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 ;-)