April is National Child Abuse Awareness Month. I thought I would share some stories from my experience of what it is really like. Child abuse is not a spanking or even a horrific beating. Rather, it is fear, deep in the bones terror. Mind control is a key ingredient. It is the unpredictability of the volatility that keeps people always on edge. It is a forever fright of ever speaking up, or even speaking. It is not the color blue to remind us that it exists. Pithy sayings do nothing to chase it away. neither do dramatic pictures. It is a paralyzing horror of what may come, of having met the monster under the bed up close and personal. And knowing that nothing will ever assail it. And no one will ever help or even care. That you are all alone in the world to fight the beast. And you are too scared to scream, or even whisper.
Here is one story in a day of such a life:
I was in the yard playing with my brothers on a warm summer day. We were building a fort, except none of us knew how and we did not have the needed materials. Nevertheless, building a fort was our quest for the day. And then we would play cowboys and Indians. I found a big stick that would be my bow and arrow. My older brother was able to shoot bullets from both of his index fingers. He was practicing on the few dragon flies buzzing around. They continued on their lazy paths, even as my brother declared that he shot them dead. My younger brother was protesting because we decided he would be the prisoner. An epic battle was planned between the cowboys and Indians on who would rescue him from the jail, basically a small patch of ground in between a few trees. Little did we know, a war of another kind was headed our way.
“Daddy’s home!”, the younger one cried.
While this call may make many kids jump happily, a weight of dread filled our bones. It was a true warning call indeed. We saw him park in the driveway and searched for any signs of his mood. Mostly we were scared because we had hidden his favorite weapon earlier that day: his leather belt.
We held our breaths and then the yelling started. Seems he had a bad day at work. He was asking for his beer, a sure sign this day was headed to disaster.
Our mother was crying but gave it to him anyway. And then we heard the beating start as he grew drunker. When he was done with our mother, he came searching for us.
“Run!” I screamed as he caught me by the neck. My brothers escaped this time.
He dragged me into the house as I struggled to get away. But, it wasn’t happening this time. He was big and I was just a little kid, maybe 5 years old. I could smell the beer on his breath. And the stench of his sweat from the work out he just received from beating my mother.
He screamed at me and told me I was ugly and he didn’t understand why he had to be stuck with a kid so stupid as me. In my heart, I knew he was right. And then the belt came out. How he found it I will never know but I felt it as it cut across my flesh. Being whipped with a belt was painful enough, but when he was really upset he liked to use the metal end. And he was really upset this time.
I do not recall how long that belt continued to rip me up. I do remember that it hurt so bad I started crying. And that was a huge mistake. When you are an ugly, stupid child you have no right to cry and have to learn this very important lesson, even if it has to be learned the hard way. That was the last time I ever cried in front of my father.
“Daddy’s home!” became our distress call and we would all run and hide after anyone called it out. Some days, it was safe to be home. Others we could run away and be safe. Yet, others, we were left to survive whatever lunancy and torture would be afflicted on us.
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