I Am a Child Abuse Survivor
Woke up with a memory floating around in my head. This one still haunts me.
It was 1960. was 15 years old. My mother, stepfather and I went to a party at a family friend's house. It had been a peaceful day with my mother leaving me alone for a change. Usually she spent a lot of time screaming at me, name calling, threatening, punishing.
Maybe my mother left me alone that day because my stepfather was around, and she rarely picked on me in front of him. It had been a pleasant quiet day, so I didn't see the storm coming.
We arrived at the party and my stepfather rang the doorbell. The door was opened by the youngest daughter of the house. She looked absolutely, very genuinely, glad to see us, and her eyes met my mother's joyfully, and they looked at each other as if they were loved ones reunited after a long time.
My mother gazed at her with great tenderness. Then, as the girl's mother arrived to greet us and usher us in, my mother suddenly turned toward me and looked at me with sudden burning [i]homicidal[/i] hatred.
This came out of nowhere. My mother had often told me that, "all of my friends have wonderful daughters. And I have [i]you."[/i] I knew she considered her friends daughters vastly superior to me, but I did not know why.
The look she was giving me spoke volumes. It said: "You are scum. I HATE you with every cell of my being. Tonight I have had enough. I am going to [i]wipe you off the face of the earth."[/i] Looking at her, I knew I would not live through another hour of my life. She was literally, unquestionably, going to kill me.
As the hostess ushered us in the door, the hostess and my stepfather and the lovely admired daughter of the house all turned to the right and walked into the party crowd. But my mother stepped in front of me and gestured toward the library door, saying, "[i]In. There. Now."[/i]
Terrified, I pleaded with her, saying No and Please, Please, No, Please over and over as she began to shove me toward the library. She said, "Are you going to go in there? Or am I going to have to drag you?"
Knowing my stepfather was too far into the noisy party to hear me, I knew I would have no help. In despair, I walked into the library.
As soon as I walked in, she followed me and, as she closed the door, I began to run from her. She had a look of pure determined homicidal rage as she chased me around the room. It was a deadly silent chase. I jumped over the couch and back several times to avoid her, ran around chairs, dodged back and forth as she tried to grab me. The look on her face would have scared anyone. Tears of pure terror ran down my face.
There was a firm knock on the door. I thought of screaming for help but hesitated because I knew people never wanted to come to my aid in these kinds of situations. My mother hesitated, then went after me again.
The door opened and my mother froze and so did I; it was the hostess. She looked as if she pretty much knew what was going on.
In a meaningful tone of voice, she asked my mother if she was planning on joining the other guests. My mother nodded and left the library.
The hostess looked sympathetic as she told me to join the rest of the party "in a few minutes." I was deeply touched that she was not only saving my life but was allowing me to dry my tears before I had to face all those people. That was kindness I wasn't used to, and it helped me calm down and feel safer. Her name was Rose. Of course she, like all my elders, is gone now. I wish she were here so I could tell her how much I appreciated her help that night.
For me, the worst thing for me that evening, besides fear for my life, was not understanding why my mother had become so enraged so suddenly. Her affection and admiration for the lovely daughter of the hostess, and her hatred toward me as she compared us, was clear. But where did all that homicidal rage come from? OK, so maybe I wasn't as beautiful (or as beloved and happy and confident) as our hostess's daughter, but to be that angry about it, to the point of murder...? It made no sense.
Now I believe I have a better understanding of the situation.
If you read my featured story (I Wan To Know The Truth Behind My Family's Secrets and Lies), you will know that my mother belonged to a cult-like group. I believe at that time my mother was a trainer of youth for that very secretive group, and that our hostess's daughter was very likely one of her trainees. My mother was admiring her own work, a newly trained initiate of the group she had devoted her life to. And she was enraged that her own daughter had not been selected for youth training and initiation into the group. That thought set her off.
It was one of the scariest incidents of abuse I suffered as a child, even though I did not get physically hurt other than a bruise or two from jumping around all that furniture. But I had seen murder in my mother's eyes, and I could not allow myself to forget that; my safety depended on continual hypervigilance. Perhaps it still does. After all, her trainees were all my age or younger; they are still out there.
To this day, I sincerely believe that if Rose had not interferred, I would not have lived to be sixteen that year. Thank you, Rose.
It was 1960. was 15 years old. My mother, stepfather and I went to a party at a family friend's house. It had been a peaceful day with my mother leaving me alone for a change. Usually she spent a lot of time screaming at me, name calling, threatening, punishing.
Maybe my mother left me alone that day because my stepfather was around, and she rarely picked on me in front of him. It had been a pleasant quiet day, so I didn't see the storm coming.
We arrived at the party and my stepfather rang the doorbell. The door was opened by the youngest daughter of the house. She looked absolutely, very genuinely, glad to see us, and her eyes met my mother's joyfully, and they looked at each other as if they were loved ones reunited after a long time.
My mother gazed at her with great tenderness. Then, as the girl's mother arrived to greet us and usher us in, my mother suddenly turned toward me and looked at me with sudden burning [i]homicidal[/i] hatred.
This came out of nowhere. My mother had often told me that, "all of my friends have wonderful daughters. And I have [i]you."[/i] I knew she considered her friends daughters vastly superior to me, but I did not know why.
The look she was giving me spoke volumes. It said: "You are scum. I HATE you with every cell of my being. Tonight I have had enough. I am going to [i]wipe you off the face of the earth."[/i] Looking at her, I knew I would not live through another hour of my life. She was literally, unquestionably, going to kill me.
As the hostess ushered us in the door, the hostess and my stepfather and the lovely admired daughter of the house all turned to the right and walked into the party crowd. But my mother stepped in front of me and gestured toward the library door, saying, "[i]In. There. Now."[/i]
Terrified, I pleaded with her, saying No and Please, Please, No, Please over and over as she began to shove me toward the library. She said, "Are you going to go in there? Or am I going to have to drag you?"
Knowing my stepfather was too far into the noisy party to hear me, I knew I would have no help. In despair, I walked into the library.
As soon as I walked in, she followed me and, as she closed the door, I began to run from her. She had a look of pure determined homicidal rage as she chased me around the room. It was a deadly silent chase. I jumped over the couch and back several times to avoid her, ran around chairs, dodged back and forth as she tried to grab me. The look on her face would have scared anyone. Tears of pure terror ran down my face.
There was a firm knock on the door. I thought of screaming for help but hesitated because I knew people never wanted to come to my aid in these kinds of situations. My mother hesitated, then went after me again.
The door opened and my mother froze and so did I; it was the hostess. She looked as if she pretty much knew what was going on.
In a meaningful tone of voice, she asked my mother if she was planning on joining the other guests. My mother nodded and left the library.
The hostess looked sympathetic as she told me to join the rest of the party "in a few minutes." I was deeply touched that she was not only saving my life but was allowing me to dry my tears before I had to face all those people. That was kindness I wasn't used to, and it helped me calm down and feel safer. Her name was Rose. Of course she, like all my elders, is gone now. I wish she were here so I could tell her how much I appreciated her help that night.
For me, the worst thing for me that evening, besides fear for my life, was not understanding why my mother had become so enraged so suddenly. Her affection and admiration for the lovely daughter of the hostess, and her hatred toward me as she compared us, was clear. But where did all that homicidal rage come from? OK, so maybe I wasn't as beautiful (or as beloved and happy and confident) as our hostess's daughter, but to be that angry about it, to the point of murder...? It made no sense.
Now I believe I have a better understanding of the situation.
If you read my featured story (I Wan To Know The Truth Behind My Family's Secrets and Lies), you will know that my mother belonged to a cult-like group. I believe at that time my mother was a trainer of youth for that very secretive group, and that our hostess's daughter was very likely one of her trainees. My mother was admiring her own work, a newly trained initiate of the group she had devoted her life to. And she was enraged that her own daughter had not been selected for youth training and initiation into the group. That thought set her off.
It was one of the scariest incidents of abuse I suffered as a child, even though I did not get physically hurt other than a bruise or two from jumping around all that furniture. But I had seen murder in my mother's eyes, and I could not allow myself to forget that; my safety depended on continual hypervigilance. Perhaps it still does. After all, her trainees were all my age or younger; they are still out there.
To this day, I sincerely believe that if Rose had not interferred, I would not have lived to be sixteen that year. Thank you, Rose.
70-79, F
