After I posted my first blog last night, I felt energized, as if I were doing a good thing for myself and all of us.I know it will take some time for you, my sisters and I, to come together, but when we do, we will create a community of sharing and healing. We will know that we are not alone and that the sometimes sinister issues that we continue to battle on a daily basis are not uncommon for the hell that we lived through.
I told you yesterday that I have an 11 year-old daughter. She is at that stage in her life where her friends are the most important thing. Her thumbs cramp up from texting, and no technology is too difficult to master in five minutes. The Jonas Brothers rule; there are dances and parties to attend and sleepovers which always seem to take place at my house. Come Friday at 3:30, I am picking them up and ordering pizzas.They storm my house like soldiers on the beaches of Normandy, eager to continue the dramas that were played out in school today.
I am grateful for her popularity; their laughter as it rains down in thunderous claps. I am happy that she is happy and more importantly, that I can provide that haven for her. I have told her how fortunate she is and I know she understands.
As a child I had no friendds. At school I begged for candy because I had no money to buy any. I dreamed of tall crates of money which I believed would solve my family's problems and perhaps make my mother a nice person. She would not call me a bitch and slut and punch me in my little 6 year old mouth, the salty red blood falling in large drops on the floor.
Tonight I made chocolate chip cookies for my daughter and her friends. The pizza long gone, they grabbed handfuls as they readied themselves to go home. They tell me that I am such an awesome mom, and I am. I really am.
Till later,
Andy
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Bad Beginning
Ok. Here it is. This is for all you women out there like me. Stuck somewhere between 6 and 46. Or anywhere other than here. We are wives and mothers, executives and teachers. We go about our daily lives like everyone else. But we are not everyone else.
I decided to start this blog because I know you are out there. The ones who toss and turn at night because the dreams, memories and flashbacks never really go away. They are always there beneath the surface, ready to interrupt our stability and turn us back into what we were many years ago. As a child I was my mother's whipping post. I don't mean spankings and a slap on the wrist. I mean brutal, near coma beatings that I endured day in and day out from the time I can remember till I fled home at 18. Even after I ran for my life, the abuse continued in ways other than the physical. There was the emotional and mental abuse and I have the scars to prove it.
You see, there is much more to the story than the mere beatings. There was the abject poverty, the constant fear, the knowledge that there was no one to protect me except me, and I didn't know how to do that then. Years have passed and sometimes I am better than others. I have an 11 year-old daughter. As a sweet little baby, I gently rocked her to sleep and sang her songs that I made up myself. Her stuffed animals entertained her with dancing and conversations that came from my mouth but began deep in my soul. She would have a wonderful childhood even if I didn't. She would make it up to me. It was the only gift my mother ever gave me. She taught me what kind of mother NOT to be.
I will return to tell you much more. Perhaps you can tell me about your experiences and we will help each other to be complete.
Bye
Andy
I decided to start this blog because I know you are out there. The ones who toss and turn at night because the dreams, memories and flashbacks never really go away. They are always there beneath the surface, ready to interrupt our stability and turn us back into what we were many years ago. As a child I was my mother's whipping post. I don't mean spankings and a slap on the wrist. I mean brutal, near coma beatings that I endured day in and day out from the time I can remember till I fled home at 18. Even after I ran for my life, the abuse continued in ways other than the physical. There was the emotional and mental abuse and I have the scars to prove it.
You see, there is much more to the story than the mere beatings. There was the abject poverty, the constant fear, the knowledge that there was no one to protect me except me, and I didn't know how to do that then. Years have passed and sometimes I am better than others. I have an 11 year-old daughter. As a sweet little baby, I gently rocked her to sleep and sang her songs that I made up myself. Her stuffed animals entertained her with dancing and conversations that came from my mouth but began deep in my soul. She would have a wonderful childhood even if I didn't. She would make it up to me. It was the only gift my mother ever gave me. She taught me what kind of mother NOT to be.
I will return to tell you much more. Perhaps you can tell me about your experiences and we will help each other to be complete.
Bye
Andy
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