My New Old Life

Before I continue on with my childhood stories I thought maybe I owe an explanation to my followers as to where I've been for the past 4 or so months. 

Whenever asked, as a child, what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was a very honest and passionate, "to be a mother."  I never considered the husband part (obviously for those of you who know me well :-)).  I just wanted to keep having children to provide me with the unconditional love that was absent in my life as a child.  I never understood why the Old Woman Who Lived in the Shoe was so miserable--when I recited this rhyme to my own children she "kissed" them all soundly instead of beating them.  Bitch.

Wellllll....I did become a mother--I actually got married first.  The first time.  Then divorced when my precious Alexandra was 9 months old--husband #1 was looking for a trophy wife and I just wanted babies.  I didn't care about travel, vacations, or any other such marraige-type things--just babies.  Him, not so much.  So, here I was alone with a baby at 20 years old.  Still wanting a husband to make tons of babies with--you'd think that would be an easy thing to find, huh.  Not so much, really.  Just the baby making part, not the marrying and/or staying part.

I had two more babies.  No marriage either time.  In fact, the fellas scattered like cockroaches upon the good news.  But I didn't care.  I had my babies.  My unconditional love. 

But I began to get lonely for adult interaction--I had my babies and ran a daycare out of my home.  All the unconditional love one could ask for.  But the song "Desperado" (Eagles) hit some definite nerves.  Damn it, yes, my feet got cold in the winter-time, I was losing all my highs and lows and it WAS funny how the feeling (goes) away. 

So I prayed.  And prayed and prayed and prayed.  And God sent me Mike.  He was handsome, loving, romantic, and best of all, when I got pregnant, he stayed!  And wanted to get married.  He wasn't interested in any more children but I let him slide on that one.  I tried to warn him when he asked me to marry him that I was crazy. That I didn't do well with others.  That I was very used to being in charge of me and my children.  He said we would be happy together forever and I conceded.

Fast forward 4 years.  I knew I couldn't do it.  I was just made to be alone.  Mike is a good man but we are too different.  He was angry, pessimistic, and full of rage.  I suggested we move to a small town far away where people are kind and there is little crime and that would make him happy and we would be okay. 

Ummmm...not so much.  Now instead of angry people and high crime rates, we have unpaid debt and not enough income to feed our children--anger, rage, pessimism go nowhere.  He did try to hide them around me but the tension level in our home was unbearable for everyone. 

My Alex was still in Florida and now having children of her own who I could not visit due to lack of funds, I hadn't made any friends outside of work in the three years I spent in NC, and Mike and I were miserable together.  I prayed to God, asking for a sign--I said, "God, if I'm supposed to go back to Florida, please give me a sign."  As I said it I was near a patch of clover so I added, "let me find a 4 leaf clover."  I was at work, went inside to the classroom and was sitting at the computer, disappointed because I didn't find the clover.  Toni (the teacher in our room), walked over to me and handed me a huge four leaf clover.  I closed my eyes and said quietly, "but God, did I really find it?"

I agonized over the meaning of Toni's clover all night.  The next morning at school, I asked my co-workers what they thought, and being women, they couldn't agree so I decided that Toni's clover was not my sign.  I went for a walk with my sweet Jared (one of our students) who has no ability to communicate.  He's 8 years old and generally is led everywhere in his life so when we went on our daily walks, I would just let him go wherever he pleased and i would follow.  On this particular day, he slid his hand into mine and led me to a patch of clover where he stopped and sat down.  So I sat with him and began to look for my sign.  I immediately saw my 4 leaf clover, but I questioned God again, "Is it really a clover God because the leaves are rounded instead of heart-shaped?  Is this really my sign?"

Jared again took my hand and walked a bit further until stopping yet again.  This time I looked down and right at our feet was a 5 leaf clover with perfectly heart-shaped leaves.  I looked up at Jared who was standing above me as I picked the clover and he beamed.  I stood up and asked him if he was one of God's angels and he smiled the most beautiful smile and held my hand tightly for the rest of the walk.

Over the next week or so I was inundated with 4 leaf clovers.  My co-workers found them and gave them to me, my children found them and I even found a couple more.  I have them all neatly pressed in the back of my bible which I try to read each night before going to sleep or each morning before starting my day.  Please don't think I'm a bible-thumper--far from it.  I was just raised with very little religious training so I'm trying to figure it all out on my own--it's not easy.

So I'm back in Florida.  Life has returned to my smile.  I see my friends and my granddaughter whenever I like.  I make enough money to pay my bills again.  Life is damn good.  When I moved into my new home--on 10 acres with a horse barn that I will someday fill, I lifted my bible out of the bag where I had been keeping it, and all the clovers fell from the back of it onto my bedroom floor. 

I'm home.

Jen ;)

She's Got Legs

A few months have passed since my first real punishment.  I'm still in the fourth grade physically, but I haven't really been there since I became aware of the terrible injustices that exist for me.  Dad can pull me out any time he pleases, teachers cannot be trusted, and the other kids cannot relate to me nor I to them.  I have come to despise all that school is--bullies, cliques, know-it-all teachers who really don't know the half of it, and going over and over the same material I've already learned a million times.  School is stupid and I will no longer be a part of it.

Mrs. Gregaydis, however, disagrees.  She lets my laissez-faire attitude go for quite a while because, really, my grades are not suffering--I'm still getting perfect grades on all of my tests even though I haven't done any homework in months because, like I said, I've learned this material a million times before.  But she can no longer stand my lack of work and poor attitude--don't get me wrong, I'm never rude or disrespectful, just disillusioned and maybe a bit sad.  After all, school has always been my escape and now that's been taken from me.

She makes the phone call home.  Again.  Damn her.  At least this time she waits until it's time to go home to tell me, so I don't have to stew in in all day.  How kind of her.

I pray that Mom answered the phone because usually Mom will keep things from Dad if she knows the information would be detrimental to us.  She's one of us in my mind.  One of the victims.  One of the weak ones.  It's Dad against the rest of us. 

My walk home fills me with stomach knots and a throat hardened with stifled tears.  Each step feels as though someone has strapped 10lb. weights to my scrawny legs.  As I near the corner where I can see the front of my house, I see that there is no car parked in front!  No car = no Dad = no punishment!  For now.  I'll take it! 

The weights are lifted from my ankles and my stomach knots loosen a bit (they never really disappear.  Never).  I get to the front porch, constantly looking back, expecting to see Dad pulling up in the car behind me. If he does pull up, what do I do?  What do I say?  The knots begin to retighten until I get into the sanctity of the empty house.  The big, empty house is heaven with only Thor, our Great Dane, to greet me.  How I wish he was one of those protective dogs like I've seen in movies and on tv.  But he's afraid like the rest of us.  He's been beaten down by Dad one too many times. He, too, is one of the weak, subservient, subjects of Master Dad.  Sorry Thor and thanks for the hug--I really need it right now.

Thor, you are one of those strong currents that make beautiful music as it passes by my big rocks.  I can still feel the strength and warmth of your neck beneath my hugs.

Jen ;-)

I'm A Yia Yia (Grandma)!!!

I would like to offer a sincere apology for the long hiatus in posts.  I got the call early last Wednesday morning from my son-in-law that my Alex was in labor--I could hear her in the background saying "ow, ow, ow, ow" in a sort of panicky voice--yup, this was it.

Two and a half hours later the phone rang again to say that she was at 8cm. already--this time her panic-stricken voice was a bit louder and she could be heard summonning the help of God (she chose 'natural' childbirth (no epidural)).  Of course I was still awake from the previous call.  Still checking flights on the computer and thinking of my options to get 700 miles away as quickly as possible on the $150. I had in my bank account (wait, that was my husband's bank account and I couldn't use his money (he's not a very giving fella), so I figured I would find a payday advance place. When daylight came I would find a way to get the money and drive the 10 hours.  I knew she would be delivering soon so I told her husband to call me at work and I would leave as soon as she delivered.

I got to work, told them I was leaving and began to look for a pay advance store.  Guess what?  There's no such thing in the mountains of NC.  So my Toni was going to get a short term loan from her bank for me.  Really.  She struggles, often, to feed her children and was willing to lend me the money.  But not my own husband.  My eyes were opened very wide that day. 

Now here's the kicker.  My daughter's school bus driver was dropping off one of our students and I asked her if she, perhaps, knew of any pay advance places in any nearby towns as I didn't want to take the money from Toni.  She tells me she has cash in her purse that she was holding on to to pay a bill at the end of the month and wanted me to have it.  She said God spoke to her.  She cried.  I have never been so moved by such giving people.  So now, there are two people, neither of whom are my husband, willing to help me get to Florida to be with my daughter and new granddaughter.  Maybe it's because they are both mothers and understand.  Maybe God speaks to them but not my husband.  What have I married?  The disappointment grows in me every day. Every time I look at him.

At any rate, my son in law called me at 8:30 to say that Alex delivered baby Maria just minutes earlier at 6lbs.3oz. and 19 1/2 in. long.  I was on the road within an hour and got to Florida by 8pm to hold that perfect little baby.  I'm in love.  I stayed with them all week and just stared at this tiny miracle sent from heaven. And at the miracle that came to me from heaven 21 years ago.  My God I love her with every ounce of my being. 

Sunday was Alex's birthday.  I was still in the fog of happiness and went down to the tourist shops (she lives in a condo on Clearwater Beach) to find her just the perfect gift.  And there it was, a perfectly dainty silver necklace--its pendant, a turtle hatching out of a shell.  She's always had a thing for turtles.  It was only $10 too--bonus!  Well when my husband heard about it, he got his undies in a wad because guess what I used to pay for it?  The Visa attached to his account.  How dare I use his money to buy her anything when I shouldn't have bought her anything at all since she's wealthy and has everything she could ever want?  Yes, he said that--almost verbatim.  Now my disappointment is turning to raw hatred.

Again, what have I married? 

I apologize for the rambling.  This was supposed to be dedicated to my sweet little baby Maria.  Any words of advice on how to get past the idiocy and infancy of my husband?  I know you love him Gare, but really, he's an ass hole.  See?  Even baby Maria thinks so...

Gus, Alex and Baby Maria are all wonderful, healthy, and happy!  I can't wait to see them again as soon as school lets out.  Or maybe sooner...

Because do I really need more rocks in my brook?  I think the music is just right as it is.

Jen ;-)

My First Valentine

On this Valentine's Day, I'd like to tell you about my first Valentine.  I believe in doing so I will offer some insight into my forgiving nature where my father is concerned.

I actually can't tell you when I received my first Valentine because I can never remember not getting one--a card and/or some chocolate or flowers, a funny note...  Dad was just as thoughtful in his good deeds as in his bad--with me anyway.  He always put a lot of thought into making me feel special on special days, be it Valentine's Day, birthdays (except the one that he made me skip ;-)), Christmas and Hannukah since we celebrated both, any occasion that he thought I should feel special, he would make sure I felt special. 

My first Godiva chocolates were given to me by Dad, and whatever the gift, it came along with a note usually saying "Be Mine" with one of his many pet names for me (Kymus, Tilla, Aradomie, Fraymus, the list goes on and on) then signed "Love, Dad" or one of the pet names he had for himself like McFith (I believe this had a movie reference).  At any rate, it was real and it was kind and it made me feel special.

But it wasn't only on special days that Dad made me feel special--he was the only person in my life who showed me affection (okay, so they were very tight bear hugs that took my breath away, but they were hugs just the same, and I felt love behind them even if the words were never spoken), without me forcing it upon them.  I loved bed-time because I could force Mom, Dory, Gary, and Dave to hug me, but Dad did it quite often totally on his own. 

Just he and I would go for all day walks to get ice cream and while we walked we would talk and he would listen to me and ask me about school and my friends and my future. 

When I began to play the flute in 5th grade, he would ask me to "serenade" him.  Imagine a beginning floutist (much like a beginning violinist).  I know I sounded awful, but he would ask me to play song after song for him and close his eyes as if it were the most beautiful music he'd ever heard.  I got so good so quickly because of this, I was first flute when I entered middle school--beating out girls who'd been playing years longer than me.  Every new thing I tried, he encouraged me.  I still don't know if it was because he looked at me differently or because he realized the awful mistakes he'd made with my older siblings in forcing everything on them with punishments and belittling rather than encouragement.

As I said in an earlier post, Dad rarely held down a job so Mom worked long hours as a waitress.  Late at night when she would call for a ride home (she never drove) he would always take me with him and we would sing together along with the oldies station in the car, and he would tell me stupid jokes and sayings from when he was young like, "what a face, what a figure, two more legs and you'd look like Trigger" (Roy Rogers' horse), and he'd tell me to say "under the sheets" after every song title and we would laugh at how it changed the whole meaning of the songs.  He'd sing "Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter", "Henry the 8th", "Raggmopp" and "101 pounds of fun".  He'd point out the advice in songs like "if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife" (not really sure here if he wanted me to remain ugly or be a lesbian, but I listened intently at his words of wisdom.  I think he was talking about his own life, really.).

Also on these drives he would let me shift the gears as he drove and he'd always have to stop at a convenience store for some item or another and bring me out a "prize", usually marshmallow snowballs or some other such yummy thing.  I did love that time together.  And I did love Dad.  Here's a poem I wrote many years ago, shortly after his death that may put it into perspective a bit:

Tilla Fray, Kymus Arodomie.
These are the names
When you were happy
You used for me.
When you were happy
There was nowhere in the world
I'd rather have been
Than with you, Dad.
I reminisce--
About our walks,
Our talks,
Your bear hugs,
The way you made me feel loved.
I miss you Dad.
I miss the fun we had.
And I understand the bad,
Was meant for good.

Once I got to the point where I was no longer afraid of him--and he knew it--I could say absolutely anything to him.  I would argue for hours with him trying to convince him to get a job.  After hours of banter, he would finally cave and tell me that he would look "tomorrow."  Tomorrow never came as far as the job hunt, but it was still a victory for me.  Those sessions, where I learned to choose each word ever so wisely, taught me how to convince just about anyone just about anything.  A very good skill to have in one's arsenal.  It also taught me how to sooth the most savage of beasts.  In my last job, I had a boss who was infamous for his ill treatment of workers.  By the time I left that job, he would call me to his office (or those below him but above me would do so), just to talk him into a good mood.  And I would.  Every time.  I became a master because of Dad.  

I know that Dad was very mean, very often.  I also know he was mentally ill.  And I know that he was a man who knew right from wrong and chose wrong much too often.  But I forgive him.  And I thank him for his part in making me who I am--my brook has a much more beautiful melody for all of the rocks he put into it.  I only wish Dory, Gary and Dave had happy memories of him too because it's the happy memories that help to wear away the edges on the more jagged rocks.   Still some damn fine music though!

Jen ;-)

Let The Good Times Roll

Punishment is over, I've survived, wiser and stronger.  In the words of Rick Ocasek, "let the good times roll."  Even the "good times" though, were often uncertain and quite confusing for the nine year old child that I was.

Take for instance, Dad's toys.  He loved his toys: staple gun, knives, hammers, blow torch, you get the picture.  Most men do love toys/tools.  But not like Dad.  As he aquired them, he loved to test them out on the easiest prey.  Usually me, of course.

First there was the staple gun.  Whenever I wore my hair in braids, he would wait for an audience (generally my siblings), then stand me on my tippie toes against the wall, extend my 2 braids (I learned not to wear my hair in braids after several sessions of this) toward the ceiling as high as they would go and use his cool staple gun to staple them in place.  This was all done with a nice big smile on his face but with the underlying threat of compliance.  And there I would stand, in front of my audience who laughed heartily partly because it wasn't them, partly because it did look funny, and mostly because Dad would be angry if they didn't.  I don't remember how long I would stay there up high on my toes--probably until Dad left the room because the amusement wore off, but I would eventually gently remove the industrial strength staples from my hair and the wall, take my seat at the dining room table and work on some homework or reading or other thing that would be pleasing to Dad should he walk in and find that I was no longer attached to the wall without being given permission to do so.  "Games" were always difficult because I never knew where my boundaries lay as far as resisting or setting myself free.

Setting myself free was something that had to be done with his hammer and nail game as well.  The one instance I vividly recall Mom becoming angry with him was after one of these great games.  This particular day I happened to be wearing new clothes (a rarity for me) when he layed my on the floor and drove nails through my pants and shirt, into the hardwood floor, pinning me there like a chalk outline.  Mom got mad on this occassion, though, not because he was torturing her 9 year old daughter, but because he put holes in my new clothes.  Really Mom?  He beats your children to a pulp and it's this you choose to be angry about?  Go figure.  I guess she chose her battles after the whole splitting open of Dave's head after she thought her words or anger could stop a beating.  I'm actually quite suprised that he didn't immediately go upstairs and drive holes through every piece of clothing I owned.  Just to make a point.  But he didn't and my clothes and I survived to play another day.  Lucky us!

Rarely holding down a job, Dad had many hours alone while we were at school and Mom was at work to think up fun new games.  The family favorite for everyone in the family except me, was the never-fail, crowd-pleasing "You Light Up My Life," which was a popular song at the time.  In fact, I bet if any of my siblings are reading this now, they are already snickering a bit, just remembering the hilarity of it.  Dad lights his blow torch, corners me with the flame an inch or so from my face so I can feel its intense heat, and orders me to sing, "You Light Up My Life," which I do in my small, crackly voice and the crowd erupts in laughter.  You know how you hear that kids are resilient?  I'm here to tell you that's a bunch of crap.  To this day I cannot and will not repeat something someone tells me to, nor will I sing in front of anyone.  Makes learning new languages difficult (that's why I use Rosetta Stone, so no one can hear me repeating, then laugh when I sound silly).  I guess I'll always have a few issues, even after years of therapy...

Now I don't want you to think that only I got to play Dad's fun games.  Sometimes it was a family fun time (by family I mean the children and by children I mean Gary, Dave, and I because Dory rarely got to play with us, poor girl), like being tied up with ropes and left for hours sometimes to free ourselves.

Then there were the cultural games like Gestapo, which I told you about in an earlier post, and Russian Roulette.  If you are unaware of Russian Roulette, it is generally played by 2 or more people, sitting in a circle using a gun with only one round in it and one by one the players pull the trigger that is pointed at their temple until the "loser" finally gets the round in his skull.  Our version, luckily, did not involve guns but slaps or punches.  I'm sketchy on the details, maybe Gary or Dave could help me out here, I just remember playing it and hating it.

The last game I will relay to you is one that was actually palatable.  It was the clothespin game and it was played whenever we had company (along with the 'dead game' in which all the children tried to be 'dead' for the longest).  It was basically a contest to see who could attach the most clothespins to his or her body--like most games, Dave usually won this one.  So that's our family fun time in a nutshell, because nuts is what we all were/are!

 These 'games' make up some of my most rockin' music in my brook and are responsible for a great deal of who I am and what I can handle "in fun."  No one will ever call me a stick in the mud--I know how to have fun damn it!  I'm having fun doing the backstroke down my brook, listening to some wonderful tunes.  Let the good times roll...

Jen ;-)

TKO, But Damn It, I'm Still Standing

I'm yanked from the deep slumber that comes from pure exhaustion by a sharp pain on the top of my scalp and a feeling that there is someone above me trying to remove my head from my neck.  Dad is waking me via hair.  Like the drunk desperately trying to prove to the cop that he is sober, I try to awaken and focus.

"Did I give you permission to go to bed Puke?" is being forced through gritted teeth an inch or so from my face, which he is holding in place with his fingers woven through my long, stringy hair.  I am his marionette--he pulls my strings and my limp body moves to his direction.  Welcome, Jenny, to round three.

As it turns out, round three isn't so bad--a bit of name calling, some slaps across the face, some punches to the gut and a few knocks to the floor--nothing too intense.  The fact that I've been in a deep sleep makes it all kind of dream-like (I have what I consider to be a gift in the deepness of my slumber--I can have a full conversation, eyes open, with someone who wakes me, and not remember a word of it after I go back to sleep and awake again--it has been very helpful in instances such as the aforementioned "round three").

"Go to sleep, you worthless piece of shit," then he leaves my room and I do just that.  In the silence that is left I am Daffy Duck re-attaching my beak that has fallen to the floor, and moving on.  The adrenaline crash returns me to my deep, deep slumber.

I wake to the sound of music from my alarm clock and begin to dress for school.  Whew, respite from punishment.  I do believe that Dad has been waiting for this moment all night, he knows exactly what I'm thinking.  "JENNIFER!!!" jerks me out of my skin and I sprint to his room and, again, assume position of attention.

"Where do you thing you're going, Rat-Liar?" (The double names were always the best--he must've thought extra hard to come up with that one).

"To school?" I ask, beginning to wonder if my days are confused and it's actually Saturday, not Friday.

"You don't deserve to go to school because you're a rat and a liar.  Go to your room, Rat-liar."

"Yes." I return to my room and sit deflated on my bed.    I didn't see that coming at all--I didn't know he could do that but, of course he could, he could do anything he wanted.  He took away my birthday once (told me I would have to be 5 for another year) and he can do this too.  He's the father and it's the 1970's. I wait until I hear Dad go down the stairs, then I let loose the tears.  I watch Dory, Gary, and Dave pass by my room on their way down the hall and glance in at me with pity in their eyes.  It makes the punishment and the fact that I will spend the rest of my life inside this huge gray coffin, somehow palatable that my siblings may actually care about me.

The loneliness of my childhood forced me to rely pretty much solely on God for help.  He was the only one who listened and cared (He had no choice, really, he was the only one who couldn't or wouldn't walk away from or hit me for my words).  So all of the long, lonely hours in my room were spent asking God for help and making promises about my future behavior if that help was received. 

So goes the weekend.  I sit on or lay atop my bed praying and waiting to hear my name.  I respond to endure some form of physical punishment and listen to what a rat, liar, puke I am.  I am allowed after a day or two to join the family for mealtimes at the table but may not speak unless spoken to and the only time that happens is when Dad is hurling insults at me.

I begin to accept the fact that this will be the rest of my life when Sunday night rolls around and I respond to the usual holler of "Jennifer."  To my sheer suprise he askes me if I have learned my lesson.  "Yes," I respond with a stomach full of butterflies.  Could this mean what I think it means? 

"Why should I believe you?  You're a liar and a rat."

"Because I know now not to be a liar and a rat."

"Prove it."

Here's my chance.  "If you let me go back to school, it will never happen again,"  kinda sounds like my plea to God.

"Again, why should I believe you?  All you've proven to me is that you're a liar."
This is my last chance.  I need to make it good.  Lay it on thick.  "You have taught me that it's wrong to lie and it's wrong to get people in trouble and it will never happen again.  Please let me prove it to you by letting me go back to school."  And I really mean every word of it.

I see his face soften, "Alright, I'm going to believe you this time.  I better never get a call from your school again.  Do you understand?"

Do I understand???  Yes, yes, a million times yes!  Could it really be over?  "Yes," I practically shout at him.

"Go take a shower, you stink."

I am thrilled to oblige and so I shower, go to bed and return to school on Monday morning.  I've survived my first real punishment.  Yay for me in the tone of Willie Wonka telling the bratty children not to do something that will hurt them. 

Of course I didn't win, I never did with Dad.  It's a TKO but at least I'm still standing.  The weekend as a whole, is a rock that adds quite a bit of music to my brook.  I think I'll leave it right where it is and enjoy its guitar solo with a bit of oboe added for good measure.  What is pain?  Oh yeah, that's right, it's weakness leaving the body!

Jen ;-)

Ding Ding! Round Two

"Jehhhhhhh-nifer!" hurtling down the hall, bouncing from wall to wall around the corner, and through my bedroom door, jerks me from my thoughts.  And so round two begins.

 I snap to my feet, a bit disoriented and nervous about reaching the location of the yell quickly enough not to warrant greater ire from its source.  If a second yell is warranted I know how it will increase the punishment's severity.  As I rush past my bedroom door I see that the light is on in Mom and Dad's room.  I swallow my stomach back down to where it belongs and quickly make my way into the only other lighted room upstairs to find Dad waiting for me, belt in hand.

He holds the belt, folded in half, an end in each hand, then pushes his hands slowly toward one another and quickly jerks them back apart causing a loud snap as the two halves of belt reconnect.  My body shuts down for a split second then stiffens to attention.  "Shut the door" he spats at me with pure disgust.  I do, then return to position of attention.

I am ordered to tell him, again, the offense committed.  I keep my voice loud and steady because I know he likes strength, and relay each horrible detail, making me feel disgusted with my own self.  He asks if I deserve to be punished for this.  "Yes", of course I think, as if there was any other answer anyway.  But I hold a secret hope that I already had been.  I know (maybe from the snapping of the belt or maybe from the leading questions) he has a plan for punishment all thought out regardless of my answer or anything I could possibly say.  All I can do with words now is make it worse, so I pray for "right" answers.

"What do you think your punishment should be?" is the next question.  Hmmmmmm...do I really have a say--a choice? Should I suggest our earlier meeting count as punishment?  Should I suggest a grounding?  Definitely nothing that has to do with that belt he's snapping at me...  But as I just said, all I can do now is make it worse with words.  "I don't know" is all I can force from my dry, shaking mouth.  "No, of course you don't know.  You're a moron who can't think for yourself.  You're a follower.  Hold out your hands.  Twenty on each side.  If you move or I can't hear you, I will start over.  Do you understand, Moron?"  "Yes", I choke out as I extend both arms forward, palm facing the ceiling--I knew this drill.  Dad loved punishments that hurt like hell but left no marks so this one was one of his favorites.

"Whap!" The pain startles me.  I don't remember it hurting this badly, though I'm sure it did.  I forget that I'm supposed to be counting--sensation overload.  "Okay, we'll try it again, " Dad oozes with sarcasm.  So another first try: "whap!"  "One" I amost shout jumping ever so slightly.  I can do this.  Mind over matter.  By ten, however, my voice shrinks and begins to shake and I'm using my body and all mind control I have left to force my arm to remain forward as it seems to have developed a survivalistic mind of its own.  As my elbow jabs into my stomach my stomach pushes it back forward--all body parts seem to have cried "every man for himself!"--if stomach can keep arm outstreched it won't get punched, if face doesn't cry it won't get slapped, if legs fight the jello-ey feeling in them and continue holding up the body, they won't be kicked...

Unfortunately, elbow beats stomach at about count 14 and the belt slips to the side of my hand.  "You want to play games, Puke?  We'll start over."  Whap-ow!  "One" I shrivel.

By my right hand's count of 20, I'm actually looking forward to left hand's turn both to take the pain from where I can stand it no more and to get this whole mess over with.  And actually, the left hand is usually a bit easier--body and mind have about gone numb by this point and Dad's resolve has begun to weaken along with his strength if this is possible. Or maybe I'm just used to it now.  Finally, "twenty", the relief of the end has given me my voice back.

"Get out of my sight, Puke", Dad snarls.  "Yes" is my only answer as I turn and try not to run back to my sanctuary.

By now it's bedtime so I put on pajamas and wait for the sound of his heavy steps going down the stairs.  I don't dare turn on any lights.  I walk softly down the hall to the bathroom then return to the dark sadness of my own room.  I lay atop the covers as I havent' been instructed to go to sleep yet.  I wait.  Will round three be tonight?  Will there be a round three or could it be that Dad had just given me all of my punishment?  No, I know better and wait for round three.  I'm so exhausted but desperately try not to allow myself sleep yet lest I should anger the beast even more.

I survived round two.  This rock is kind of small and insignificant--like an oboe player during a Bon Jovi song. I think I'll take it out of my brook and place it on Dad's headstone--I have plenty of music without it.  Whattaya think, Gare?

Round One

The questioning began very controlled:  "yes/no" questions to which he knew the answers.  Each answer was followed by a hard, angrier-than-I'd-ever-felt-before, slap across the right side of my still small face (he was left handed so that was the hand used especially for horrific crimes such as mine).  At some point during the question and answer period he lost control.  I don't recall exactly why (I probably tried to expound or defend one of my supposed-to-be yes/no answers) but at this point I became air-born and was told all of my horrible inequities.  I was a liar, a follower, a puke, a punk, a rat...the list grew with each toss of my body.  He would grab a large handful of hair (pretty much all of it) in his baseball mitt hand, lift me off the floor, then throw me back down onto it with a force that caused as much shock as pain.  Each time my rag doll body hit the floor I'd scramble to my feet as he'd growl, "get up." 

Between flings he'd knock the wind out of me with a punch always placed in the precise spot to do so, then ask one of his questions.  When I couldn't answer due to lack of air, I 'd hear "stop playing games" followed by the pain of my hair being used to, again, lift and hurl me to a spot hopefully far enough from his feet that I wouldn't get kicked back down if I didn't scramble to attention again quickly enough.

After what seemed like hours (it probably really only lasted about 45 minutes) of this initiation into my first real punishment, he snarled for me to go to my room.  Of course he had to get one last push to the floor in as I passed him to get to the stairs leading to my room.  Thank God, I made it through round one.  A bit shaken, bruised and in shock, but I finally hit the sanctuary that was my bedroom.  

I sat on my bed and cried quietly until there were no tears left to cry.  It was a healing cry--it was the unleashing of the months of guilt, the day of pure anxiety and the hurt of Dad's rage and hatred toward me.  Yes, it was a good cry and when it was done I sat quietly and waited for round two.  Still and quiet I sat there on my bed, cried out, as the light drained from the day and the room darkened.  I heard Dory, Gary, and Dave arrive home from school at various times, I heard them talking, then eating dinner, then watching t.v.  I waited and wondered what could possibly come next.  I was scared but a little bit empowered too.  Empowered by my survival. 

That survival is the strength that has pushed me past my rocks of various shapes and sizes.  And that strength has been a damned good thing in my times of need.  Rocks shmocks, I say!  Let the orchestra play on!

Jen ;-)

A Punishment Well Deserved

Still Cute in 1st or 2nd grade

Not so cute anymore in 3rd or 4th grade

 

       

I lost my cuteness somewhere between third and fourth grade, or maybe it was just something about that big, gray house that just totally morphed Dad into the beast he became.

Tiama was the new girl in Mrs. Gregaydis’ fourth grade class. She was different. She was quiet and shy and had a funny name.

Gretchen was my best friend at school. She was strong, opinionated and could be very, very mean when provoked. She ruled our friendship and I allowed it because she was the most amazing young girl I had ever known. She was the fourth of four girls and her father really had his heart set on a boy so his boy is what she became. She knew how to work all of his power tools to create things, she could sew, gut and skin a deer, swim and dive like athletes I’d seen in the Olympics on tv, make amazing pieces of art, she would snake hunt--knowing all of the species of snakes and all things in nature--flora as well as fauna. She just amazed me. I felt empowered just being her friend.

Gretchen did not like Tiama for reasons unknown to anyone but Gretchen. When Gretchen did not like someone, she felt the need to hurt him or her and so devised a plan to hurt Tiama.

As our class lined up to leave the room, Gretchen planted something of hers (I don’t recall the item now, I believe it was cash) in Tiama’s desk as she passed by. Later in the afternoon Gretchen told the teacher that the said item was missing and that she witnessed Tiama take it. She continued with her story, telling the teacher that I witnessed the thievery as well. Assuming Gretchen was telling the truth--she was my best friend after all, I backed my friend and stated that I had seen it as well.

Sweet, quiet new girl’s desk was searched, item found, and she was whisked out of the room not to be seen again for several days (I assume she was suspended). When she returned she was called out of the room several times a day to speak with the school counselor.

Gretchen, at some point later, admitted her own guilt and thought it was all quite funny. She had never received a beating so consequences were never an issue for her and was rather disgusted with my lack of ability to see humor in the situation. I was tortured with guilt for my part in what may have caused a sweet, scared girl an undeserved and maybe severe punishment. What if she had a father like mine?

I don’t recall if it was mine or Gretchen’s guilt (I doubt the latter) or good questioning from our teacher, but the truth was revealed. The whole thing was a set up and I was in on it.

Parents would be called.

Dad would know.

My stomach churned and I stifled tears (not always successfully) the entire rest of the day. The anxiety was more than my 9 year old body could handle--I began throwing up. Mrs. Gregaydis knew Dad. She taught Dory and Gary in years past. She looked at me now with a mixture of anger, disappointment and sympathy. She knew what awaited me (well, not fully, not yet) upon my arrival at home, but she had to take care of this ugly situation. In her mind I plotted to set up a sweet, innocent, scared new girl and punishment, however severe, was necessary. The guilt I had been carrying around was torturous and I agreed with her. Almost.

It would be my first real beating--I knew this. I had endured the occasional whack across my face, punch to my gut and belt to my palms but I had only witnessed Dad’s beatings through Gary and Dave. I was well aware of the possibilities or rather, probabilities.

As I walked home from school my mind raced, my body shook and my churning stomach remained high in my throat. I got to the corner of our street and saw that the car was, in fact, in front of the house. Dad was home. I forced my rubbery legs to finish the journey home.

With great trepidation I ascended each of the creaky wooden steps onto the front porch, inhaled very slowly then turned the knob on the thin outer front door. I stood several minutes between the two doors before quietly closing the outer door behind me. Once between the two doors I felt a momentary desire to flee--far and fast--but I took another long, deep breath and entered the eerily quiet house through the heavy wooden inner door.

To the right of the door was the living room and there sat Dad. He would have appeared to be stone faced to anyone from the outside world, but I saw the intense anger beneath the façade…

My next few entries will be some of the most enormous rocks in my brook. I’m happy to say that I’ve made it past all of them and can relay these stories with very few tears and no self-pity. These are the rocks that are the feeling behind one of my favorite quotes: “Pain is weakness leaving the body” and these are the rocks that turned my little brook into the roaring river my life is today…