, and enduring abuse. Occasionally, I would hear my Mother go into a seizure. She would start nto speak, and would usually repeat parts of some thing, most commonly "I..I..I...". She would freeze in a motion, of attempting to sit, or lay down. One of my brothers, or I would come, and help her to a safe position, clear her of potentially dangerous objects, and monitor her. It was instinctual, and very conflicting. I would feel compelled to help this person who hated me.
My mother was and is a very angry, bitter person. My Father admitted to me somewhat recently that when we lived in the rented place, he barely resisted the urge to end the misery she caused. He looked over at her sleeping, lifted a pillow, and started the process of smothering her to death. He would say that Jesus told him not to. I wish his jesus would have shut the fuck up.
3 years
At some point, my Grandparents decided to lift their disownment. I assume it was because they felt that my brothers and I needed help. I believe this is the year that I started to dissociate. I would stare off into nothingness. It was my only reprieve. I would get stuck, and sometimes my mom would get offended, and slap my face.
4 years
WE had a babysitter named "Dee". At the time, all I knew was that she was a kind young person in her teens. I have a very starnge memory of my parents leaving one evening (probably for the first time), and I was crying. Even then, I didn't know why. I was glad that they were gone, but they were all I knew. Soon, I settled into the idea of them leaving, and was glad when they did, because Dee would pay attention to us, read stories, sing songs; "Drifter, how I loved Youuu..." I can still hear her husky voice. She must have been the one who taught me how to read, begin to write, and become interested in art. I was able to read a bit when I started Kindergarten.
5 years
We went to a big strange place without my brothers, met my Kindergarten teacher, and looked around the room. Somehow I knew what was happening. It was a little scary, but I was looking forward to being somewhere better for a while. Somehow I knew it wouldn't be worse. I suppose it's because no one treated me as badly as my Mother, and recognised the trend. Also, my Mother didin't abuse me in front of other people, except her friend Sally, who was the wife of my Dad's business partner.
JIM and SALLY. My Dad opened a car repair business called "Der WerkShop", specialising in VolksWagens. Jim "Caveman" was his business partner. He was a character. He had never cut his hair, as fas as I could tell, and you could barely make out the gaunt shape of his face. He was tall, and thin, and was what I would call a "Biker", even though he didn't ride. He had the voice of what I know now to be a classic Alcoholic, and tried to surpress his natural tendency to curse. He would laugh one mi nute, and curse angrily the next, but was a generally pleasant person. He reminded me of cartoons of old prospectors, especially the way he would bob his head while cursing. His wife Sally was very similar to my Mom, except that she was an Alcoholic, too, while my Mom was not. Jim and Sally had a son, and daughter, slightly younger than me. She and my Mom would joke about using us to do their housework, and would talk about punishing us, in a way that sounded almost like competition.
I walked to KinderGarten by myself, about a mile. I got in trouble for dancing in my desk. I remember my teacher being impressed that I could read, and write a bit. I remember learning "The Farmer in the Dell". It made me happy to think of the happy farmer, his wife, and their cheese. Maybe it's what inspired me to dance...
6
In first grade, I remember my teacher, Mrs. Connell, showing us a way to remember names that apparently worked; we sat "Indian" style, and slapped our knees, clapped our hands, and snapped our fingers to a beat, while saying names. By 1st grade, I was bored, and my teacher became concerned. I was painfully shy. One of my most embarrassing moments that haunted me for many years was; Everyone had just formed a circle, sitting on the floor to do an activity, and I wouldn't sit down because I had to go to the bathroom. I had recently developed a resistance to defacating. I still don't know why. I think it's because I felt vulnerable, when sitting there. I imagine that my potty training was traumatic. My teacher asked why I wouldn't sit down. With all the attention of the kids looking at me, I got really nervous, and scared. Finally, I cried and said "I have to go to the Bathroom". The kids laughed, and Mrs, Connell, of course, allowed me to go.
I didn't participate well, and was held back to repeat the 1st grade.
At this time, the abuse became more ritualistic, patterned. My Mom would find something to get mad about, and make us wait either in her room, or ours. I have to tell you, dear reader, that I am crying, and feeling nervous writing about this.
I would wait in my room, knowng that at some point my Mom would call me into her room, or drag me in there, pick a leather belt, and say "Bare it". I would pull down my pants, and lean over the end of the bed, as she would begin hitting me with the belt. Depending on how mad she was, she would usually try to hit my butt, but often would be in a frenzy, and just flail, and hit me wherever. I wouod try to move around, when a certain place would be too painful. Depending on how many times she would hit me, I would have her hit my back, and legs. I would cry, and scream, and I think she liked it, because sometimes it seemed that she would be satisfied earlier, and stop. Most of the time, I believe that she hit me until she was tired. She was usually sweaty when she told me to get out. She had a leather belt that had metal rings woven into it that she seemed to use when she was particularly angry. She had one with a pattern cut out of stars that was almost as bad, and one that was just flat leather.
Mostly, she would get angry, and hit us either with her hands, or whatever was around; pieces of wood, roope, branches... One time she broke a Saguaro Cactus rib on my back.
She would joke to Sally that she had "slaves". One time, while folding socks, she was verbally abusing me, and I called her a selfish bitch.
Around this time is when she started poisoning me outwardly. When I would say someting she didn't like, I would have to drinking drain cleaner. She was into trying to sell "Amway" products, and they had a drain cleaner/ declogger called "LOC". I remember exactly what it tasted like, and how it burned my throat, and stomach. If I tried to throw it up, she would pinch my nose shut. I was a sickly looking kid; gaunt, pale, thin, with sunken dark cicles around my eyes. I was malnourished.
7
Early in the second round of the 1st grade, they decided to test me, and see what degree my retardation was, so they'd know what to do with me. I took an IQ test, which I remember being the first truly interesting thing I'd done. I scored 133 to everyone's surprise. They out me into the 2nd grade, right away. They realised that I wasn't doing my work because I was bored.
We lived in what would be considered the "inner city", even though Phoenix doesn't really have a "downtown". In second grade, I learned that kids weren't all good. Being very shy, I was picked on, and only had one friend, Shannon. Shannon was a boy that came from a dysfunctional home, too. His parents were alcoholics, andhis Father was supposedly an ex-Green Beret, who had to kill other special operations men when they were wounded, so they couldn't get left behind, and give away inteligence. His was Mother was nice, and was mostly drunk, and quiet.
I would stay at his house on occasion.
On the way home from school, I'd find different paths through the neighborhood, and abandoned lots. In a lot near my house, I found a clearing in some brush that had pornography in it. I was fascinated. I asked my Dad about sex, and he gave me his typical reply of "You're too young to know about that. I'll tell you when you're older. One night, I was staying at Shannon's house, and we played "Doctor" with his sister, mostly putting band-Aids on eachother. I decided to try to do what I saw in the magazines. By this time Shannon had gone to sleep.
It didn't work. My part was happening, but it didin't go in. I didn't know why at the time, and gave up. I knew it was for grown-ups, and just figured it wasn't supposed to work yet.
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)