Child Abuse Story From MauriceLA

by MauriceLA
(Chicago, Illinois, USA)

I was the only child, and the mother raised me with little help from my father and my extended families. She was under a lot of stress and, because of her bad upbringing, the behavior of my father, with whom she divorced after a brief marriage, and the fact that she worked with someone who had poor work ethics, she was very bitter. Since I was the age of 5, she used the belt on me as punishment for bad behavior. When I was 8, even though I did nothing wrong, she brought me into the living room and showed me a multi-braided belt, the first time I had ever seen one, and she told me that she bought it just for whipping me and that it would hurt more than the last belt she used. Well, one day, my cousin coaxed me to go with her to a candy store which was further than we were supposed to go. As we were coming back, she suggested that we lie and say we went around the block. Sure enough, our parents were looking for us, and we told them we went around the block. My mother said, "We went around the block, and you weren't there. Now tell me the truth." When we told them how far we went, both parents told us we were going to be whipped. That was probably the first time she used that belt. Afterwards, she and her sister opened up their windows and bragged about how they whipped us. My mother said, "He was on the floor," and they laughed. A month later, I told her I heard her say this, and she said, "And the next time you lie to me, you will be IN the floor." (To this day, I refuse to wear a multi-braided belt.)
After a few years, she retired the multi-braided belt, and chose an even thicker belt. If I did something wrong, she would wait until 2 or 3 in the morning and then charge into my room, pull away the covers, and then beat me. Since I was a child, the pain was so bad, I would scream loudly, pleading for her to stop, but she felt it was important to discipline me this way so that I would not end up like a few of her brothers. After a night of being beaten so, I would end up with welts that took a week to go away. Only one outside person, a camp counselor, noticed the welts and asked me how I got them. When I told her, she wept. Still, this kind of punishment was widely accepted in the color community, and this was not the time period when such things were reported to the police. When I turned 14, she no longer whipped me, but she would slap, shove, or punch me for very little reason. One time, when I did not clean my room fast enough for her, she grabbed me by the throat and repeatedly slammed my head against the wall. Then she would also do the one thing she knew hurt me probably the most. She called me names. She called me all types of bastard, but worst of all, she called me a nigger. Since I studied Jim Crow and the Civil Rights Movement independently, I knew this word was meant to be used to dehumanize others. This word made me cry even more than any beating she gave me. She would say that the word has nothing to do with anything racial and that if I did not want to be called a nigger, I should stop acting like one. There was even a time when, with a smug look on her face, she talked about the things she could be doing if I were never born. Another thing is, she never respected my privacy as a child. There were times she would just barge into my room even when she knew I was indecent. When I tried to cover up, she would tell me to stop being silly and that she has seen me naked before. One time, I had a doctor's appointment, and I was told to get robed up. When I asked my mother to leave so I could change, she refused. To protect my modesty, I backed into a corner and held up a sheet so I could change. She became so angry that she jumped up, held out her hand, and was about to slap me, but then the doctor knocked on the door. The beatings continued until one day when I was 16, and I had gotten tired of it, since she beat me all day for no reason, so I hit her back. Man, was she shocked! She threatened to kill me if I ever hit her again, but then she never laid a hand on me after that. (Oh, and where was my father when all of this was going on? Doing his own thing! I only saw him 2-3 times a year--after not showing up a couple of times when he promised to come get me. He thought sending me money was all the fathering he needed to do.)When I was 18, though, a friend of the family invited me and other teens who had just turned 18 out to Dave and Busters. To prove her power over this newly-legal adult, she picked out a stained short-sleeved shirt and a pair of short shorts for me to wear and said that I could not go unless I wore them. To this day, I wish I would have opted to stay home, but I didn't. I looked ridiculous in those clothes! I looked like I was 8! Until I was 21, when I moved out, she insisted that I needed to get her permission if I wanted to go to a party or meet up with friends. It's like I wanted to be an adult, but she insisted I stay a child.

One of the worst things my mother did was when I was 16. I always had health problems, and a doctor became concerned that I was not developing like a person my age. They sent me to this primary care doctor, I'll call him Dr. G, who would refer me to a specialist. When he examined me, two red flags went up immediately: one, he did not use gloves, like other doctors, and two, the first thing he examined was my genitals; this was the last thing all of my doctors did. When he examined me, forced down the foreskin and dug his nail into my urethra. The pain was so bad that I cried out. He said, "Boy, that didn't hurt. Now, be quiet, or I'll pop you." When we were in the car on the way home, I told my mother what the doctor did on the way home. Since she worked in the medical profession, I told her how I felt it was not appropriate, and I volunteered to consult other doctors about this. (I had a follow-up) appointment in a week.) She said she would do it instead. A few days later, I asked her if she spoke to anyone. She said no, and left it at that. Before you know it, it was the day of the appointment. Not getting any closure from Mom, I told my art teacher what happened, and she brought me to the dean, and he called DCFS. When my mother came after school to pick me up, the dean told her my confession, she became angry and said that it made no sense and that it was in my mind. She said that it was a misunderstanding and that she was taking me to see the doctor to straighten things out. As we drove to the office, she said nothing to me. When we got there, she told the doctor what I accused him of. He completely denied doing anything wrong and made it sound like his actions were medically necessary. My mother believed him without question, which made me feel as if I was crazy. I chose to bury everything that happened, and it remained buried for 10 years--until I was a social worker helping a client who had been sexually abused. Then everything was unearthed, and I was forced to deal with it.

As an effect of my abuse, I was terrified of my mother, I felt unloved, and I slipped in and out of depression since my teenage years. I always had trouble trusting people, and I always overdressed because I was embarrassed of my own body. Years of psychotherapy and my faith in God helped me overcome. While my mother never apologized for how she treated me, she respected me more when I moved out, and she became the nourishing, encouraging mother I never had, and we share a good relationship. Things are good with my father too.

---

Note from Darlene: If I have not left a comment on your story, please understand that it is not personal; it's just that my hectic schedule no longer permits me to do so.

I hope you'll follow me on:


Email addresses, phone numbers, home addresses AND website/blog URLs in submissions and visitor comments are STRICTLY prohibited. Please don't include them, as they will be removed.