Perspective

This is a recollection of being emotionally and physically abused as a kid. This piece was written in creative writing class in spring of 2007. I just recently dusted it off.

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Home is a sanctuary. Children run home after school with smiles and laughs, into the loving arms of their mothers, and fathers. An after school snack waiting on the kitchen table where the mom helps with homework and signs field trip permission slips. The warm loving aspect of a home is fortified by the love and adoration parents show their children. But what if there are no laughs on the way home from school? No exhilaration or delight. You take a longer route walking home from the bus stop to prolong the sense of freedom and happiness. Because as soon as you step foot in the house a fog of anxiety consumes you, you dread the sight of your mom instead of pining for her hugs.

This is what it’s like for an abusive household. There is no sense of security in this house, only fear. It was all I knew; as far back as I can remember. If it happened to be a day that dad was home from his all too frequent out of state trips, I would love to come home. The house was different then, there was love and security waiting. When he was there, my stepmother pretended she loved me as much as my siblings, her children. When Dad was home, I never had to worry about Tina hurting me or my brother. 

Dad had no clue what was going on, I knew I should tell him, but I knew he would never believe me, and I was afraid that if I did tell him, then he would tell her (of course) and the next time he was gone to Alaska or Asia, she would kill me for sure.

I thought I had the perfect outlet to tell him one time;

 it was a 4th of July 3 day weekend. Dad was coming home today. This always meant we all would have to clean the house from ceiling to carpet, chores divided unevenly between all 5 of us kids, my older brother Max and I pull most of the weight, the hard-labor. Upon many other chores on my long list, was, of course, to clean/vacuum my room, put my clothes away neatly in my drawers, and change my sheets. When I was done with each item on my list I was to inform my Stepmother, so she could make sure I did a good job, I had only one chance otherwise I would be punished. I double, triple and quadruple checked over my room, making sure NOTHING was out of place. We had plans to go to the 4th of July parade downtown tonight, so I picked out my jean jacket and laid it folded nicely on my bed. She was in a particularly awful mood this day so I sucked up my pride, puffed up my chest, and went to tell Tina I was ready for her to check my room. She stomped up the wooden steps as though she had a motive to break each and every one. She took one look at the jean jacket on my bed, and by the look on her face, I could tell that she wasn’t pleased. I immediately bit my lip, and my heart dropped into my stomach. She picks up the floral denim and demands I tell her where it belongs. Of course I knew the answer to her question wasn’t ‘my bed’, I tried to tell her that I was planning to wear it to the parade tonight, but before I could inhale to speak, I felt the brass buttons rip across my right cheek, from the corner of my eye to the crease of my mouth. The welts stung and burned as tears escaped my eyes. She then moved to the dresser, I knew that my punishment wasn’t over, if she had a problem with my jacket on the bed, she would hate that I had my whole outfit picked out and folded neatly on the top of my dresser, she immediately threw them to the ground yelling something I couldn’t make out, and I wasn’t trying to. After emptying my dresser drawer-by-drawer, I sucked back tears and puffed up my chest once again, as she stomped over to me. I flinched as she grabbed a handful of my blonde hair (nothing like her dark brown hair, nothing like her children), yanking my head to the ground. She was yelling at me so ferociously that I could see the veins in her neck fit to bust toward me, saliva hitting my face. She straddled my anxious, defenseless body as I held my breath against the weight of her on top of me. She dug her fingernails into the sides of my face, next to each of my green/blue eyes (just like my mother's eyes, nothing like hers nothing like her kid’s eyes). She screamed in a tongue I couldn’t comprehend as she pounds my head into the thin carpet of my bedroom floor, I tried to loosen her fingers that, with every pound, lodged her nails further into my face, but this only made her squeeze tighter, not helping my cause. I closed my eyes, soon it would be over. 

As I looked into the mirror at my red, puffy eyes I traced the tender pink welt from my temple to my mouth, and then turned to the left and touched the four nail-shaped scabs that emulated the marks on my right temple. Dad would have to ask me. Remembering he would be home soon, I nearly forgot about the marks on my face. I sat silently by the window in my bedroom, waiting for the familiar sound of tires on the gravel driveway. A couple false alarms from the neighbors sent my heartbeat into a false frenzy. So when I heard the unmistakable tires of my dad’s Ford F150 make the right hand turn onto the private drive leading to the house, I jumped up and ran down the stairs in one swift hurdle, out the garage door, and into my dad’s arms. He didn’t seem to notice the fresh pink welts on my young face as I smiled at him, my big red puffy eyes watering; he might have just assumed I was rough housing with Max or something. Or maybe he even forgot what I looked like; he was gone for 2 months.

Of course, Tina put on a very convincing “loving mother” act that even I believed. The family was in the mini-van driving merrily to the 4th of July Parade, my younger siblings bursting with things they’ve been doing in school, and sports games they’d won! Tina telling him funny stories about the neighbors and the monthly cookie exchange. How she had to call the neighbor over to shoot an opossum that got in the chicken coop. I couldn’t stop smiling, I remember not wanting dad to know about her anymore because everyone was so happy. When it happened I froze up, I forgot how to breathe, blink and even swallow. I was in shock. “What happened to your face Syd?” dad asked looking at the pink area that stung around my eyes and mouth. “That looks like it’s new.” There wasn’t as much concern in his voice as I would have hoped. He has no idea. I shook my head, trying to remember how to make sounds come out of my mouth, so I could tell him that I had been beaten by his wife. But she beat me to it. “We’ll talk about that later.” She said looking at me, instead of at dad, dad was still looking at me, and I was staring at the air between my face and her glare. I had lost my chance for good. We wouldn’t talk about it later, he would forget, and of course, she wouldn’t remind him.

The rest of the night was like a dream, I kept getting the urge to pinch myself, to see if I was asleep. Tina got us tickets into the 4th of July Carnival. We went on all the rides, she bought me cotton candy, and game tickets, and smiled at me, she even winked at me a few times. She was so good at pretending. We got home, and when we were all piling out of the van, she says, “no chores tonight guys, we got a family movie and popcorn!” I was ECSTATIC! Normally, I would have another repeat of what happened earlier, except over the bathroom floor instead of my bedroom, but dad was home, I was safe. I was in the kitchen washing sticky blue sugar off my hands and mouth from the cotton candy. I shuddered a little when a saw her coming around the counter into my general area. I half-smiled at her, the slight crease in my cheek reminding me of what it was she might have been staring at. She looked at me for a moment before speaking, “we don’t have to say anything about this to you father, it got a little out of hand” she didn’t ask but I nodded quickly anyway in reply as she stretched her hand out to my face. “Do you forgive me?” she whispered with very little conviction in her monotone. My face got hot and I felt moisture building up in both eyes, and again, I nodded silently. She hugged me close to her. It wasn’t hard to wrap my mind around the fact that this was the same woman who was wailing on my head and face in a fit of rage just hours before. She hardly ever apologized for what she did. I guess this was just one more good thing about dad being home. I was able to pretend, as she did, that I was a happy 11-year-old girl, I could pretend I was one of her kids.

It wasn’t until five years later that I would say something. Being 16 give me a little more credibility to throw such a harsh accusation toward my stepmother, plus I had bought a car. Max (my older brother) had moved out. My mother took him but said she only had enough room and money to support him, not the both of us. Although this hurt, I knew that it was important for Max to get away from Tina. The abuse she served him was strictly mental; she called him names, instead of hitting him, he would make him watch as she hit me, knowing that that would be punishment enough for my sensitive older brother, who couldn’t protect me. My mother was afraid he was going to take his own life, being as depressed as he was living under the iron fist of Tina. With my big brother gone, I was on my own, just me, fending for myself in an endless blood battle between Tina and me, stepmother versus step-daughter. Things were getting worse on account of I was fighting back rigidly now, I accepted that I was going to beat, no sense in losing dignity. I told dad before I left, saying, “I’ll come home when you do.” I left it on his voice mail. 

This is when I met the effects of being a victim of child abuse. After breaking through her clutch moved in with my friend, whose parents welcomed me and cared for me, I experienced a sense of empowerment, freedom, and lack of restriction. No more rules. I stayed up however long I wanted, I went to school when I wanted to, I put on makeup, dyed my hair, I shaved my legs and my girlfriend pierced my ears, nose, and navel. I began experimenting with drugs, and I started going to all night parties (or raves). I was never a big girl, but my weight dropped, I was 5’5’’ and I went from a healthy 125 to an emaciated 105 lbs. I specifically remember the food being disgusting, I would get nauseous at the sight of food. Spiraling downward getting lower and lower every day, I became severely depressed and began to hurt myself on purpose regularly. My friend was doing the same thing so I was, in a sense, desensitized from it. I had horrible self-esteem and zero self-worth. I had trouble talking with people, and positive self-expression. I never talked to anyone. I wrote in a journal, mostly dark poetry that had to do with suicide, blood, cutting and/or sex. I tried feeling love, having random sex with men and women I met at raves, mostly unprotected and drug fed. I was constantly trying to fill a whole with more holes. I had hit rock bottom.

Although my poetry was very dark and sinister, the writing was something that helped me sort out my feelings. It helped me in my cry for help. The cuts on my wrist and legs (which I never tried hard to cover) were the loudest cry for help, the cry that was heard. People at school brought my issue to the attention of their parents, who then went to the school. I got called out of class one day to go to the counselors’ office, where I was greeted by a man named Mr. Elkins. He never asked me to see my cuts; he just talked to me about whatever I wanted to tell him. About school life, home life, and things that were on my mind. It was nice to have an adult, to talk to. I was defiant at first very rude and vulgar. I was like a wild animal being brought into a nice house to be taught manners. I went in to see Mr. Elkins every day at lunch, I began opening up to him, first showing him my creepy writing (which he applauded) and then I revealed my cuts. The raised pink scars weren’t severe, chilling… but I’d seen way worse. I had carved words into my legs and arms such as “fat” and “ugly”. I began to open up about my childhood, something I surprisingly hadn’t thought about since I left. 

One day I went in, very optimistic and thrilled to see my friend, Mr. Elkins. I waited at the usual time in the lobby for him to come and greet me, and escort me to his cozy little room. The door to the office lobby opened and a familiar woman walked in, I sat flabbergasted in my seat. My mother shuffled over to me looking at me like she’d seen a ghost. I quickly remembered how to use the muscles in my legs and stood up to hug her. Just then Mr. Elkins came out and gave me the same look he always had and gestured back to his room. I was burning up, my palms so clammy I had to wipe them on my torn denim jeans about every second and a half. 

Trying not to make eye contact with either person in the tiny claustrophobic room, I tried burning a hole into the carpet with my eyes. Mom was holding my hand, and reading one of the poems I had written, and let Mr. Elkins read. She was rubbing my left thumb raw and finally, I realized she was finished reading because she was staring at me. Mr. Elkins broke the ice by asking when the last time we saw each other had been. I couldn’t remember so I looked at her. “Thanksgiving,” she said looking at me through her peripherals waiting for me to correct her. “Halloween,” I said quietly, remembering the haunted house that scared the s**t out of me that we went to with Max and her boyfriend, Neil. Mr. Elkins turned to me and said, “Sydney, you know I had to talk to your parent when we couldn’t get a hold of your dad, we called your mom, and she was very worried and eager to meet today.” I wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t get a hold of dad, I hadn’t heard from him in months.”I’m sorry mom.” I said looking at her necklace, not exactly eye contact but close enough. She just squeezed my sweaty hand tighter. I don’t remember how he did it, but Mr. Elkins started a conversation that unlatched something in me, dislodged a missile that was aimed right at my mother. I had no clue that I hated her for taking Max to live with her and not me. I didn’t know I hated her for moving to Colorado when I was four years old, leaving me exposed to Tina’s cruelty. I was crying, and she was crying. We were hugging and laughing. I felt a relief when my mom and I left Mr. Elkins’s room together, as though I had just shed my skin and I was fresh and new. My mom knew everything, I hadn’t known she had wanted me to come and live with her and that if she knew that things were as bad as they were that I would have never lived with my friends for so long. She gave me much more credit than I deserved. I was settled in her house the next day. 

I continued seeing Mr. Elkins; I gained weight and began sleeping more. The urge to cut myself stayed close by for emergencies. But even that was fading.

.....to be continued.

Author's Note

this is very old, I have a hard time with pity poems and self-deprecating content. let me know how the voice and flow is. what does it make you feel? sad? Concerned?