Written by Beaker45
I have a few good memories as a child but the ones that seem to have molded me were not.
I’m four years old and I’ve just discovered if I play with myself my body will react. My mother catches me. Stands me in front of the mirror explaining how ashamed I should be. I don’t know what to think. I am 4.
In the years to come I’ll be horrified each time my mother tells the story with me in the room.
I am pretty small, 6 maybe. I’ve just said something I shouldn’t have. By now I’ve learned there are acceptable and unacceptable conversations. I am in trouble. Mom spanks me again. I start crying. Grandpa is mad because I am crying, Mom wants me to just shut up.
“Do you want something to cry about?”
She hits me again. I cry deeper and go into a fit. Finally, I am holding my breath.
“Maybe he will finally die.”
Grandma throws water in my face to snap me out of it.
I make a mistake. A simple mistake. I throw the ball and it breaks a window.
She drags me inside and lectures me.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Are you stupid?”
“Go get me a switch.”
I stay outside a long time.
I hope she will forget.
She doesn’t forget.
She comes out, drops my pants, and whips me bloody with a switch.
I can’t go to school because I can’t sit down.
My report card comes home. Over 60 days absent.
“Doesn’t do his work!”
“Doesn’t turn in his homework.”
The family conversation starts. I hear my Mom, Grandmother, Grandfather. Everyone trying to figure out what is wrong with me.
Grandpa thinks I need my ass whipped.
Mom thinks something is wrong with me.
Grandma says “We need to leave the baby alone.”
I stare out at the window watching the neighbors, wrestling, playing football and running around. I want to go out so bad. I’m 10, and I just want to play.
I have to clean the house, or color, or take care of the dogs.
Soon one of the kids runs home crying.
Mom tells me that is the reason I can’t go out. I will get hurt.
Friday night comes. I look toward town. The stadium lights are on. We can hear the sounds of the game. All the rest of the kids are there. I want to go.
I beg and get backhanded.
I can’t go because it is a dangerous place to go.
By the time I was 9, I knew my childhood was not right… even though I wasn’t allowed to interact with other kids other than at school.
I always knew I was loved. I never questioned it. I don’t question it today.
As an adult, I started to question if I was abused.
I was loved, how could I have been abused?
Wow, I was abused.
My abuse was Emotional and Physical. It was for my own good.
My mother loved me and lived with the guilt of my abuse.
I learned something was wrong with me.
I was convinced I should be ashamed.
I never grew out of it.
I try to remember the shame is a lie… and move on.