A Child’s Christmas in Hell
August 25, 2006
I’ve been thinking lately about my life. About differences, really; and the chasm that still exists between then and now. Christmas day 2005 was pretty good, considering; good food, happy critters, non-grumpy hubby - all in all truly decent - depending on your expectations and point of view. Not every holiday has been like that. There were better times; sure. And it’s the good times we always cling to - those human beacons - bright points toward which we steer when all other light goes out. But it is the desolate, the heart-numbing loneliness that clings to the insides of our head; it cannot be buried, it never goes away - the best anyone can hope for is to achieve parity. But that only works if your soul is intact, and then not always. I’m lucky - I not only made it out alive; my spirit survived as well.
So I was thinking back - to when I was 10. By then, I knew the drill. Holidays were pure hell in my house; as was most every day - but holidays, birthdays - indeed any usually celebratory occasion brought out the worst edges of my mothers extremely unstable nature. Though you literally didn’t know what to expect; there were certain constants. My father would, of course, be drunk, (his coping tool of choice). We would have to attend perfect Christmas (or whatever) at my surviving sister’s enormous house (and, by necessity, spend time with her severe, judgmental asshole of a husband) and of course my mother’s usual insanity would always ratchet up to manic proportions. If I was lucky, my brother wouldn’t show up at all - if not, then I had one extra worry - I had to make sure never to be caught alone. By 10 - I had figured all of this out. No choice, really - only way to survive. You see, there were certain steps I could take to ameliorate some of the lunacy - though these strategies would, on occasion, backfire. You had to be constantly on your toes in my house - like that ubiquitous box of chocolates - you never knew just what you’d get.
The worst part of Christmas morning wasn’t my mother’s never ending harangue on what a dreadful and unnatural child I was, or my fathers dive straight for the bottle. No - it was the selection process. My mother would monitor my reactions upon opening each gift (not that there were many - we didn’t have a lot of money). Whatever presents I showed the most enthusiasm for - anything I looked especially happy to receive, would be put aside to be given away. That’s right - I would open a present, go - ‘Oh look, it’s a Chatty Cathy - mommy, daddy I love it!’, and that doll would immediately go into the ‘get rid of’ pile. Usually, I was forced to re-wrap the gift myself (in the paper it came in - nothing could be torn in the initial unwrapping, my father was obsessive/compulsive that way - even the tape had to be saved), all this so I could give it to one of my nieces later that day at a Christmas dinner I was seldom allowed to eat.
Now - I had better give you all some background here. My siblings were all old enough to be my parents. I was born very late - one sister was in her 20’s, the other in college, my brother in High School. So my oldest niece was only a few years younger than me, the next the same and so on. Any toy I got would do for them as well - and it did - all the goddamn time. This give-away held true for birthdays, Halloween, Easter - you name it - my mother made sure I learnt the realities of privation. She’d say I was a greedy child, and needed lessons in humility. Someone had to understand;, she said; what it was like - how badly ‘they’ had treated her. Somebody, somebody had to, you see; so she picked out her somebody and unfortunately it was me. So - at Halloween, I would list all the candy I received, my mother would select what I was allowed keep, the rest went to my sisters kids, or got thrown away. Easter - the same. Needless to say, I got really good at hiding stuff - especially food, as anything edible was an outright obsession with my mother - she was dangerously anorexic and loved to control food; a left-over from her own horrific childhood as scapegoat du jour. Anyway - when it came to Christmas, I was generally allowed to keep 2 or 3 gifts - usually small, and nothing I really wanted. I was 7 the first year I remember this happening. My mother literally had to pull the toy out of my arms, and stand over me making me wrap and re-wrap until the package was to her satisfaction. I began sobbing when my niece tore it open and ran around hugging the stuffed monkey - not her fault, she was a baby - but I hated her for it. It wasn’t long before I learned how to hide my true feelings.
Yup - my mother was fucking nuts. Really. This was more than euphemistic ‘issues’, or bad parenting; she had legitimate serious mental problems that I believe required medication. It runs in the family - genius and depression. God never gives without taking away. She herself had grown up with nothing (the truth), and therefore believed I should know what that felt like. The abused becomes abuser - really screwed up shit. From what I have been able to glean from my siblings (none of whom were particularly forthcoming), mother practiced on them until she got her system down pat. She excelled in destruction - one of her children committed suicide, another became a violent drug addict; all fed and encouraged by someone so damaged, she probably should have been institutionalized. So by the time I came along, my mother had truly gone right ’round the bend. The woman needed help - but all the doctors knew to do back then was prescribe Valium - and mommy slept with Prince Valium every damn day. There were times she’d be passed out on the couch 4 days running. I learned to monitor her breathing, because my father would just pretend he didn’t see. Nobody ever did anything about that, or any other outrageous behavior in my family. Pretending became a way of life.
This particular Christmas was both better and worst than most, which is probably why it stands out in my mind. Frankly, I had made myself forget most of my childhood, until one day in my 30’s when it all came hurtling back at me. Can you say flashback? Anyway, the point is I remember everything, including those particularly nasty bits my family continues to deny. So - my brother turned up - always a reason to be wary, especially as he was high as a kite. Seeing my brother always triggered one of my mother’s negative memories; you see my brother burned the house down about a year or so before I was born. My mother claims he did it on purpose - specifically to kill her, and I don’t doubt it. My brother started drinking when he was 10, and by the time he hit his teens, he was a mean, cruel drunk who got off on pain and suffering - on any one or any thing. He also had a spectacularly nasty mouth on him, and his usual target (when he wasn’t attacking our mother) was me. He hated me with a vengeance; mother encouraged it - she enjoyed watching us compete for her affections. I played that game when I was young, but by 10 I had caught on. I always made sure my brother won; though that usually convinced my mother I hated her. She was right.
I remember the presents I got to keep that year - a necklace with a tiny scent sachet (I still have it), a set of Nancy Drew mysteries (I got to keep them till I was in Jr. High before my mother gave them to my niece) and a tiny loom to weave pot holders and such. Quite a bounty - I was thrilled. I don’t really remember the ‘give-away’s’ all that clearly - some games and puzzles, I think. I dutifully wrapped them and went outside to put them in the car to go to my sisters. My father caught my attention up the driveway - his finger to his lips, he waved me over. Hidden in the garage, under an oily blanket was a brand new bike! Oh, it was gorgeous! Blue - with multi-colored streamers on the handlebars. It was so shiny I could see my face reflected in the paint. My old one was almost in pieces - I had difficulty learning to ride it, you see - I kept trying to pedal backwards - comes from being somewhat dyslexic. So to have such a pretty new one! I was so happy I began squealing and jumping up and down. My dad told me to hush. We had to keep it a secret from my mom, you see - at least long enough until she couldn’t think of an excuse to dump it. I’d have to ride it on the sly, when mom was taking one of her afternoon ‘naps’. I understood. Dad said he would hide it in the garage - my mother never went in there, as that’s where dad hid his liquor. OK, I said - I will keep the secret.
My father stumbled off, and I took some time to school my features. It wouldn’t do to go into the house looking happy. Happiness was a trigger to my mother that something needed to be dealt with severely. She didn’t smile or laugh - so you didn’t smile or laugh. That - and my brother was weaseling around. If he spotted the bike, I was done for. It would be up at my sisters and in my nieces hands before you could say ‘right quick’. So I managed my usual depressed look, and wandered back into the house. Almost immediately the questioning began - ‘What took you so long? What did your father say to you? Did he get another bottle? There’s cobwebs on your shirt - were you in the garage?’ and so on. I managed to answer every interrogative to my mother’s satisfaction, so eventually she backed off. Then it was my brother’s turn, and he was in one of his dangerous moods. He suspected something was up, so he went after me mercilessly - making fun of my freckles, calling me ugly, pinching my arms till I was covered with bruises. I knew better than to complain. If I did, I was usually called a liar, or slapped across the face, so I endured as best I could. One of my coping techniques was to go over the plot of a book I’d just read, or create a story inside my head. It usually helped me block out my surroundings.
This time, however, I wasn’t as steeled as usual. I had been so happy about the bike, you see - I’d let my guard down, so my brother was able to push some buttons and I just exploded. I told him that my oldest sister would be there for Christmas dinner, and I’d make sure to tell her everything he’d said and done. This was a credible threat. When I was very little - I remember my oldest sister confronting the entire family - threatening them with exposure if she ever caught them really going at me. Intimidation of this sort used to work quite well - on my brother especially; (like all bullies he was a coward). It had ceased to be effective, however, so I hadn’t used it in years. I didn’t know (because no one had told me), but my oldest sister actually committed suicide when I was seven. Whenever I’d ask where she was, and why she never came to visit me any more, my mother would say it was because my sister hated me, and never wanted to see me again. I was the reason she had gone away; it was my fault - so I should just shut up about it.
Now - I believed this, because one of the last times I saw my sister she had brought a small dog with her. It bit me rather badly while I was holding it, so I dropped it, accidentally breaking the poor things front leg. The animal had been rushed to the vet, and was fine - but my mother and my brother never let me forget, claiming my sister blamed me and hated me for the incident. Needless to say I felt like shit - I really believed them, you see - because my sister had simply evaporated overnight. Why else would she be gone? I was only a kid after all. My mother encouraged this belief - it gave her another control over me. My brother - well he was just enjoyed inflicting pain of any kind. And her absence hurt. I had adored her, you see - worshiped her, actually. I can still see her - leopard print coat, Audrey Hepburn haircut, white sunglasses that wrapped all the way around. She was tall, slim and lovely - with hair like shiny copper. I loved her, and I knew she loved me. Out of my entire family, she’s the only one who would ever pet me, or say nice things to me. Poor soul was as shattered as the rest of us, unfortunately. She’d have psychotic breaks - in my adult opinion, she just couldn’t cope with what life had doled out. I’m so much stronger than she ever was.
Well, when I stated that my sister would be making an appearance at Christmas dinner, my mother went white as a sheet, my father headed back into the garage to drink, and my brother started laughing. I had given him the worst kind of ammunition - I had let him know his taunts had gotten to me, and I had invoked the specter of my dead sister. Well - my mother grabbed me by the shoulders and began shaking me, demanding to know why I’d said that. I continued the lie, hoping it would buy me some peace - so I said she’d called, I’d spoken to her, she didn’t hate me and she’d be at Christmas dinner later that day. That, of course, made everything worse - my mother went wild - shaking me till my teeth rattled. My brother just sat back on the couch laughing like a loon, chanting ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’. I began to get frightened - something was obviously very wrong, and I knew how bad it could be if the situation got out of hand. I didn’t know what to do, though. I’m afraid I didn’t begin fighting back till I was 12. I’d just curl up like a hedgehog, protecting my face and stomach, my hands firmly clamped over my ears. I begin to pray - offering God promises - extra rosaries, or times at confession - anything so I’d get left alone.
Eventually my mother tired herself out. She went into the kitchen - I could hear her weeping. She always used to put her hand over her face when she cried, as if to hide herself away from the world. Not wanting to be left alone with my brother, I waited out front until it was time to leave for dinner. The incident regarding my sister wasn’t mentioned - it was as if it had never happened. Par for the course in my family; ignore what you cannot deal with. We all made the trip in absolute silence. How my father managed the drive as drunk as he was I’ll never know. He once was so drunk his car drove over him, crushing his legs. He treated the injuries himself, refusing to go to a hospital. Oh well. We made it intact to my sisters, where my mother announced I was a horrid little beast who deserved nothing. Therefore, I was to get no other presents, and would not be allowed to share Christmas dinner. My mother added in a nasty twist by telling everyone I could do with missing a few meals because I was fat (I wasn’t - another lie I bought as truth). I was embarrassed, and hurt, and started crying - not the thing to do in my family; you took your life in your hands showing you had feelings of any kind.
Trust me when I say it all went down hill from there. By the time I made it back home, I was tired, in pain, and so hungry I snuck out into the back yard - scarfing up some Persimmons and a couple of green lemons. But I had a secret to sustain me - my wonderful bike lay hidden in the garage - and I planned to ride it the very next day. I didn’t sleep in my bed that night - too dangerous when my brother was in the house. So I climbed out the window, and crouched in the driveway. It was cold, but safe. This was something I had to do often, so I was used to the discomfort. You know - I still have trouble sleeping at night, even after all these years. Well, the next day, as expected, my brother left, my father drank himself into a stupor, and my mother had her t?te-?-t?te with Prince Valium. Out came the bike, and off I went. It was glorious - freedom to get far, far away. I considered riding off and never coming back, but I was too frightened to be alone. Eventually, I made my way home - but not without stopping by the library first - my personal Rivendell standing against all the horrors of Mordor. As I put the bike back into the garage, I noticed the kitchen curtains twitch. Oh god, I thought - I’ve been seen! I slunk back into the house, immediately noticing my mother wasn’t passed out on the couch any longer. I heard noise in the kitchen. She was getting dinner.
Now - I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the day before. I was terribly hungry. I had to turn up for dinner - no matter what the cost. So - when my father banged his way out of his room, his eyes red from the booze, I followed in his wake, hoping my mother’s ban on food had been lifted. You know - my father never, ever contradicted her over anything. I mean - he had to know those times she wasn’t feeding me, but he never offered me food, or said, ‘why don’t you feed the kid’, or anything. I’ve always wondered about that. Why he never helped. He’d do odd things, like the bike - but never lift a finger about everyday shit. Anyway - it looked like the ban was off, and I was allowed to have dinner. Needless to say, I wolfed it down. As soon as I was finished, I went to feed my cats, Herman and Mitsy. I called and called, but Herman was nowhere to be found. Mitsy was there - but no Herman. I was so upset - I searched the entire neighborhood. Nothing. Now - my mother had thrown me a look when I had first gone out to feed them that had made my blood run cold. You see - she used to threaten to kill my animals. It was her last resort - a threat guaranteed to reduce me to tears and put me on my knees begging. My mother liked to see me kneel in front of her as if I was praying - I’d have to pray to her, you see. Evidently she used to have to climb up and down stairs on her knees for punishment as a kid - climb until she bled. Once again, she wanted to make sure I understood what that felt like.
Anyway - nothing was ever said about the bike, though I continued to hide it for months. I never saw my poor cat again. When I’d ask my parents about it, my dad would say, ‘oh, he’s probably run away’ and my mother would smile that crocodile smile of hers, and remain silent. About 2 weeks later, one of the neighbor kids came up to me and said, ‘I know what happened to your cat’. She proceeded to tell me she’d overheard my mother relating the incident. According to dear old ‘mum’ I had been caught stealing, and as a punishment, my cat had been taken away and put to sleep. My mother often made up outrageous stories about how badly her children and later grandchildren treated her. This pathology continued throughout her entire life. It made dealing with her doctors almost impossible, because they thought we were all some kind of monster. My mother would relate horrific tales of abandonment and neglect - and say her children were responsible. I knew the truth. These things did actually happen to her - but as a child in Ireland; she blamed us, because she just couldn’t bring herself to blame her parents and siblings for the abuse (which was horrific - way beyond even what she did to her own kids). Anyway - I thought I’d fall down and die right there. The kid went on to say my mother was crazy, and that she had been told never to play with me again or ever set foot inside my house. Which was pretty much the neighborhood consensus, I’m afraid. Well - I finally had my answer. I knew what happened to my cat. Frankly, I would have traded anything to have Herman back. No toy was worth a life - especially one I had cherished so dearly.
So - that was my 10th Christmas - unbridled insanity, a new bike and one dead cat.
August 25th, 2006 at 12:37 pm
That sucks, and I’m so sorry it happened to you. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. Your mother, your father and your brother were all so, so wrong.
August 26th, 2006 at 11:17 pm
I’m sorry you endured such a horrific childhood. It’s so hard to believe a mother can be so cruel to the flesh and blood of her own body.
Your mother is a lot like mine. Has she been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder?
August 28th, 2006 at 3:19 pm
When I read your words it makes me feel a little sick to think that a child could be treated this way, systematically abused in such awful ways by her own family.
It makes the person you are today even more amazing to me. You beat them all in the end. You mantained your sanity and managed to rise above all of it. Truly extraordinary.
August 28th, 2006 at 4:39 pm
Slackermommy - Some years before my mother died, one of her doctors caught on to the truth and prescribed some medication to help even out her personality. My mother thought it was something to deal with one of a long list of phantom health problems - so she took it faithfully. I had a chance to observe her after having been on it for several months. She was a completely different person in some ways. Her hatred and irrationalities remained intact - but the non-stop complaining had ceased. I saw her smile for the very first time without some sort of ‘gottcha’ behind it. Unfortunately - she figured it out. She mentioned to me how good she felt, and I said something like, ‘That’s wonderful’. It got her thinking. She evidently asked the pharmacist about the medication. As soon as she realized it was responsible for her elevated mood - she ceased taking it and promptly began seeing another doctor. That was when I was still trying to salvage a family out of it all. So I d only be guessing at what was actually wrong with her. I will say there was choice involved in the majority of her actions. She wasn t compelled to cause pain. She chose to do that. My mother was, in very many ways a very selfish woman.
Short example: I took her to Ireland with me when I was auditioning for both the Abbey and Gate theatres. Trust me when I tell you this was a very big deal. I was still talking to her about my life at that point so she was able to brow-beat me into taking her with. Said it would be the last time she could visit her homeland and wasn t I a selfish child to exclude her. Well I put her up in a converted castle (that s right castle!) the weekend of my auditions. She wasn t so old she couldn t cope; and I made sure she was comfortable and well cared for. Off I went. Well. I got a phone call from the hostelry the night before my scheduled auditions saying my mother had said she hated the place and just walked out. I had to drop everything and run back to look for her. She hadn t, of course, told anyone where she was going. I eventually found her at the local doctor s office. His secretary told me to walk on in. I arrived just in time to hear my mother tell this complete stranger that I had abandoned her in a filthy hovel with no money or food - and I had taken her medication to boot. She then spun a tale chronicling my abuse that could have gotten me arrested. I interrupted hoping the man hadn t believed her finding her another place to stay (out of my pocket again, of course). I will never forget the look on that doctor s face - as if I were the reincarnation of Lucretia Borgia. I was never able to really speak to her doctors because of similar behaviors. They didn t believe me when I said it was her. They didn t believe my sister when she said it either. They thought us both monsters. What that made her god only knows.
And Tammie thanks, honey. That s nice to hear. I ve never managed to be completely free of it all, you know. I still have nightmares. It still colors my views on life. It still hurts and makes me cry. I think I will probably feel like that my entire life, unfortunately. Writing about it helps. In this case the pen takes the place of the sword and all my demons lay vanquished. If only they d stay that way.
September 6th, 2006 at 2:06 am
It seems to me that people (women, anyway) that have been abused such as you were who have siblings, one of them seem to make it through. Not unscathed, of course, but you’re here and that says a lot. I’m amazed that you are here to tell about it. Is your mom still alive? If so, do you see her? What happened to your brother? Just wondering. Your writing is mesmerizing.
September 6th, 2006 at 2:06 am
Oops, sorry…I just read your response saying your mom had died. Was it long ago?
September 6th, 2006 at 4:04 pm
Chris - My mother died in 1998. She was in her 90’s. I refused to go to her and hear her tell me with her last dying breath how much she hated me. Before she took sick she would often call and leave long, rambling diatribes on my answering machine. I didn t think I needed to hear them again in person. My sister was there the golden child. I m sure my mother was much comforted by her presence. Had I gone to see her I would not have been able to restrain myself. I would have told her just how much I hated her and that would not be the right thing to do. I felt she was entitled to pass with some measure of peace; though god knows she never allowed me any during her lifetime.
My brother may be dead - I don’t know. The last time I saw him - he was in court for trying to strangle my sister. Unfortunately - she later convinced herself that the incident didn’t really happen - and persuaded her Judge/hubby to once again intervene and have my brothers charge lessened from assault to misdemeanor drunkenness. Needless to say - I severed all ties with him as well as my deluded sister. Should my brother ever find out where I live - I have no doubt he would seek to do me violence. It was in his nature. Personally - I hope the bastard s dead. The world would be a much better place were he permanently removed from it.
September 8th, 2006 at 9:04 am
Our stories are very parallel. I am so sorry to read that another child went through these same things.
I’m glad to see you’ve come away from it all as a strong, talented woman.