Curveball

It’s taken me a little time to get around to writing this one. Monday, we picked back up on the general topic, my abusive father. Dr. Dragonfly asked me about the Carrie 2/Firestarter visual and how it felt and how my body felt about it. Almost out of shame, I said that it felt wonderful (because I had power) but that I shouldn’t feel that way because of how destructive it was. She redirected me to the fact that it was imagination, an image of power for your mind, body and nervous system(s). It was then time to move away from the mummy and frankenstein and go on to the next memory.

Tell me about the time when you had the nosebleed. (Ugh, I thought.) It was a Monday night (MASH was on and it came on Monday). I constantly had nosebleeds as a child. I had them so often that I didn’t even feel them when they came on. So, I’m sitting there on the floor watching the program when BAM! All of a sudden my dad’s right on top of me, beating the shit out of me with his fists. I’m squarely under him and I’m having a lot of trouble squirming out. I had absolutely no idea what had just happened. I was watching a TV show and now I’m a punching bag. My 8 year old brain is trying to make some sense of it. Finally, “You’re bleeding all over your mother’s goddamned pillow. You’re nose is bleeding and you’re bleeding all over the pillow. Don’t you even have enough sense to go to the bathroom and get some toilet paper or kleenex to get rid of the nosebleed. See, you’ve ruined her pillow because you’re too damned stupid to get up and take care of it yourself.” I’m still trying to squirm out from under him. “Jim, leave him be. It’s just a pillow. I can throw it in the wash. Stop hitting him. You’re hurting him.” (More squirming-almost free) “There you go again. Making excuses for them. They’ll never learn anything with you around.” And with that little distraction, I was free. (Mind you, this little incident went on for about a 1/2 hour) I ran upstairs to my bedroom. Closed the door. Grabbed some tissues and a blanket and scooted under the bed rolled up in a little ball, sobbing heavily. Eventually, I fell asleep. I don’t remember whether or not I woke up on or under my bed the next morning.

‘How did that make you feel?’ Powerless and helpless, again. There was no way out. ‘If you could’ve done anything to him that you wanted to get him off of you and away from you to where he couldn’t harm you again, what would you do?’ This one took a little more thought. [I really don’t like these ‘power machinations.’ They’re kind of fun and disturbing at the same time]. After a couple of minutes I said that I’d push him onto the ceiling fan where he’d do a few rotations and then launch him through the bay window. He’d fly to the apple trees. An apple tree would catch him and slowly suck him into its roots. He would go from root to root until he went from apple tree to corn field to the huge old oak tree at the corner. Once he was in the oak tree, it would regurgitate him up through its systems until he was tangled in the tallest branches never to be released again. ‘Wow! That’s a pretty powerful image. How does it make you feel?’ Relieved.

‘Now, we know that you’re not safe at home. You’re not safe at school and you’re not safe at church. Looking at the home and school part, especially in this last encounter, where was your mom?’ I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question. We know that your dad is a monster who basically hurts you for fun or pleasure or some other equally disgusting purpose. Since you can remember, which would be this 5-8/9 y/o time period, where was your mother? ‘Oh.’ Curveball.

My mother was yelling at my father not to beat me. Then I’d get beaten even harder. He’d tell her “Woman, stay out of this. I’ll discipline the child. [My brother went largely ignored at great cost to them later.]” Or alternately, he’d beat my mother and then return to me. Either way I was fucked and I guess I’d rather he beat me than my mother. She’d sit there and scream at him. He’d scream at her and pummel me on autopilot until I was able to get away.

Looking back, at times she would take her frustrations with my father out on me too, but to a much lesser extent. She would beat me for a little while and realize what was happening. A guilty, remorseful, frightened look would come over her face and she would blame it on my father. She was taking out her frustrations on me. My mother wasn’t anywhere. I was completely unprotected and defenseless unless my grandparents (on my father’s side) were around. They didn’t let anything happen to me.

I was, and still am, absolutely unprepared to deal with this new reality. I always say my mother as a protector role. I understood that she excused my father’s behaviors from time to time with platitudes and bullshit, but she did try to protect me. As the boxes open, the body is able to feel each situation and release its energy. The mind also clues into what the body feels and is able to grasp the driving emotions from so many years ago. It is hard to deal with. These two particular events alone speak volumes.

For the mummy/frankenstein, Mrs. Reed came to the house. She gave me my classmates cards and told me that everyone hoped I’d be back soon because they missed me. She sat in the kitchen my mom and dad and talked about whatever was going to happen when I returned. I was not part of that conversation. My return was eventually a nightmare. I said something to dad, I got beaten because I wasn’t tough enough. I said something to mom and I got, ‘it’s ok honey. They’ll get used to it.’ They have to get used to me? I’m the injured party through no fault of my own. It wasn’t even really an accident. It was dad’s stupidity, but they have to get used to me? I’m supposed to tolerate the offensive things the do and say, that Mrs. Reed now sweeps under the rug, until they get used to me? Fuck you! It was a horrible experience. The least you could’ve done was go to school and talked to Mrs. Reed about what was going on. I know life isn’t fair, but it’s not a lesson that I needed to internalize at 6. Someone comes in with a cast and everyone thinks it’s cool and wants to sign it. I come in with a serious, life threatening accident and I’m a social pariah. Fuck you! You knew then what kind of a “man” dad was. Why didn’t you divorce his ass? I know…to keep the good “xtian family appearance and people just didn’t do that back then.” Both are lovely excuses that express you lack of willpower. I’m fairly certain it’s just going to get worse from here. I can’t wait until my brother is mixed into the equation.

Fuck you, Jesus Christ and the Horse you rode in on!