When I was growing up, child abuse was a taboo subject. Nobody talked about it. What my mother did was intentional, but I survived the barbarity for seventeen years, to tell this agonizing story. Which is worse, being killed, or being left alive, as a damaged human being, with vivid and horrid memories, and having no self-esteem? To be forced to live in a vigilant state of anguish and fear, for all of those years, was tormenting. I lived through the abuse, always feeling, that my mother wanted to kill me. But, there were times, I wanted to die, to get it over with.
“This is your third suicide attempt. Can’t you find some redeeming quality about your life?” A psychiatrist asked.
Every child reacts and suffers at the hands of abuse, differently. I had a brother, and two sisters, but I am going to elaborate on what happened to me. Because I was the only child who resembled my father, and my mother vehemently despised him, she had great contempt for me. My older sister Mary agrees.
“I think it was always her intent, to kill you!” Mary told me one day.
Not once did I hear the words “I love you,” nor did my mother offer any affection. Her expressions of hate for me were dangerous. After all of these years, it is still extremely difficult, for me to talk about my past.
For most of my life, I have lived in shame, and shunned being close to almost anyone. I was embarrassed, and it caused me to be terribly lonely. I am emotionally scarred forever.
“Damn you, you little bastard! You deserve everything you get!” My mother screamed.
I wasn’t punished; I was abused, and the abuse was treacherous. The things my mother said, and did to me, were beyond reproach. The abuse affected me my entire life. It was mental abuse, as well as physical, and I literally believed everything my mother said to me.
“You’re a no good son of a bitch, just like your father!” My mother screeched constantly.
As far back as I can remember, my mother beat me, for any reason. She didn’t have to be in a bad mood; anything would set her off. Everything was nerve wracking to her. One particular problem had to do with cleaning the house. I was responsible for cleaning, starting at the age of about seven. On Saturdays, my mother would leave to go shopping, and warned that the house had better be cleaned upon her return, or there was wrath to pay. She would check for dust, under the table edges, and if there were some, I knew what to expect.
“Is this what you call clean, you stupid good for nothing ingrate? What have I told you before?” She yelled.
And then, in her fury, my mother would attempt to chase me around the table, threatening me. I was petrified, and scared to death, because the routine was always the same.
“You can run now, but eventually you will have to stop, and then I’ll get you!” My mother threatened.
Abruptly I stopped, dead in my tracks, away from her. I would be trembling and sobbing, from the dreaded anticipation, of what she would do to me.
First, she would pull my ponytail, and then, she would grab me by my throat, while she slapped my face incessantly, from side to side, until my nose would bleed. My nose bleeding made her madder, and then she would drag me by my ponytail, into the kitchen, to try to stop the bleeding. My mother would take a rag, and press it as hard as she could, against my nose, always hurting me more. My crying enraged her. She would grit her teeth, and sternly scream at me.
“I’m warning you, if you don’t stop crying; I will give you something to cry about!” She screamed.
Big red welts on my face would begin to fester, and then, she would roughly start choking me again. There were times, it was apparent; she lost control of her sanity, as she choked me, with unrelenting fervor. I would turn blue, and start gasping for air, and then, almost lose consciousness. Her fingernails would dig deep into my throat, until the skin would break, and she didn’t seem to care.
“You conniving little bitch, I’m gonna keep my hands on your throat, until you can’t breath anymore!” My mother would swear.
The atrocious ordeal was unbearable. She would never let up, and call me all sorts of vile names. I would be close to death, and thankfully, Mary would intervene. My sister would stand in the kitchen doorway, and plead with my mother.
“Mom, STOP! Can’t you see, that you are killing her?” Mary would cry out.
Then, my mother would yell at Mary, warning Mary.
“Get out of here, if you don’t want to receive the same, you nosey interfering bitch!” My mother screamed at Mary.
Afterwards, when there was a calm in the room, I was told to sit in a chair, and not to move, or I would be severely punished. Timidly, I sat in anguish, afraid to move, wondering with trepidation, if my mother was going to kill me. I was in excruciating pain, with blood still dripping from my nose, and that made my mother exceptionally mad.
“I can’t take much more of you! You better stop bleeding!” She loudly warned.
I was truly frightened. My mother showed great disdain for me. She seemed intent on wanting to be rid of me. My mother appeared to take pride in threatening me, and she knew how afraid I was.
“You miserable little bastard! If you move, or say one word, you will regret it!” My mother lashed out.
My mother found other ways to torture me. It was common practice for her to take hold of a broom handle, a high heel, or anything, which would be equally as damaging, and beat me several times, over my head. A bump or two would form on my head, and then I would be dizzy. And, if I were on the floor, she would take advantage, and kick me hard in my stomach. But, choking was her favorite thing to do to me.
“I hate you, and there isn’t enough punishment for you! You’re a little bitch! You make me sick, and I wish I never had you!” My mother admitted.
There was a doll at the corner store, dressed as a Nun. I really wanted that doll, and I saved up my allowance, to purchase it. One evening, I was alone in my room, playing with my doll. My mother came into my room, and grabbed the doll, out of my hands. Quickly, she tore the head off the doll, and then, she used the doll, to start pounding me on top of my head.
“You’re an evil disgusting child! If this is how you are going to waste my money, you won’t get an allowance anymore!” She insisted.
The abuse wasn’t limited at home; it also happened in public. She could get angry for anything. She would bellow, and call my siblings and me foul names, and then slap any one of us, and humiliate us, in front of others.
“Shut up, and be quiet, you little bastards! Just let me hear one more sound!” She harshly warned.
I was a sickly child, with a terribly nervous stomach. I would start vomiting at home, usually in the evening. It was necessary to drive me to the emergency room. Along the way, my mother would have to pull over, to let me throw up. She would grab my arm tightly, as I leaned out of the car. She yelled at me, and intimidated me, by saying she should let me fall out of the car. Then she would pull me by my hair, to pull me back inside. I can’t tell you how many times I choked on my vomit; I was so afraid.
“I know you are faking it! I should shove you out of the car, because then, I would be rid of you!” My mother yelled.
When I was about ten, my parents were changing the linoleum in my room. They upturned a corner of it, and on the floor, I had written in chalk, “I hate my mother!” She was livid, when she saw that. Immediately, she lunged for my throat, pulled my head back, by my ponytail, and then, she pounded me with her fists, hitting me in the face, and beat me, almost to a pulp.
“You hate me, huh? Well, now you are gonna get what you deserve! ” She screamed.
You are probably wondering, where my father was, during all of this abuse. My father was a weekend drunk. On Friday nights, he would come home from work, and then, spiff up in a suit, and shined shoes. He would leave, and not return home, until Sunday night. He would be drunk, and go straight to bed. During the week, he was a silent man. We were not allowed to speak at the supper table, and if someone did, my father would smack them across the face, with his big initial ring.
“What have I told you about talking at the table?” He hollered in a deep threatening voice.
This isn’t my entire story, but I hope, enough. My mother got by with attempted murder, over and over, and she never showed any remorse. If it happened today, all of it would be considered a punishable crime.