Love, Approval, and a Good Girl

Non-fiction personal essay exploring my past, love, and my relationship with my mom. Warning: includes mention of child molestation, physical abuse, and emotional abuse.

Chapter 1

Why was I molested by the boy I thought of as an older brother? When it happened, I didn’t understand that it was wrong. How could I, I was three-and-a-half. All I knew was that he had told me it was his way of showing me he loved me. I was so happy. To be loved. I ran to the room I shared with my mom in that house and I danced and admired myself, naked in the mirror. She asked me what I was doing... or maybe why I was happy. Or perhaps it went something like this:

“What’s up, honey?”

“[He] said he loved me and then he touched my privates,” I may have replied as I swayed happily in front of that mirror.

 No matter the words, I told her about how he had touched me. I felt so special. He loved me. So, when she became agitated and furious, maybe even a little fearful, I didn’t understand. Why was she upset. This was love, right? But no, that wasn’t love. Not really... or was it?

I didn’t understand why he was scolded, why we moved, why? The next day, or maybe that evening, there was shouting and angry words, tears and regret. He apologized to me under the orders of his father. And he really did look as if he felt and knew he had done something wrong. I didn’t want him to apologize. It felt like he was taking his words back. Those words about love. Was it really so wrong to love me? Because he did love me... right? And if so, what was wrong with me that I couldn’t be loved, that he had to regret loving me.

As I grew older I came to understand what had happened. That what he had done was inappropriate and criminal. But to this day, I can’t hate him for what he did. I don’t know if I’ll ever reconcile my current understanding of the situation with the emotions I harbored at the tender age of three-and-a-half when the event took place. And I will probably never hate him despite the fact that his actions would change my feeling and perception of love and sex forever.

Chapter 2

It was a green house in balmy Florida. The paint is old and chipping and the color makes it fade into its surroundings. Odd for a building that stands to strikingly in my memory. The floors are real wood and in some places nails protrude from the floorboards, waiting hungrily to impale the next unlucky foot to pass by. I knew where all those hungry nails were and how to avoid their reach.

Cockroaches hide in the corners of the kitchen and somewhere down a hallway, my room still exists. A European style bed frame with pink roses embossed into the cold white metal. A bed I was once ducktaped to for upsetting my mother. She didn’t do the ducktapping, but sometimes I find myself wishing she would have stopped sobbing long enough to save me. Save me from the monster we lived with.

I don’t remember much about that house. But the memories that live inside it are vivid, although perhaps dream-like after so many years… or, more aptly, nightmarish. Scenes that I’m sure have exaggerated and warped over time �" or at least I hope they have. Because it scares me to ponder the possibility that they may be rooted more in reality than fantasy.

The pungent aroma of ozone, metal air, searing my nostrils as I try not to pull away. If I pull away my punishment will only multiply. The feel of hot tears running down my cheeks as I beg him to stop. Mom has told me that this is to help my thumb, that they were doing it because they loved me and they wanted me to get better. But all I know is that it hurts and its always my punishment when I’m bad. Bad being relative because it doesn’t matter if I tell the truth or if I didn’t do what they claim. I’m always at fault. That’s why I started lying in the first place. Cause it didn’t matter if I told the truth. And if I lied, maybe I wouldn’t get punished. Soon, lying became one of the motivations for my punishment.

This all sounds scary and harsh and cruel, even to my own ears, and honestly, it was. But the sadness, grief, and uncertainly in my mother’s eyes still haunts me. She couldn’t bear to see me in pain or being punished. I believe that she really does love me. But she didn’t know what else to do. She was just as lost as I was in that old green house with its peeling paint and hungry nails.

Chapter 3

When I was five, I had a friend that almost killed me multiple times. Intentionally. I don’t remember her name. What I do remember is my desire to please her and her deep seeded fury. She was a couple years my senior and I’m pretty sure she thought I was stupid because I did almost anything she wanted. Once, she decided our game of the day would be to make a birds nest in the middle of the road next to our apartments. The nest was made of the beautiful moss and plants growing off of my mom’s favorite walking stick. I didn’t want to use those plants, to destroy my mom’s precious object. To see the sadness in her eyes. But my friend insisted I had to, even though I told her it belonged to my mom, that it was important to her. I can’t help but wonder if those reasons and my protests made it even more appealing to her. Sometimes I wonder if she was trying to get me into trouble, if she was trying to bring me down.

Despite knowing how it would hurt my mom, I wanted to please my friend. I wanted her to be happy, to smile and laugh. She wasn’t the happiest of people. Sad and angry, her against the world. So I did as she asked. I used those plants on my mom’s favorite walking stick to build a birds nest in the road. The big twist, I could only build the nest one piece at a time and I had to run out into the road, even when a car was coming, especially when a car was coming. It started out with both us building the nest, but then my friend stopped and just watched, insisting I had to continue.

Soon, my mother found out what we were doing and she was… well unhappy, to say the least. At first, I thought she was angry about her walking stick, but when I apologized she just looked at me with sad eyes. She told me that while she cared about the staff she cared more about me. I remember being perplexed by her words and the anger she then directed at my friend. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that my mother was angry that I had almost been hit by oncoming vehicles multiple times due to the game my friend devised. Subconsciously, I’m sure I understood that what we were doing was dangerous, but it never occurred to me that I could have been seriously injured or even killed. It didn’t occur to me that my friend would intentionally put me in harm’s way.

Another time, my friend climbed the tree in our apartment complex shared courtyard. Somehow she managed to carry a few large rocks with her. When she got settled in the tree she threw the rocks at me. I don’t think I even realized what was happening or that I was in danger, But my mother did, and once again she complained to the girl’s mother. As I look back I have the feeling she complained to the girl’s mother often.

Despite her attempts on my life, and even her own as I would later learn, I still believed she was my friend. She loved me after all, right? She cared, right? But I was wrong. Love isn’t throwing large rocks down from the bows of a tree, aimed at your only friend’s head. Love isn’t daring your friend to run into the road as cars are speeding down the shell-riddled pavement. Love isn’t shared pain.

Chapter 4

My favorite tea is chai. The smell, the flavor, the comforting warmth of a piping hot mug in my hands. It had been my favorite for as long as I can remember. Even though I’ve known it is my favorite I hadn’t thought about why until someone asked me a few years ago. That’s when it all flooded back. My first memory of chai tea.

We lived in a little condo apartment in Indian Rocks Beach, FL. There were six total and we were number three. We lived with Paul, a man I now synonymize with punisher. Things got better after we moved out of the green house and into this apartment. My punishment was less physical, more verbal, but just as damaging. My job around the house, despite my tender age of five, was to do the dishes. I can clearly remember how every morning Paul would inspect every spoon, fork, and knife. Mom had helped me do the dishes the night before, and I was so happy. It was new, mom helping me do the dishes. And it felt like Mom was slowly becoming my mom again. The person I could count on, someone who protected me and loved me like a mother should. Night had fallen and for whatever reason we weren’t using the main kitchen light, leaving us only the dim sink light overhead. But we had fun, laughed, chatted, smiled. It is one of my favorite memories from that condo apartment.

The next morning, Paul inspected the silverware. I was always careful to make sure they were clean. I had been punished enough for them not being pristine. I had been thoroughly trained to clean them properly, like Pavlov’s dog but with punishment and dishes instead of bells and steak. Even though I was sure they were clean, his inspection always made me anxious. Maybe they weren’t clean… they had to be clean…

Mom stood next to me prepared to endure his scrutiny alongside me. Another new occurrence. As far as I can remember, she always stood next to him, not me. While her presence was slightly reassuring, she hadn’t exactly shielded me much from Paul before. So, in some ways, I was shocked by the following events.

“What is this?” Paul had paused, a spoon sandwiched between his fat fingers. My blood chilled and for a heartbeat neither Mom nor I answered.

“It’s dirty,” he said in a low tone as I began to tremble.

“It’s not her fault, Paul,” Mom countered. “It’s mine. I helped her with the dishes last night and it was late. There wasn’t much light.”

For the first time in a long time, Mom stood next to me and argued for me. I’m not sure what happened after that, but slowly and steadily, things got better. As my mom found her voice, she grew stronger and we grew closer. Eventually, Paul moved out of our home and out of our lives.

During this time of change, she began making me fresh chai, an act that would forever engrave chai on my heart. She’d mix and grind all the spices then set it to steep in a small pan on the stove, allowing the steaming water to bring out the flavors. Most memorably was the fall day we made sweet potato casserole with marshmallows on top. After placing it in the oven to bake she made me chai. The pungent aroma of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, melting gooey sugar and piping hot sweet potatoes enveloped in the heat of the kitchen created a symphony of love. It’s a heart-warming memory constructed with laughter and love, sugar and spice.

Chapter 5

“Is it because I won’t have sex with you?” My throat tightens around the words not wanting to let them through, tears threatening to spill down my already damp cheeks. I hate this, because I already know his answer.

“That’s part of it,” he replies. I don’t remember the look on his face in this moment; whether it showed pity, anger, disappointment, annoyance or �" perhaps �" resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter even if I knew the reasons. I knew I wouldn’t be able to change his mind, and that I certainly wouldn’t change mine. And even if either of us did, the chasm created between us would never be crossed by anything more than a fraying footbridge, not now. I was uncomfortable with having sex and he couldn’t wait.

My heart broke that day, and I’m still trying to piece it back together.

I would later question myself, wondering if I had given him what he wanted if it would have changed anything. I know now it wouldn’t have. That wasn’t the real issue, but when your eighteen and in the middle of chest slitting, gut-wrenching heartbreak, clarity is scarce. His words still sting to this day. I had given him my heart, but my body isn’t as easy to give. This event would cause me to question why; why just me, my personality, my love, my heart wasn’t enough. Why he needed more. Why he needed something I wasn’t ready to give.

Despite my strong desire to move on �" to find someone new who didn’t mind that I wanted to wait, that sex makes me uncomfortable �" I would inevitably close myself off to others. Making friends would become hard and forget finding a significant other. When you can’t even have a conversation with your classmates, how will you ever be able to talk to a love interest. You won’t. I walked through life in a state of half-baked happiness. I felt liberated finding my individual confidence, separate of others’ opinions. But my heart continued to ache, my ribs healing from the explosion of pain caused by his absence and words.

Chapter 6

“He’s such an a*****e!”

“You deserve better than that!”

“But he is a good guy, or at least he was for the most part…” I reply.

“You’re too nice,” Acadia and Kaitlin just shake their heads, continuing their tirade against my ex-boyfriend. I’ve only known them for three months and yet I mustered the courage to share. To share the story of my ex with them. I needed to tell someone. Especially since I found out he’s happily married to the girl I suspect is the same girl that he brought along when he came to pick up his mail form our home two weeks after he broke my heart. I’m not sure why I chose to tell them, but sitting there on our hostel beds, their words were a soothing balm to my scared and aching heart. I only told them of my ex, yet their sincerity reached so much further into my heart than that single memory, single scar. Without knowing it, they had watered a long since abandoned and drought blistered piece of my soul.

Listening to their outrage and disgust on my part bestowed an epiphany on my heart: this was what I could have. I could have this friendship, this love, this comradery. If only I let people in. Just as I had when I told them my thoughts and worries and fears and past.

Letting people in is always going to be a risk. This is a lesson I will never forget. But living as I had post-breakup �" desiring connection and yet closing myself off to the possibility out of fear that I would be left behind, betrayed, or disregarded �" wasn’t really living. The accumulation of fear, pain, and sorrow caused time to expand, slow, and turn a lonely blue; monotonous days constructed of routine, endless nights built on solitude. I thought I was content with that existence. Until I wasn’t. Until I just couldn’t help myself; choosing to open the path to my heart just a fraction, to let people peek inside my broken and bruised ribs to the longing heart within. While it may be precarious to allow people into my heart, Acadia and Kaitlin reminded me the rewards far outweigh the risks.

We all have a past. It is a part of us, has shaped us, and influences our actions every day. Leaving our baggage at the door is a request I’m unsure any of us can fulfill. But I’m slowly discovering it’s not the baggage we have to be wary of. It’s the fear that lives in our baggage. The fear that whispers in our ears, taunting us with all that has happened before. The fear that tries drag us down into the depths of unworthiness and complacency; to convince us that trust is a foolish endeavor because betrayal is trust’s best friend.

Fear is selfish, wanting nothing more than for us to stay with it. But we all have lives that neither moth-eaten memories nor selfish fears can keep from moving forward. It is our choice whether to move forward or stay with Fear in its house of horrors. I choose to move forward, to understand my scars and be proud of how far I have come.

 

Author's Note

Please be kind with your comments. As a note, my mother and I have a very good relationship today and I have forgiven her - and in some cases don't blame her - for the past. She's a good person and loves me with all her heart.

Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. I'm looking to revise, so content-based feedback is more valuable at this time than grammar or technical stuff. What do you think this story is about? What do you think needs to be added to better convey that? And what do you think is unnecessary in the long run? Thanks!

Reviews

[Angel]

I am so sorry to hear about the terrible things you went through in your early childhood. I wasn't able to read your entire story as it's late and I can barely keep my eyes open. However, I did make it to the end of chapter 3 and can comment a bit on that. Keep in mind I am nowhere near an expert in writing and am currently just finishing my second year at University for my Bachelor's in English. The only thing I'd say for chapter 3 would be to perhaps add a bit more characterization to this friend of your's that was so terrible. Maybe giving her a description like hair color, features or her home life would give the reader a better insight into who she was and why she was the way she was. For instance, "She had fierce red hair, wild like a lions mane that fit her personality perfectly. She was evil in a way, but she was also my best friend." Something along those lines. Who knows. I just know that I can get into a story more when I have more of a description of the characters in it. Overall I really enjoyed reading your piece and look forward to seeing more from you! Cheers!

[Mariah Renae]

Thanks for the feedback! I too love it when there is a strong description of characters and I will work on her's for sure. You reminded me of something someone said in my writing class last semester (this is paraphrased as I cant remember exactly what they said), 'if you introduce a character, even a minor one, your reader should be able to smell his breath...' or something like that. Anyway, point is characterization is key. I appreciate your feedback and will work more on characterization in future drafts. Thanks again!

[Angel]

I love that little tidbit! And I wholeheartedly agree. I think that's why I love Stephen King books so much. He is such a descriptive writer and but mid-book you feel like you're actually in the story with the characters. Good luck with your writing!