My Story:
I am relaying to you a story for your project as I have promised you months ago. I am slightly embarrassed because the story is not very pretty as I was raised in an atmosphere of neglect, abuse and violence and through this environment, I learned about God, about love and my self image was born and you can only imagine how that turned out. I learned that God was someone who walked around constantly with a big red pencil ready to document each and every sin you make and you call upon him only when you want him to quickly bail you out of a big mess you get yourself into. Love was something that hurt. Love was something you give only to those who have earned it, particularly if they spent money to buy you an expensive gift. That was an indication that they really loved you. I also learned that if someone really loved you, they would eventually hurt you or they would leave and you will probably never hear from them again. It wasnÕt until I messed up my first marriage that I learned that I was supposed to have learned something about loving myself. I had never heard of such a strange concept.
I guess I feel compelled to share the story because I know there are many women out there who may be in a similar situation and feel hopeless as I have felt many times. Maybe some woman's life can change after hearing my story and she can see that she was created with tremendous value and that her very existence does indeed have a very important purpose.
When I was a child, I was very close to my dad. I was, indeed, a Daddy's Girl. I used to think that my dad knew everything, and if there was something he didn't know, he sure knew where he could find an answer or a solution, to whatever question I had. At that time, I was never afraid of anything because I felt so protected by him. I also felt that the man I marry, would have to go to extremes to prove to me that he loved because I felt that NOBODY could possibly love me like my daddy did. I was roughly eight years old then. I thought my daddy was the greatest man ever.
I don't remember too much of the good times after that or the happy times because early in my childhood, him and my mother began to really hate each other. I never saw them kiss. I also couldn't figure out how my little brothers and sisters came to existence when daddy stayed in his room all the time and my mom, if she wasn't in her own bedroom (a separate bedroom from my dad's room), she was hardly ever at home. What I do remember of the childhood is that Dad grew more and more bitter at my mother. He constantly accused her of fooling around on him. Massive fights would break out as a result, my mom would threaten to leave and Dad would come running to me to make me go to my mother and MAKE her stay and tell her just how much he loved her. After all I was the reason they were so unhappy, being an unplanned and unexpected child (which I was reminded of constantly) so it was my responsibility to keep them together. I believed my dad even though he said such nasty things to me. After all he loved me more that anybody loved me so obviously I must have been so bad to make such a wonderful man become so mean and cruel. He usually reminded me that he loved me right before he would punch me directly in the face that he was doing this in the name of love. Like any daddy's girl would do, I would march right in to my mother's room as she was packing her clothes and beg her to stay. I would plea with her that Dad really loved her. It wasn't his fault that insults came out of his mouth like how he thought she was ugly and that he wished she could have been more of a "real" woman like Lonnie Anderson of the popular show WKRP in Cincinnatti. Dad always felt that Lonnie Anderson was the epitome of a "real woman". You can only imagine how this message translated to three little, dark-haired sisters, especially the one who was the unexpected child. He usually said this to mom as he was cursing God for his bad luck in having to settle for this lazy, sloppy Mexican. He was only angry that she was never home to cook dinner or clean the house and when he comes from a hard day's work, he just wants to feel appreciated. "When this happens, Dad is provoked to say mean things. If you would only cooperate. I know it hurts your feelings Mom, and that is why you never want to come home. I know that this tends to drive you into the arms of other men who do tell you nice things and treat you like your smart, but Dad will change, he promises this time." As a normal eight year old child would do, I would return to my dad with MomÕs list of needs in the hopes that he would listen and stop making her feel like the most stupid, ugly person alive. Usually when I did convey these "outrageous" requests to my dad, like; mom wants you to stop demeaning her, stop insulting her and shredding any self esteem she might have left, it resulted in dad yelling at me for being just like her taking her side on everything and the circle of fighting would continue. This exchange continued for years.. At one time during these fights, dad actually lifted a hand at my mother to hit her. She picked up a full six-pack of bottled Pepsis and hit him over the head. Needless to say, dad never did that again, he hit us children instead. After all, we would never have the courage or the strength to do that.
Each year dad seemed to grow more and more bitter. Once this physical abuse began, everyone felt as though we had to carefully walk on egg-shells in order not to invite a beating out of dad. Each day was spent doing extra chores and good deeds in order to placate dad when he came home from work. As the oldest child, I reared the children to help with the household chores. I learned to cook at an early age because if mom wasn't home, I had to remain on standby to quickly whip up dinner before dad got home. I have to admit, by about 10 years old, I got really good at balancing the household chores and at the same time, come up with a good dinner in lickity-split time, so that I could have time to do homework in the evening. But then, as luck would have it, someone would mess up and cause dad to explode again.
I remember one of these moments, we were all cleaning out the garage as a team. My little sister, who often had trouble letting us know when she needed to go to the restroom, would wet her pants. I remember that set off my dad who couldn't figure why she couldn't learn to go to the bathroom on time, after all she was roughly 4 and she should have learned by then. She sat in a cuddled position over the puddle she made as my dad kicked and kicked her until she was red in the face and short of breath. It was more than I could stand so I lashed out at him. That was when I helped my dad launch into a more advanced level of violence and abuse. After that, my dad didn't waste time on beating the little one's because he knew it was a matter of seconds before I would come running to their defense so he came straight after me.
I had reached a point where rushing to the defense of my younger brothers and sisters and taking all the blows from my father was normal. In fact, by the time I was graduating from high school, I had not realized that I had lived in an abusive environment. I did not realize that my dad was physically and emotionally abusive person. I saw what physical abuse looked like on television shows, but my dad wasn't like that because he beat us (especially me) in the name of love. I was in complete denial. My dad was such a nice man according to all the neighbors, and we were such bad kids, he was only reprimanding us as we needed. Looking back, I canÕt help but think that when the small children did misbehave, it was in retaliation to the way dad was treating them. At that time, I never did make that connection.
By that time of my life, my mother had several acquaintances, spent less and less time at home and felt completely powerless in being able to help us. She could only offer sympathy and sob when we told her of what dad did to us. She didnÕt know there were organizations that could actually help our family. One day she didn't come home at all. She found a boyfriend. I felt so betrayed. After all, I was trying so hard do keep her and my dad together.
After I graduated from high school, I moved out of the house at 18. My dad claimed to have found God and the "physical" abuse seemed to come to an end although, he was still very viscous verbally. The kids also grew up and moved out of the house, as well, and now have families of their own.
I, on the other hand, am single once again after two unsuccessful marriages and numerous dysfunctional relationships later. Today, I find it difficult to trust close relationships, particularly with men. As for the rest of the children, one of my sister's has a very successful family relationship with two daughters and a husband that loves her dearly. My sister (the one that wet her pants often), has three small children she is raising alone after the breakup of her marriage. She, too, has trouble trusting men today. One of my brothers, who isolated himself from the family, has recently been released from a mental hospital, but prior to that, was continuing my dad's legacy of abuse on his family. The baby of the family hardly saw much of the abuse and has a wife and daughter of his own.
There are times when I ask God as Job did in the Bible, (Job 10:18), "Why didn't you let me die at birth" (Living Bible translation). But also, as in the book of Job, I believe with all my heart that the tragedies I underwent as a child was part of my life's lessons and part of the building blocks to developing character, strength and love. I am currently learning that part of living life is triumphing through these experiences and helping others triumph over theirs. Many relationships later, I have made numerous mistakes in the process, each time, learning something valuable, picking myself up from the ground and marching forward.
I never could quite get why God instructed in the Bible, that we were to love one another as we love ourselves. Loving others was what I thought was the easiest part. Loving myself was impossible. When all you know about yourself is what you've learned in the midst of abuse, neglect and violence; learning to love yourself and the journey of re-programming and ugly self image to a healthy, positive one takes time and a heck of a lot of work. This is part of the "education" I am diligently working on. Currently I am engulfed in the process of pursuing a college education as well. I never knew how much fun school could be. I love learning. I have never felt so free. Somehow I missed it before during my childhood. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I was never encouraged before. Between the dadÕs slugs to the face and being called a nigger, I didn't know I was smart and had the capacity to get A's.
I hope that my story can help someone else. I always thought that telling my story would make even Ghandi want to kill himself. But I am learning that I have the power to heal these wounds.
Katherine
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