Airing of Grievances, Part 2

*This is part two of an ongoing series, regarding a subject that I am very sensitive about.  The story contained in this post is very graphic and disturbing.  This may be a story that you may not want to hear, but it is all true.

Due to the pain that I feel when I write about this subject, it has been a long time since I last posted regarding this topic.  But, I continue this story, in the hopes that someone, who is possibly experiencing abuse, might have the courage I did not; to speak out and talk to someone, so that the abusers in their lives will be brought to justice and they can hopefully live a life without fear and torment.  I had my reasons for not speaking out, but it is better to speak out and be heard than to be ignored in silence.

By age eleven, I had become an accomplished liar.  I lied about everything, from whether or not I had homework, to whether or not I had practiced one of three instruments that I was required to play (which was done to keep me further under this evil woman’s supervision and servitude).  I lied about where I was going, who I spent time with, and so on, and so on…  I lied, not caring if I got caught or not. 

My dad didn’t understand why I felt compelled to lie about everything.  Then again, he didn’t know about the extent of the abuses I had suffered at the hands of his wife, the tyrant who ruled my daily existence with an iron fist.  The woman who doled out punishment, like people who passed out candy on Halloween.   My lies were a form of self-defense. Anything that would subdue her rage and malevolence directed towards me.

At school, I had heard other kids talk about Child Protective Services, and how they had removed children from abusive homes, but these same kids would talk about how the families had been split up.  Because of this, my child ‘rationale’ feared that only I would be taken, leaving me in a group home, while my brothers were still left in the care of my abuser.  Because of this misinformation, I endured her misdeeds and slowly felt myself become detached and isolated.

The violence directed at me continued, with her hitting me over back of my hands, with wooden spoons and other instruments.  It escalated further, with objects being thrown at me, over the most minor infractions.  Books, chairs, and knives, all thrown in a fit of rage, all while subjugating me to verbal insults about how stupid I am.  How retarded and slow I am.  I’m an idiot.  I’m an asshole.  I’m a piece of shit and should just go to hell, because of how retarded I am. 

One day, I was writing in my journal, for an assignment for my church.  I was to keep a journal about my life and write my feelings, so that my own children would be able to have a perspective into my life.  I didn’t want to share my physical anguish endured on a routine basis, but I did share how I felt about my “step-mom”.  In my journal, I vented my frustration over being loomed over for every little thing in my life and having this woman act as judge, jury, and executioner for everything in my life that didn’t meet her seal of approval.  I summed this all up in a few sentences, as my eleven year old mind could.  I wrote, “My step-mom is such a bitch! I hate her.  She is so mean to me and I can’t take it anymore.”

Days passed and I endured the usual routine, like Cinderella endured the torments of her evil step-mother and step-sisters.  I awaited the day that I would experience true freedom, but had no idea what further torments awaited me, at the hands of my overlord.

I sat in my room, wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, without shoes or socks on, intending to go to bed in a few hours.  It was February 6, 1989, a day I won’t ever forget, without the help of severe brain trauma.  I was sitting on my bed reading, which was one of the few hobbies I was allowed to participate in.  Abruptly, my step-mom burst into the room and stormed towards me with a look of anger on her face.  I had no idea what had angered her, until I looked down and saw my journal in her hands.  I retreated in terror, knowing that whatever punishment she had in store, it would be unpleasant at best.  She screamed at me with unleashed savagery, “You’re a rude little asshole!  How dare you call me a bitch!  You think you’re going to get away with this?”

She reached for my neck, but I flinched and reeled back, attempting to hide between the bunks of the bunk-bed I shared with my half-brother, her first born.  Her fingers dug in and latched on to my ear, at which point she roughly yanked me back, off the bed.  She continued to drag me by my ear, occasionally hitting me, as we went down the stairs.  The pain was so excruciating to my small body, that I lost my footing and fell down some of the stairs, but her grip never loosened.  The pain became worse the longer she held on. 

She dragged me through the kitchen and family room, towards the French doors which lead outside, where it was just starting to get dark.  The windows portrayed the coldness that awaited, the ground covered in snow and residual ice from a previous storm.  Her hand reached to turn the door knob.  The bitter cold blasted against my thin frame and I shuddered, both from the chill and from my anxiety.  She let go of my ear and pushed me out the door.  With disgust on her face, she proclaimed, “If you can’t appreciate the things I do, then you don’t get to live here.”

She flung the door closed and locked the door behind her.  My feet, exposed with nothing to cover or protect them from the cold, brought a whole new level of discomfort and pain, at being forced to be on frozen icy surface, with nowhere to retreat.  I pounded on the door, begging and pleading to be let back in to the warmth inside.  I cried out to at least be given warmer clothe and shoes, tears streaming down my face, but my pleas were ignored.  In a panic, I prayed to God to make her see compassion and to let me back inside, but to my eleven year old mind, my prayers fell on deaf ears. 

Growing up, I had read the story of ‘The Little Match Girl’, by Hans Christian Anderson, about a little girl who was forced to go out and sell matches, to make money for her family, or face the abuse of her father, if she didn’t meet his quota.  I realized that my situation was similar to hers, in that if I didn’t find shelter and warmth soon, my life would be over soon, terminated by way of exposure and hypothermia.  I resolved that I would not die and would fight tooth and nail to survive. 

I thought about walking to my friend’s house, but struggled as I walked barefoot over the jagged ice-covered sidewalk.  Disheartened, I abandoned this thought and slowly made my way over to the shed that was next to the garden, that now resembled a frozen tundra.  I staggered into the shed and dropped to my hands and knees, due to the pain and discomfort that assaulted my unprotected feet.  I grabbed the bottom of my sweatpants and yanked on them so that they covered my feet.  After some thought, I decided that it would be best to tie the ends of my sweatpants closed, so that my feet wouldn’t be exposed to any more direct cold bitterness, that the elements presented.  After tying the bottoms of my sweatpants closed, I tucked my arms inside my shirt sleeves and brought my arms close to my body, to preserve any warmth my body had. 

After what seemed forever to my young mind, I started to worry about how I was going to keep warm, since I didn’t have a campfire handy.  I looked around the shed, in the ever dimming light, to see what items I could utilize to keep myself alive.  I noticed a few things that I could appropriate, in an effort to keep myself warm.  I put a nearby tarp up against the door-less entryway and hooked a rope through the sheets eyelets, and then tied them to nails that remained in the doorway, which acted as a barrier from the wind-chill.  With how small I was at the time, both in frame and height, I couldn’t reach all the way up the door, so there was an opening up at the top.  (Unknowingly, this saved my life, because if I had covered the entire door, I could have perished from the carbon monoxide created by starting a fire.) After grabbing a bucket and some wood chips, I threw them in the bucket and poured some charcoal starter on top of them.  I grabbed my Boy Scout pocket knife, which had flint and steel included, I kept rubbing the flint with my knife until the charcoal starter caught flame and started up the woodchips to produce a small flame.  I continued to feed small amounts of woodchips to the fire bucket, until I ran out.  I sat there, on the cold pavement, huddled over the only source of warmth I had. 

Gloomily, my supply of woodchips wouldn’t last, and I dejectedly observed as the flames died out, leaving only residual embers of the flames that once were.  I hastily glanced around the shed, looking for a new source to feed my 'guardian from the cold', but there was nothing else to put to the flame.  Tears started to come to my eyes, but I wouldn’t allow myself to cry them out, for fear that they would freeze to my face, making my situation worse.  I pinched myself, to maintain my emotional control.  Slowly, I watched as the embers extinguished, leaving only me and the bitter chill of a winter night.

I again thought of the little match girl, in the story, and envied the supply of matches she had, thinking how stupid she was for squandering them, rather than using them to create a more substantial fire to keep warm.  I thought about what I could do with the amount of matches she had and then, in a moment of self-discovery, accepted that wishing for things would not make them occur.   

Pushing the now chilled metal bucket aside, I tucked my legs and feet as close to my feet as possible, and grabbed my knees with my hands, while attempting to keep my arms as close to my body as possible, to prevent my body from shivering.  There I remained, watching as snow began to fall, determined to survive this and no longer be a browbeaten child, who allowed this pestilence, in human form, to dominate my life with a barrage of vitriol and maltreatment. 

My dad came home and I’m certain she reported her side of the story, pertaining to the “evil things” I had done, but nothing he said would assuage her vexation towards me.  She repudiated his attempts to placate her fury and dismissed his overtures to grant me entry to the house once more.   Likewise, this dispassionate woman refused to concede to his efforts and at least let me stay with a friend.  Dejectedly, my dad came outside, bringing a sleeping bag, a blanket, and a foam pad to sleep on.  He apologized profusely, advising me that he had done his very best to appease her and that he was unable to convince her to let me back in the house. 

I pleaded with my dad to just sneak me back in, and I would be happy to sleep in the (creepy and scary) basement, rather than outdoors in the stinging cold.  My dad responded, his voice breaking, “I’m sorry, Lonny, but I can’t.”

I remained outside for the duration of the night, buried in the base of my sleeping bag, like a gerbil huddled in its makeshift nest.  Shortly after sunrise, I was awakened by my dad, who was instructed that I would be allowed into the house to take a shower and change my clothes, but I was not allowed to stay in the house and would need to go directly to school, and unsurprisingly, without food.

It was on that day, that I learned two valuable, but costly, lessons. If I wanted to survive, I would have to do two things.  Firstly, I would have to make life a living hell for my step-mom, so that she couldn’t even tolerate my presence.  This resulted in me developing an overall distrust for figures of authority, as well as implementing a strategy of defiance directed towards her.  I refused to do the chores she gave me.  I would talk back to her.  Sadly, I would take out my anger towards my younger siblings, because I had no source to vent my frustration and hatred for these emotions of enmity and animosity forged from years of abuse and neglect.  (Side note:  To, my siblings, I hope that if you read this, you know that I love you all from the depths of my heart and with remorse I ask for your forgiveness for the pain I inflicted on you.)

The second lesson I erroneously learned (which I now know is flawed logic) is that I couldn’t rely on any adult to make my situation better.  Sadly, this inaccurate assumption was reinforced by continued negative behavior, when family would talk about the time I slept in the shed, as if it were a joke.  They would make comments about how I was earning the “Ice Cubing” merit badge for Boy Scouts and laugh at their comments.  I would smile and pretend to laugh along with them, but, internally, feelings of distrust towards all adults began to fester.  Why wasn’t anyone doing anything about this?  Why must I continue to suffer at the hands of this perpetrator and villain? 

To be continued….