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…