Child Abuse Story From Christina1
by Christina
(Philadelphia, USA)
Hated Unwanted Girl:
I just remember my mother being angry all the time. She was so mean. So hostile. So incredibly harsh. My older sister Patti calls it "her reign of terror", and I agree. She made it a point to yell, scream and degrade me every single chance she got. And she was physically abusive towards me. I can recall weeks that I spent in my room, afraid to go downstairs for fear she would explode and leave me crying on the floor. She never, ever bothered my younger sister. Jenny was her angel. Don't get me wrong, Jenny didn't have it easier. She was neglected just as badly as me.
We were very poor and lived in really bad conditions. When I was 8, she moved Jenny and I (Patti was gone, 18 and making a life for herself) to South Philly. The kitchen floor of the house we lived in had a hole in it, you could see the basement. There were no pipes or plumbing in the kitchen. We had to put a bucket under the sink to catch the water that we'd dump out back when it got full. The stove didn't work. We had a mini fridge sitting on the table. The walls in the kitchen were made of bricks and the caulk between them wore away. When it rained or snowed it came into the kitchen. Jenny and I shared a room and the bathroom was in our room. The toilet didn't work and neither did the shower.
My mom would go through her phases and would disappear for a day or two at a time, leaving Jenny and I in the house alone. She had one phone that she kept in her room and she locked her bedroom door so that we couldn't go in. My mom would then come in like a whirlwind, with chips or pretzels and tell us she had food. There was never, ever anything to eat in the house, except maybe a huge yellow brick of cheese that welfare gave us. Those were the only times that actually had a moment to relish in her happiness. It seemed when she was gone for a few days, she'd come back happy. I liked her those days.
But her terror days were just that. Terror. Angry and filled with hate. When I was about 9, she sent me to the corner store to get a back of chips. The store was literally 30ft away. She stood in the doorway the whole time, watching me. The owner of the store had just had a baby so the store was packed with customers, friends and family cooing over this little baby girl. I took a little longer than I think she appreciated. The minute I got back to our front door, she dragged me in and proceeded to punch, kick and smack me all across the living room. I felt her smash me in the head with something, but I didn't really feel any pain. When she was done she told me 'she hoped I'd die', and then she went upstairs to her room. I was all wet and sticky. It was winter so I thought I was sweating from the struggle. I crept up the steps to go to my room and when I opened the door, Jenny started screaming and sobbing, "Oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry, I'm soooo sorry." I had no clue what she was talking about! I walked into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. There was blood oozing down my face, on my clothes, into my eyes. I grabbed a towel, wrapped my head in it and lay down in my bed.
The nights were the worst. She had a habit of getting up, coming into my room and waking me by beating as hard and as crazy as she could with whatever she could find. I would hide anything and everything in my room, before I went to sleep, that could hurt me: my clock, dolls with hard heads, radio, anything hard under my bed. I would get on my knees and push it all the way back against the wall. And when she would come in and not find anything in her rage, she'd beat me with her hands and then scream at me that I'd hurt her hands. Anything was better than that clock. She also had a habit of telling me that she hated me. Hated me. Wished I were never born. "Your own father never loved you, what makes you think I, or anyone else, ever would?" was what she told me one day while she stood in my room. I cowered against the wall, afraid to make eye contact. If I didn't look at her maybe she would stay away.
She liked to play games too. This one particular one, she would tell me not to talk to her. And she MEANT that! This game could go on for weeks. If I spoke to her first, then I'd get creamed. So I did what I did best: stayed in my room.
One particular day, I heard Jenny downstairs laughing and joking with her. I thought the terror was over. It had been 4 days since she last acknowledged that I was alive. So I went downstairs to the kitchen where she was opening a can of tomato soup that she'd just bought for lunch. I sat in the kitchen. She didn't yell! Jenny asked a question and I responded. She didn't freak out! She responded to Jenny and I responded to her. She turned around walked slowly over to me and poured that entire can of soup over my head. "Didn't I say not to talk to me?" she said and walked away. I was so embarrassed. I looked at Jenny and she looked so sorry for me. I went upstairs to my room.
Luckily for me, there was this little Italian lady that lived right across the street named Rose. She had no children of her own. She kind of adopted me. At 10, she started inviting me over to her house. She would fix me food and let me watch TV with her. Sometimes pour me a cup of her homemade Iced Tea, turn on her Opera on the radio and ask me to play cards with her. We sat in silence and I enjoyed every single moment. She became my safety. Around her I could breathe. I was not on edge and I was not afraid to laugh or to speak. She gave me keys about a year after she first started doting on me. She told me I could come over whenever I wanted. I started cleaning her house because I was so grateful for her kindness and she was getting up in age. She tried to pay me! I refused. How could I take payment from someone who gave me comfort and peace from the "reign of terror"?
I remember falling asleep on her couch one time by accident. I woke up frantic. I was embarrassed and ready to be yelled at. She played it off and told me to try some of her homemade meatballs. She told me to call her Aunt Rosie and I did. Christmastime she'd have family over and I'd be right there with her. A family! The first time she bought me a Christmas gift I was embarrassed. I felt I didn't deserve such kindness. I was in awe. I was SO blessed to have known her. She comforted me in my time of need and gave me a place that I could run to, where I could relax and not have fear in my heart. She has since passed. But I will always have a place in my heart for her.
I moved out of my mom's house on my 18th birthday and never went back. I got a job, an apartment and moved on. Happy to be free from the pain, the embarrassment and the agony she caused me for so many years.
Funny, because now I allow her into my home. I do love her. I do wish the best for her and I try my best to be her friend. She's chased everyone away, and I'm really all she has. I don't have the heart to tell her to go. Besides, she loves my gorgeous son; and he loves her. I could never take that away.
For the most part I am okay. For many years I've denied that I was still hurting and being controlled by her madness. I was lying. I've admitted that to myself recently. It does still hurt and cause me to have nightmares. Literally. I do not believe that I deserve better. I feel very low about myself. She beat it into my head every single day that I was worthless. And I still believe her. When people would do nice things for me, I wouldn't accept it. I was embarrassed. Didn't they see I wasn't worth it? Until one day, a very close friend told me, "If someone does something nice for you it's because they want to. It's because they love you and they do NOT want anything back. Accept it. You are kind, beautiful and loved." I hear her saying that over and over again. But I'm still fighting to believe it.
Many days I go on. I smile a lot, I'm super friendly and I'm very concerned and compassionate about my friends and family. Though I lack the love for myself. I don't know that I ever will find it. It has affected me so badly. I'm severely overweight, and have been trying for years to lose it, but fail every time. I wish I were never born some days. I have stomach problems and throw up at the first sign of anxiety or stress. Out of my 3 sisters, I'm the only one she abused, but I'm the only one out of us 3 that deal with her! I don't know that I'll ever find peace, but I hope I do.
I really hope I do.
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