I was brought up in a strict parental environment. Not much, as far as disrespectful behavior, was tolerated without automatic reprimand. Re-direction, sit-down talks, a chance for remorse/explanation, in my world, did not exist. There was no compassion or empathy for the child. I say “child,” but truthfully, I mean “me.” My parents’ understanding or even consideration, of why I did what I did, was lacking. Most times, it was merely “do and obey,” or you would not get the love and attention you were craving. The only time I seemed to get attention, despite the consequences, occurred when I acted out. It wasn’t the type of attention I was seeking; I hoped for compassion, empathy, trust, and love, but ultimately, I received physical or some form of negative punishment. I don’t even think I knew I was “seeking attention”.
I was adopted, along with my sister and brother in 1961, 1959, and 1954, respectively. I am so sure they should have stopped adopting at #2. I honestly believe it was too much for my mother, especially as a stay-at-home mom. I say this because I need to defend the actions of my parent(s). I do love(d) them. Love or not, they did hurt me in more ways than one and that I won’t defend.
That is not to say I didn’t experience love, grand adventures, travel abroad, perfect Christmases, and generosity from both immediate and extended family. But all this hinged on my behavior. The biggest faux-pas: Disrespect.
I had a small discussion with my immediate family concerning the punishment I experienced as a child. Unfortunately, I picked a horrible time to bring it up; during the days before my father’s death. We were gathered outside on the balcony at my parent’s place; my father was there too. He wasn’t able or perhaps did not want to participate in the conversation. I think the fact that he did not utter a word during this short talk was that he was too far gone. The subject I brought up revolved around being hit by the belt, and a yellow yard-stick. I never mentioned the “shoe incident.”
That shoe incident. It haunts me more and more the older I get. It was in the summertime on a Saturday. I don’t recall what I did. I think, no, I know, I subconsciously blanked out a lot of bad things from my childhood. Some events just stick. Despite that, I upset my mother that day. She grabbed a pretty turquoise thong sandal with a heel of about an inch. I loved those sandals. I used to play dress up in them. They had a pretty turquoise jewel right at the base of the foot. She chased me around the backyard with this shoe to punish me for what I had done/said. I lost my balance, running away from her and landed on my bum. I used the back of my heels, digging into the grass and pavement to propel myself backward as I tried furiously to get away from her attempted and successful/unsuccessful hits. I was yelling and screaming at the top of my lungs. After many blows, she finally bashed me in the back of my head with the heel of the shoe. I began to bleed. I vividly recall how sticky my black hair was as my hand covered the pained wound. I remember screaming that I was bleeding. Still, on my bum, in hysterics, I continued to be pursued by the shoe and my mom. Next thing I recall, I was in the car with my father and a towel on my head. We headed to the doctor. The whole way there, my father drilled in my head that I fell off the bike. I don’t know how many times I repeated that. I got stitches. Dad and I didn’t talk on the way home. I went straight to my room. The craziest parts of this whole ordeal: 1) I never got an apology 2) I got blamed for breaking my mother’s toe; this occurred during that messy pursuit while she was chasing me (she must have stubbed in on something). Because of that broken toe, I ruined a long-planned, expensive vacation that my parents went on days or weeks afterward. My mother had to be pushed around in a wheelchair (in Europe, I think)! How crazy is that??? I got all the guilt laid on me, and decades later, it’s still there. Even in their vacation picture albums………there’s the guilt in full color!
Here’s what hurts my soul: Where was Dad chasing Mom around the yard, making her stop hitting me? Where were my siblings fending her off of me? Where was someone protecting me?
My family adamantly denied events such as this occurred. I did not mention this particular incident during our discussion on the balcony that day. I spoke of the punishment I received as a child and a few light examples. My brother and sister berated me, yelled at me and called me disrespectful. Ultimately, I left their company. I will admit that I had awful timing, and it was entirely uncalled for. I feel horrible about the timing.
It pains me to know my siblings denied these punishments occurred. It hurts like hell my mother, to this day, has never admitted these cruel forms of punishment took place and that she was a participant. My family said I was lying about all this. I don’t know why or what I expected from this ill-timed conversation, but in retrospect, I did not expect them not to acknowledge that this had occurred.
I was locked in the basement, literally locked in a small room fondly referred to as the Wine Cellar. A narrow, cold room with no light (that I could reach) save for the sunlight that shone from a small window high up. The floor was unfinished. The room was not insulated. The only things in this room were rows of wine bottles. This form of punishment was common.
As a toddler, I had done something to upset my mother enough that she sent me outside on a cold, sunny, winter’s day. After a time, I had to pee. I remember yelling and crying through the door that I had to go. I ended up peeing my pants.
My parents sent me to Holland in the fifth grade to stay with my Grandmother. Their hopes were “I’d change.” They threatened me with military school or boarding school. Ultimately, for ninth grade, they shooed me off to a boarding school two hours away near Niagara Falls. One may think, “what a lucky girl”! Many of my parent’s friends and family said so. Not understanding the circumstances of ridding me away, they had no idea. I tried to make the best of both situations.
I got blamed for everything. I was punished for stupid stuff. Eating cookies that my mother had hidden so we wouldn’t eat them. Why buy them? Granted, they were hidden, so I knew I shouldn’t have looked for them, but, again, I’m a kid. I know the cookies are around. I have a sweet tooth, like most children. Most of the time, I was alone in the house when I was looking for them, so boredom was most likely a factor as well. As I write this, I am to blame for my punishment in this matter, but as a child, I did not see it justifying harsh punishment. As a parent myself, I think my mother should not have dangled the cookie in front of me so that the temptation was there or she could have set out a plate of cookies and milk so snooping and punishment would not have occurred.
I can’t continue. This hurts my insides. But I need to publish. I need to get this “out.” This was Child Abuse. I am saying it out loud for the first time. It’s so sad. I loved him. I love her. I want to let this emotional and physical trauma go, but I don’t know how.
I Want My Happy Back 