Home is Not
September 28, 2006
My mother would often say how she wished she could trade me for any of her grandchildren - they were worth more, she said, being progeny of my sister - the ever golden middle child. Mother preferred middle children (she herself was one). So my sister reveled in her fortune - she’d watched how the rest of us were treated, and thank her lucky stars it wasn’t her. I was the youngest - by an entire generation. It meant I was raised separately from my siblings - they were grown and married before I was even in school. Christmas (or indeed any other normally celebratory event) usually brought out the very worst in my family. I would have to endure a veritable assault on my senses - trust me when I say growing up in the company of madmen is hardly conducive to the structure of a stable personality. My mothers rambling diatribes became almost legendary in their viciousness and ferocity. Know what? The worst part wasn’t having to listen to the litany of how little I was valued - the worst part was having to protect what surrounded me and more often than not failing - animals, personal possessions, friends (precious few of those, I’m afraid). Having the life of other creatures in your hands at 7 years of age is a responsibility that eats away at the mind - especially if you are unable to protect that which you love. I reproached myself for years - felt I should have been stronger, braver. It wasn’t until a good friend brought his 2 year-old daughter over to visit one weekend that I realized how irrational it was for me to continue to shoulder the blame for the actions of adults. The rotted heart of it all centered in and around my mother. Her whims and fancies controlled everything from when (or if) we ate - to how hot or cold the thermostat could be set at. I mastered basic survival tactics before even learning to read. Though more often than not I’d be caught while trying to outwit my mother (I’ve never been very good at dissembling, you see) - I would still give it a go. Hoarding food (one of a long list of prohibitions) often carried the most severe consequences. My mother didn’t believe in eating, you see - so it wasn’t unusual for her to declare week long lemon juice and water fasts. She was severely anorexic (at 5′ 2″ she weighed anywhere between 78 and 92 lbs. on any given month). I got the idea of hiding food from her. She would squirrel away everything from bread (found months later - a moldy mess) to marshmallows (hard as rocks after who knows how long behind the plastic bags). Still - were the discovered food clearly identified as mine - all would be taken away - and I do mean all. She would actually count slices of bread, and measure the width of beef roasts to ensure my compliance. Were one centimeter missing, I’d be publicly humiliated and harassed till I near exploded with stress. The unending mantra of “You’re fat, ugly and stupid” rattled around my brain like a pinball. It changed after the usual 5th grade IQ testing - morphing into “You’re fat, ugly and too smart to be that stupid.” It wasn’t any wonder I was diagnosed with ulcers at age16. Anyway - my dad would usually eat at work, so if I wanted anything, I’d end up having to scrounge food either at school, or from a neighbor. It was rough. I was lucky in that several of my neighbors were gardeners. I would raid their vegetable patches and fruit trees. Some turned a blind eye - others either didn’t realize what was going on or didn’t care - kicking up all kinds of fuss. The old man with the fig trees would often chase me away with a stick. Nonnie next door, however - kept a little ladder for me to use so I wouldn’t fall while climbing her trees. I still have a love of pomegranates, thanks to that kindly woman - and I always think of her whenever I treat myself to one. If it was the weekend, oh boy - mom unconscious on the couch from too much Valium, my father passed out in his own vomit in the hall. Not conducive to having friends over. Not conducive to much of anything except severe brooding and depression. So - by the time I was 10, I had already attempted suicide twice (once by running in front of a car, another by swallowing an entire bottle of aspirin), had watched my brother and one of his friends beat a man to death and been psychoanalyzed in an attempt to identify the source of my crippling migraines. News flash - I knew why my head hurt; it was the same reason my heart and soul hurt as well. Nuts - they were all stone fucking nuts. And my brother! The worst of the worst. Over the years, my brother has made several attempts on my life - the first when I was 2 or 3. He’s a dangerous psychopath - anyone who’d hold a gun to the head of a 2 year old child and play Russian roulette needs to be locked up with the key residing in the depths of Jonah’s locker. It often got so bad; I’d actually fantasize about my funeral. If I were dead (I reasoned) my family would then realize that they had loved me all along. I would write my own obituary in my head those long nights lying awake, afraid - always afraid. All that fantasy finally disappeared the day of my grandmother’s funeral along with my front row seat on the unreasoning nature of hatred and how it played in my family. You see, my mother had been targeted by her own mother due to her birth order. For some insane reason - middle children in superstitious Irish households were considered disposable - same thing if you were left-handed. Batty as shit, I know - but there you are. As the middle child (and ambidextourous to boot), my mother was forced to play servant for the rest of her own severely dysfunctional family - she even had to wash her older sister’s feet with hot water every night. Any refusal was dealt with severely. My mother bore scars on her back from whippings with willow wands. My grandmother behaved as if she were a queen - she expected everyone to cater to her and wait on her hand and foot. My mother hated her - and I mean hated her. So did I. That old woman had a habit of twisting my flesh between her fingers and holding it until it turned purple. I always thought that’s why she got along with my aunts husband so well (that sadistic older sister of my mothers). His penchant was for pulling children’s hair until they literally cried ‘uncle’ (I won’t get into where he put his hands). If you didn’t shed tears, he’d pull until tufts of hair actually came out in his hand. I remember once he and my grandmother laughing together after torturing one of his own grandchildren (a little girl exactly my age). I have to say I was just glad it wasn’t me at the time. The nasty bitch finally died I was 12, within months of our families giant exodus to Ireland. Evidently my grandmother’s last words were to blame my mother for any and all unhappiness grandmamma may have suffered during her life (one of the many reasons I refused to be present for my own mother’s death). My mother made me go right up to the coffin with her and listen as she poured out all her pain and hatred. She practically had to drag me - I didn’t want to go. I can still feel her hand crushing mine, her nails dug into my palm - digging so deep she actually drew blood. From out her mouth poured invective after invective - decades of hatred and blame all crystallized into this one moment. All those things she wanted to say while the old harridan was yet breathing but hadn’t - things I then thought about her - though she didn’t know it. A roaring filled my ears - like I stood in the middle of a train depot. I found myself retreating inside my head until, after a while, all I saw were my mother’s lips moving and the flecks of spittle that fell unnoticed onto her chin. My grandmother was a horrible woman. I think, if she could, my mother would have stabbed her lifeless body then and there, stopping only when exhaustion stayed her hand. You know - there is a kind of terror that attaches itself to a childhood filled with uncertainty and fear. That terror goes bone deep. It affects every facet of life. You cannot enjoy the simplest thing because you live in mortal fear it will be taken from you. That walking terror stalked my every move. I have no memories of safety - no feelings of protection. I lived feral - one day to the next - too frightened to even run away. I feared what would happen to me were I caught and forced back. So I would sit and listen to Simon & Garfunkels ‘Sounds of Silence’ and imagine they were writing about me. I would try day in and day out to be that rock, that island; but something always interfered. My love of animals, for one. My mother knew that was the one surefire way to control me. Threaten an animal. It didn’t even have to be mine. It didn’t even have to be real. I remember her coming back from a drive once after she and I had had a confrontation. It was one of the few times I tried to stand up to her - to do more than curl up on the bed like a pill bug and just wait for it all to end. She had that crocodile smile she got whenever she knew she had won. “There was a kitten on the road”. The statement hung in the air - heavy, swollen. My gut seized up and started spasming. I tried to keep silent - I should have kept silent - but my fears got the better of me. “Where is it? Is it hurt? Did you hurt it?” I was practically hysterical - exactly what she wanted me to be. “It’s dead.” I thought my heart was going to explode. Why was it dead? What had she done? Her smile grew bigger. “I was so angry at you - and your father was so disappointed - he just ran over it. I looked back and it was crushed flat.” Here’s where she moved in for the kill. “It would still be alive if you hadn’t upset your father and I like that. See what you did? You’re an evil child. What a pity you were ever born. That little creature’s blood is on your hands.” And with that she went into her bedroom. I collapsed sobbing on the floor, a migraine ripping through my head. My father - who hadn’t said a single word throughout - retreated to his garage sanctuary, diving headlong into a bottle - his coping tool of choice. To this day I don’t know if the incident ever really happened - or if it was a construct from out my mother’s twisted imagination. Just another day in the hell that marked my childhood. They were almost all like that. You see - my mother was mentally ill. She needed serious medical intervention - not the Valium all of her doctors shoved at her as if it were the perfect panacea. I have memories of mommy sleeping with Prince Valium; passed out on the couch for days at a clip. I looked forward to that, actually. I’d be granted some peace. So why am I reliving all this? Why drag those memories out instead of considering them long dead and buried? Well - it’s not about saying, ‘oh, poor me’; but rather tracking an evolution of personality - a chronicle of survival, if you will. Sifting through these old memories is important. It’s also quite therapeutic. What I used to do as an actor, I now do with my (metaphorical) pen. Turn over the rock, and see what crawls out. Bright light disinfects, you know. It exposes. You cannot ignore that which hangs in front of your nose. We must not ever repeat our past. To do so is more than a signpost for insanity - it marks the person doing it. There is no cleanser strong enough to wash away the stink of cruelty; which is why I do not understand those who choose to visit their own demons upon others. It is the one sin for which I can never absolve my mother. I can truthfully say that I have never purposefully hurt any living creature - physically or emotionally. Not ever. You can put that on my gravestone. If anything, I came out of my formative years overly empathetic; a sensitive. I feel other people’s pain with a severity that often requires me to shut down. That is why every time I hear the ‘abuse excuse’ being raised to account for someone’s horrific actions - I almost explode with anger. It is not a given that the child will turn out like the parent. Violence is a choice - not a genetic imperative. I understand it’s related to fear, and that fear drives hatred. I both hated and feared my mother for years. No longer. Her death freed me in a way. My gut no longer ties itself in knots whenever she’s brought to mind. There’s freedom in that. And though I do not forgive - I do understand. Her ghost no longer haunts my nightmares. And I am no longer afraid.
September 28th, 2006 at 10:23 am
All I could think while reading this was “oh god oh god-how do you live through that?”
Good for you moving past this, and breaking the cycle. This is so horrid. I’m so sorry.
September 28th, 2006 at 10:41 am
You know I admire you so very much for your courage and strength. Being able to rise above such circumstances and thrive as a kind and sensitive human being is an amazing feat and a testament to the human spirit.
September 28th, 2006 at 1:19 pm
I so relate to what you write. I have a hard time with abusers using their abusive childhoods as an excuse. Like you I have never intentionally harmed another person or animal. My mother would whine to me about the abusive things her mother did to her, many of them being the same things she does to me. I would think how could she not have a fucking clue?! I’m so thankful that you have shared your story along with others here because it compelled me to write my own. The world needs to hear from us. We are shining examples that the cycle of abuse can be stopped.
September 28th, 2006 at 3:32 pm
I am so glad,that you are no longer afraid:)
September 29th, 2006 at 4:56 am
As Hope says above, your writing is so important for you and for so many others who have endured child abuse that had gone on for generations. The cycle can be stopped. We just need to talk and share stories of how we endured and how we ended the madness. You’re a heroine, FSL.
October 2nd, 2006 at 1:44 pm
That is why every time I hear the abuse excuse being raised to account for someone s horrific actions - I almost explode with anger. It is not a given that the child will turn out like the parent. Violence is a choice - not a genetic imperative.
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*Nothing* makes me feel so angry or frustrated as this faulty theory - it is totally dismissive of the experiences of me and many others I know who endured child abuse and yet who are the most committed in addressing it.