Monday, October 19, 2020
How Little Pearl (LP) was nurtured?
First of all, I do know there were positive moments and blessings within my family. There were good times with my mother, although I have difficulty remembering them. She always packed lunches for school until we were old enough to do it ourselves, had a good dinner every night, and desserts made from scratch. The house was always in order and we all had chores to do. There were some good laughs. We were in church every weekend and holiday which fostered my relationship with God which I am so grateful for. My mom wasn’t evil or anything, and to be honest, I don’t know what her issues were since we weren’t prone to deep discussions. I think she had a limited capacity to love, and I just didn’t make the cut. She tried at times, but there wasn’t that maternal bond like she had with other siblings. This was reflected in one of her credos, “Everybody knows, the first child is golden, the second silver, and the third copper.” She’d say it so matter of factly to whomever she was talking to while looking at me with mock pity. I knew I was the last and least of her five children, it just never failed to leave me feeling a little more debased every time she told someone else. At some point in adulthood when I’d remember those words I’d add, “ . . . aaaand the fifth child is the turd that wouldn’t flush.” (It’s ok to laugh here:))
I’m kinda surprised about some of the things my mother would unapologetically tell me about later in life. For instance, I was born 2 months premature and therefore was to have been fed every two hours initially. But she had 4 other children, so essentially I was ‘too needy’ for her. When I’d start crying to be fed, she’d walk outside to the back of our lot so she wouldn’t have to hear me cry, wouldn’t have to deal with me. I eventually realized it wasn’t that the other kids had her attention, she just didn’t want (or maybe know how) to deal with me, and that set the tone for the rest of childhood.
She mentioned that she knew my father’s best friend abused his daughters, but it really wasn’t my parents business to do anything about it. And yet, Dad’s bff and his wife were my frequent babysitters.
When she became the ‘wise elder’ to the next generation she’d mention how normal it is for children to become clingy and cry when their parents were leaving them with a babysitter. From my perspective, I knew that hell was probably about to happen so I was desperate for her to HEAR me, protect me.
I recently realized how often I would get ‘punished’ for doing exactly what I was told I should do. For example, I had been playing at my best friend’s house which was directly across the street from ours. My mom was outside with a neighbor, not watching us. My friend and I ran across the street to talk to her. Mom somehow came to the conclusion I didn’t look both ways before crossing when I actually had. Both my friend and I tried telling her that, but to no avail. I was sent to the basement to wait for my mom to come punish me. I was so scared. Then I desperately wanted to protect myself while being beaten yet knowing to do so would only enrage her more and cause her to strike harder. The yardstick she was using broke which frustrated her even more. (She usually used a wooden paddle which wouldn’t break.) This wasn’t an isolated incident. I was also slapped across the face so frequently that I flinched whenever anyone raised their hand until I was well into adulthood.
The defining moment that now tells me how much of a victim I had already become occurred in kindergarten. A classmate asked if I would go to her house to play for a while. I didn’t know her that well and she intimidated me. I didn’t want to go but said o.k. because I was too afraid to say no. When we got to her house her mother let me call my mom. I tried multiple times but couldn’t get through. I was getting scared because I knew my mother would be extremely angry, but didn’t have the courage to tell them I wanted to leave. Between attempts to call home, the girl and I would play even though I was feeling serious trepidation. It wasn’t long before my very irate mother was knocking at the door. I desperately told her how many times I tried to call, and the girl’s mother vouched for me, but mom would not have it. She had a death grip on my upper arm as she practically dragged me home. The next thing I remember is lying face down, unclothed, on a bed with a wire hangar laying on the bedspread. I was screaming in terror and pain, and mom was reciting the words without any remorse like she always did when she was done ‘punishing’ me: “That hurt me much more than it hurt you.” To this day I have no conscious memory of what exactly happened.
I had asthma as a child. Both parents smoked cigarettes and the second hand smoke led to asthma attacks. Between the smoking and stress from the abuse the attacks would frequently lead to croup, bronchitis or pneumonia. I was sick so often I became immune to penicillin and all the medications I took ruined my teeth. The doctor told mom strong odors would cause the attacks and illnesses. If I mentioned the smoke was causing breathing problems sometimes she would open a window half an inch, and other times I’d be told what a spoiled brat/baby I was and nothing would change. That would frequently be her (and the rest of the family’s) response if I dared ask for something I needed, so I learned to shut up.
The most painful memory of this era as far as my mother was concerned occurred when I was 6 or 7 years old. I had to have just gotten out of a bath since I was standing naked in the bathroom. My mother noticed some marks on my body that told her what I was going through at the hands of people she cared much more about. She was looming over me, her hands tightly gripping my upper arms, shaking me a little while emphatically telling me in no uncertain terms that I was to keep my mouth shut about what was happening. And unspoken, that I had to let it continue. I cannot begin to tell you the intensity of the humiliation, horror, terror, hopelessness, helplessness, vulnerability, guilt and shame I felt in that moment. (As well as now, as I write this, and any other time I have a flashback.)
This was when Little Pearl finally shattered and was laid to rest.
Thank you, Jesus, for getting me through this stuff. There have been many times in the past when I wished You hadn’t, and now I am so glad You did. Amen.
Wednesday’s blog will be about some of the effects these incidents have on me in adulthood.
(This poem was written when I was a young adult. Sometimes when I read the old stuff I’m amazed at how insightful it was about what was really going on in my subconscious in spite of living in complete denial.)
Eyes of the Child
Watching the car go ‘bye-bye’ now
through the misty blue eyes of a child.
Trying to figure out someway how
she can get them to love her awhile.
Nobody knows the dreams that unfold behind those misty blue eyes.
Nobody knows if the truth should be told instead of those terrible lies.
People move on from day to day
never seeing the eyes of the child,
they continue on their designated way never stopping to talk for a while.
The soul of a child flies away on wings as any hope that she held now dies.
No longer will the heart of the child sing As she watches them leave with clear blue eyes.
c. P.E.M.
