A few nights ago, when I lay down to go to sleep, emotions rose to the surface. I thought at first that I was going to have a panic attack but I was able to cry instead. I cried because I didn’t want this to be my story. I cried because I felt all the pain that this IS my story and neither myself nor anyone else can take it back or change it. I cried because it isn’t my fault that this is my story. It isn’t my fault if I can’t make everyone look good by telling the truth.
In writing this, I have felt guilty that it would make many people, most notably my parents, look bad. I was terrified that I was going to enjoy making their faults public. As I sobbed my heart out last night, I knew for sure; I don’t. I am writing this for one reason. It is my story and it is time to tell the truth about it.
I didn’t pick this as my story. I would give almost anything to have a story that I could enjoy writing. I wish I could write my story about a happy, well-functioning, but quirky family. I would do anything except continue silently or continue lying to myself. I wish that my story was an honor to my parents, but if the truth isn’t an honor, I am helpless to change that.
I would do anything to save my parents from their own choices and their own stories that they didn’t choose. But I can’t. I can only bring the truth to light. Bringing it to the light may cause some harm, but letting it lurk in shadows is definitely causing harm. The light may not make it pretty, but maybe it can give it the chance to be redeemed.
If I could walk into a bookstore and pick a story to be my past, this is not the one I would have chosen. This is a story of confusion, pain, and fear. This is a reality stranger than most fiction. It is not by my choice that it is mine.
I remember that we weren’t allowed to wear makeup until we turned sixteen. When Julia turned sixteen, she was happy to start wearing it, but when Ellen turned sixteen she was only interested in wearing it some of the time. I remember many Sundays after Ellen turned sixteen that Mom would say, “Aren’t you at least going to put on some lipstick?!” This translated as a non-optional command.
I was usually shamed for going out of the door with wet hair. "You can't go out looking like that! You look like an orphan!"
I was usually shamed for going out of the door with wet hair. "You can't go out looking like that! You look like an orphan!"
I remember the first time Dad admitted to me that he and Mom were having problems. I was 18 and we went on a walk around our extensive, six and half mile, country block. He walked and jogged and I was on my bike. I said almost nothing because the information he was giving me was so much to take in.
I was grateful, at first, that he was being honest. Finally, I was being given the respect and decency of knowing the truth about the situation I was forced to live under. I was also terrified. My entire world felt like it was crumbling around my ears. What he said was not very surprising on the one hand because it fit my reality a lot better than the basically good marriage I believed existed. On the other hand, I had honestly believed my parents were doing pretty well, and our family was overall normally healthy.
Since the conversation encompassed all six and a half miles, I’m guessing it lasted between one and half and two hours. He went all the way back to when he and Mom were dating and told me what seemed like everything. He told me he should have realized when they were dating that he shouldn’t have married Mom, and told me their marriage got worse as soon as Julia was born. He told me that their sex life was never good. He told me so much that I am having to censor it here.
I just tried to process it all. I was honored that he was sharing with me, and thought that maybe this meant he would let me help him.
I felt confused, trying to figure out where the truth met between the dire story he was telling me and the face that he and Mom put on to us kids and the world. I wished the block wasn’t so big, so the conversation would end. By the time we were almost home, I felt so sad for him and Mom.
It made me really uncomfortable that he talked about their sex life. I also wondered if he really didn’t realize that his confiding in me about his unfulfilling and disappointing sex life made me feel like I was supposed to offer him sex. I knew, at least I was almost sure, that he would be horrified by this suggestion. But, on the other hand, I felt like he should have known that it would make me feel like that.
This was the first time that we had this ‘conversation’ of him listing all Mom’s faults (largely sexual in nature) and the ways he had been wronged in their marriage. He technically admitted to having some faults as a husband; but, while Mom’s faults were shared in specific detail, I never figured out what he thought his were.
At first, I tried to give him counsel. I wracked my brain for the right thing to say that would save him and Mom both. After hearing his exact same story with all the lurid details too many times to count and realizing that he didn’t want and wouldn’t receive anything from me on the subject, I refused to listen to it. At the time, I didn’t realize that what I was experiencing was verbal sexual abuse.
Sometimes, he changed it up a little by interjecting into his saga of marital abuse, strong advice about how I should and should not treat my future husband. He would use Mom’s actions against him as examples of how I should never treat my husband. I wish I could say that I didn’t take any of this skewed situational advice to heart, but I did. I still find it cropping up sometimes in how I think about myself as Jon’s wife.
One night, he took me out to eat and started talking about Mom again. I told him that I was unwilling to listen anymore and we needed to talk about something else. He tried to say a few more things about her, but I politely and firmly cut him off. I could barely eat, my stomach was so tense. Once he realized that I really wouldn’t listen to him talk about Mom he had nothing more to say and we ate our entire meal in silence.
That meal marks the point for me when Dad and I stopped talking. Once I didn’t allow him to talk about Mom, he basically stopped talking to me altogether. The few times that we have had private conversations since then he has mostly talked about his current girlfriend or again, Mom’s failings.
Only within the last few years have I learned the technical term for the kind of relationship I was taught that God wanted me to have with my Dad: Emotional Incest. Where his emotional needs would be met by his children.
I was grateful, at first, that he was being honest. Finally, I was being given the respect and decency of knowing the truth about the situation I was forced to live under. I was also terrified. My entire world felt like it was crumbling around my ears. What he said was not very surprising on the one hand because it fit my reality a lot better than the basically good marriage I believed existed. On the other hand, I had honestly believed my parents were doing pretty well, and our family was overall normally healthy.
Since the conversation encompassed all six and a half miles, I’m guessing it lasted between one and half and two hours. He went all the way back to when he and Mom were dating and told me what seemed like everything. He told me he should have realized when they were dating that he shouldn’t have married Mom, and told me their marriage got worse as soon as Julia was born. He told me that their sex life was never good. He told me so much that I am having to censor it here.
I just tried to process it all. I was honored that he was sharing with me, and thought that maybe this meant he would let me help him.
I felt confused, trying to figure out where the truth met between the dire story he was telling me and the face that he and Mom put on to us kids and the world. I wished the block wasn’t so big, so the conversation would end. By the time we were almost home, I felt so sad for him and Mom.
It made me really uncomfortable that he talked about their sex life. I also wondered if he really didn’t realize that his confiding in me about his unfulfilling and disappointing sex life made me feel like I was supposed to offer him sex. I knew, at least I was almost sure, that he would be horrified by this suggestion. But, on the other hand, I felt like he should have known that it would make me feel like that.
This was the first time that we had this ‘conversation’ of him listing all Mom’s faults (largely sexual in nature) and the ways he had been wronged in their marriage. He technically admitted to having some faults as a husband; but, while Mom’s faults were shared in specific detail, I never figured out what he thought his were.
At first, I tried to give him counsel. I wracked my brain for the right thing to say that would save him and Mom both. After hearing his exact same story with all the lurid details too many times to count and realizing that he didn’t want and wouldn’t receive anything from me on the subject, I refused to listen to it. At the time, I didn’t realize that what I was experiencing was verbal sexual abuse.
Sometimes, he changed it up a little by interjecting into his saga of marital abuse, strong advice about how I should and should not treat my future husband. He would use Mom’s actions against him as examples of how I should never treat my husband. I wish I could say that I didn’t take any of this skewed situational advice to heart, but I did. I still find it cropping up sometimes in how I think about myself as Jon’s wife.
One night, he took me out to eat and started talking about Mom again. I told him that I was unwilling to listen anymore and we needed to talk about something else. He tried to say a few more things about her, but I politely and firmly cut him off. I could barely eat, my stomach was so tense. Once he realized that I really wouldn’t listen to him talk about Mom he had nothing more to say and we ate our entire meal in silence.
That meal marks the point for me when Dad and I stopped talking. Once I didn’t allow him to talk about Mom, he basically stopped talking to me altogether. The few times that we have had private conversations since then he has mostly talked about his current girlfriend or again, Mom’s failings.
Only within the last few years have I learned the technical term for the kind of relationship I was taught that God wanted me to have with my Dad: Emotional Incest. Where his emotional needs would be met by his children.
I remember watching Ellen and Mom have a "discussion" in the laundry room under the stairs. I must have come in to get something and had to stand there and wait for Mom. Our laundry room was tiny, and you couldn’t really pass someone in it without squeezing. Ellen was trapped, further in than Mom. Since I was behind Mom, I could see Ellen’s face. It was obvious to me that she was in quite a bit of pain. Must be another of her headaches. Her face was a little pale and wore that tensely-trying-to-relax look that I have come to recognize on someone still functioning under a massive headache.
Mom was telling her that she didn’t understand why she always had a bad attitude. She didn’t understand what was wrong between her and Ellen. She needed Ellen to communicate more with her. And why didn’t Ellen ever smile? I think Mom was crying.
Ellen was trying to explain that she didn’t have a bad attitude, she had a headache. She didn’t smile because she had headaches. There wasn’t anything wrong between them. Ellen was trying to communicate. She needed Mom to quit assuming what Ellen was thinking and feeling.
I think I remember this instance in particular because it was the first time that I realized Ellen was making sense and Mom wasn’t. All I had to do was look at Ellen’s face, and I knew what was wrong, more or less. But Mom didn’t. She looked at Ellen and saw a bad attitude, resentment, and a cold shoulder, even though she knew that Ellen had headaches almost constantly. I didn’t process it right then because I didn’t know what to do with the information that Mom couldn’t understand what was obvious to me.
Mom was telling her that she didn’t understand why she always had a bad attitude. She didn’t understand what was wrong between her and Ellen. She needed Ellen to communicate more with her. And why didn’t Ellen ever smile? I think Mom was crying.
Ellen was trying to explain that she didn’t have a bad attitude, she had a headache. She didn’t smile because she had headaches. There wasn’t anything wrong between them. Ellen was trying to communicate. She needed Mom to quit assuming what Ellen was thinking and feeling.
I think I remember this instance in particular because it was the first time that I realized Ellen was making sense and Mom wasn’t. All I had to do was look at Ellen’s face, and I knew what was wrong, more or less. But Mom didn’t. She looked at Ellen and saw a bad attitude, resentment, and a cold shoulder, even though she knew that Ellen had headaches almost constantly. I didn’t process it right then because I didn’t know what to do with the information that Mom couldn’t understand what was obvious to me.
I remember, when I was somewhere between 5-8 years old, I was given the chore of vacuuming our large kitchen and dining room. I hated cleaning the floor because I was always sure to miss something. I thought the hard surface attachment to the vacuum never worked well, but I wasn’t much better with a broom. Mom told me to do it with the vacuum this time, because the vacuum was easier to use. Her opinion, even though it changed regularly, was usually stated as absolute fact.
I used the vacuum. I didn’t have a bad attitude; I just didn’t look forward to the, from my view, interminably long chore. I vacuumed some, but then I found a trail of wood ants somewhere along the floor. That house was infested with wood ants. I found that it was very satisfying to suck them up with the vacuum, much more satisfying than generally rubbing it over the floor never sure if it was getting cleaner or not. Without conscious decision I quickly became focused on chasing ants around the floor. Sometime later, I don’t know how long, Mom came into the room and was shocked to see that I hadn’t gotten farther then I did. I had been alone in the room until then, with no supervision.
Her voice broke my focus, “What on earth are you doing?”
I looked up, startled, and my heart sank. How was I supposed to explain that I had been chasing ants? This time, she wasn’t particularly angry. She was almost gentle.
“Were you doing what I told you to do?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“I’m going to have to give you a spanking for not obeying me.”
Gulp, silent nod, “But, I just got distracted . . . I’ll stop now! I’ll finish vacuuming real quick.”
“Is getting distracted a good excuse to disobey me?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Come get a spanking.”
I put down the vacuum and slowly went to her room for a spanking. The spanking was over quickly and she sat me on her lap afterwards, wiping off my tears. She always gave us lectures after a spanking, I don’t remember the words to this one, but I remember she was still gentle. She seemed genuinely sorry that I hadn’t obeyed her and was hopeful the spanking would keep me from forgetting what I was doing in the future. She sent me back to vacuum again making a joke that I was the only daughter of hers that would get distracted chasing ants.
I went back to the vacuum crying furious tears. I wasn’t mad at Mom. I didn’t think that maybe I didn’t deserve a spanking for being an eight year old that couldn’t stay on task indefinitely. I was mad at myself. Angry enough to explode. HOW, could I POSSIBLY have gotten distracted AGAIN! What was wrong with me?! When was I going to stop it! Hadn’t I gotten enough spankings? When was I ever going to learn! I was so STUPID. I hated those stupid ants. I was NEVER going to lose focus like that again. I was going to focus; really focus this time, and not EVER forget again.
I don’t remember what happened on this particular occasion. Did I finish vacuuming before losing focus again? It’s hard to say. I would often get spanked multiple times for not finishing chores fast enough, for forgetting a chore, or for getting distracted. Even if ‘getting distracted’ was my tendency to over clean areas Mom didn’t care about.
It was important to finish chores within the time Mom believed it should take. The time set might be reasonable for an adult who was familiar with the housework, but never for an unsupervised child. It was equally important to finish them in the right way. Too detailed, and you would take too much time; not detailed enough and you would be called back multiple times, and probably get spanked for laziness.
To unload and load a dishwasher, wash any hand dishes, and wipe down the kitchen should take half an hour even though there were 6 family members to clean up after. Sometimes there were two of us doing it (which only meant more fighting) but the time didn’t change either way. Only since being married have I realized; as an adult, it takes me about an hour to clean a kitchen to Mom’s standard when it is just me and my husband making the mess.
I used the vacuum. I didn’t have a bad attitude; I just didn’t look forward to the, from my view, interminably long chore. I vacuumed some, but then I found a trail of wood ants somewhere along the floor. That house was infested with wood ants. I found that it was very satisfying to suck them up with the vacuum, much more satisfying than generally rubbing it over the floor never sure if it was getting cleaner or not. Without conscious decision I quickly became focused on chasing ants around the floor. Sometime later, I don’t know how long, Mom came into the room and was shocked to see that I hadn’t gotten farther then I did. I had been alone in the room until then, with no supervision.
Her voice broke my focus, “What on earth are you doing?”
I looked up, startled, and my heart sank. How was I supposed to explain that I had been chasing ants? This time, she wasn’t particularly angry. She was almost gentle.
“Were you doing what I told you to do?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“I’m going to have to give you a spanking for not obeying me.”
Gulp, silent nod, “But, I just got distracted . . . I’ll stop now! I’ll finish vacuuming real quick.”
“Is getting distracted a good excuse to disobey me?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Come get a spanking.”
I put down the vacuum and slowly went to her room for a spanking. The spanking was over quickly and she sat me on her lap afterwards, wiping off my tears. She always gave us lectures after a spanking, I don’t remember the words to this one, but I remember she was still gentle. She seemed genuinely sorry that I hadn’t obeyed her and was hopeful the spanking would keep me from forgetting what I was doing in the future. She sent me back to vacuum again making a joke that I was the only daughter of hers that would get distracted chasing ants.
I went back to the vacuum crying furious tears. I wasn’t mad at Mom. I didn’t think that maybe I didn’t deserve a spanking for being an eight year old that couldn’t stay on task indefinitely. I was mad at myself. Angry enough to explode. HOW, could I POSSIBLY have gotten distracted AGAIN! What was wrong with me?! When was I going to stop it! Hadn’t I gotten enough spankings? When was I ever going to learn! I was so STUPID. I hated those stupid ants. I was NEVER going to lose focus like that again. I was going to focus; really focus this time, and not EVER forget again.
I don’t remember what happened on this particular occasion. Did I finish vacuuming before losing focus again? It’s hard to say. I would often get spanked multiple times for not finishing chores fast enough, for forgetting a chore, or for getting distracted. Even if ‘getting distracted’ was my tendency to over clean areas Mom didn’t care about.
It was important to finish chores within the time Mom believed it should take. The time set might be reasonable for an adult who was familiar with the housework, but never for an unsupervised child. It was equally important to finish them in the right way. Too detailed, and you would take too much time; not detailed enough and you would be called back multiple times, and probably get spanked for laziness.
To unload and load a dishwasher, wash any hand dishes, and wipe down the kitchen should take half an hour even though there were 6 family members to clean up after. Sometimes there were two of us doing it (which only meant more fighting) but the time didn’t change either way. Only since being married have I realized; as an adult, it takes me about an hour to clean a kitchen to Mom’s standard when it is just me and my husband making the mess.
I had another nightmare about Mom. Nightmares about Mom are not unusual. She is usually sadistic in them, sometimes mocking, sometimes chasing me. I think the most common theme in them is that I am running, running, running. I try to dodge behind things, I try to get ahead, I try to zig, zag, and circle back, but no matter what I do, she is always right behind me. If I think I’ve lost her, she turns up suddenly. When Jon and I first got married, I would wake up from these dreams and immediately have a panic attack.
The dream this time was different. It started out the same; Mom was not much of a personality, just a mindless beating machine. She was beating someone always. In the dream, Eric was about five years old and I was concerned she would kill him.
I was not angry at her this time, I didn’t feel helpless. I knew that what was happening was wrong and I simply couldn’t let it continue. I did what I could to stop her in the moment. I hid the boys, and possibly Gracie, in the attic. I also took Mom’s stick away, grabbing it with my hand as she swung it at me. The next day, the church was coming over, Crossroads, the church I grew up in. We conveniently had a small amphitheater in our backyard to host them with. Gracie and I had a plan to save us from Mom’s beatings before she killed one of us. As the people from church were arriving and Mom was getting ready, Gracie and I went outside, took the boys with us and locked her inside.
Instead of church starting, I went up on the stage and told them everything that was happening. The church was shocked and totally silent but I knew that they believed me. As I was getting down off the stage, sobbing uncontrollably with relief, I was aware that an ambulance of some kind was already arriving to take Mom to a psych ward. I knew I she would be cared for, I would never have to see her again, and it was over. I cannot overemphasize my feeling of relief. I wondered what I would do with my life now that this was over. For so long, it was the only goal I had. I couldn’t stop sobbing.
I woke up with my body acting like it was trying to sob but I didn’t actually have any tears. Pretty quickly I was crying for real. I cried because the dream was so bad, yes. But I think I cried more because it wasn’t real. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that my Mom never really beat us within an inch of our lives, that I remember. But we were abused, and the abuse was no less real or long lasting, because it could have been more severe.
In real life, our abuse never stopped. Other people didn’t know about it, not even our closest friends. In real life, if we had even been allowed to stand on the church stage and start talking about how our family really was, no one would have believed us. Even if someone was willing to believe us, what could we tell them? The abuse was too subtle and hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it themselves. More importantly, it was all we knew as kids. For myself, I didn’t even know that the abuse was abuse. I didn’t know that it was even bad. I thought all loving parents spanked their kids and sometimes bruised them.
The dream this time was different. It started out the same; Mom was not much of a personality, just a mindless beating machine. She was beating someone always. In the dream, Eric was about five years old and I was concerned she would kill him.
I was not angry at her this time, I didn’t feel helpless. I knew that what was happening was wrong and I simply couldn’t let it continue. I did what I could to stop her in the moment. I hid the boys, and possibly Gracie, in the attic. I also took Mom’s stick away, grabbing it with my hand as she swung it at me. The next day, the church was coming over, Crossroads, the church I grew up in. We conveniently had a small amphitheater in our backyard to host them with. Gracie and I had a plan to save us from Mom’s beatings before she killed one of us. As the people from church were arriving and Mom was getting ready, Gracie and I went outside, took the boys with us and locked her inside.
Instead of church starting, I went up on the stage and told them everything that was happening. The church was shocked and totally silent but I knew that they believed me. As I was getting down off the stage, sobbing uncontrollably with relief, I was aware that an ambulance of some kind was already arriving to take Mom to a psych ward. I knew I she would be cared for, I would never have to see her again, and it was over. I cannot overemphasize my feeling of relief. I wondered what I would do with my life now that this was over. For so long, it was the only goal I had. I couldn’t stop sobbing.
I woke up with my body acting like it was trying to sob but I didn’t actually have any tears. Pretty quickly I was crying for real. I cried because the dream was so bad, yes. But I think I cried more because it wasn’t real. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that my Mom never really beat us within an inch of our lives, that I remember. But we were abused, and the abuse was no less real or long lasting, because it could have been more severe.
In real life, our abuse never stopped. Other people didn’t know about it, not even our closest friends. In real life, if we had even been allowed to stand on the church stage and start talking about how our family really was, no one would have believed us. Even if someone was willing to believe us, what could we tell them? The abuse was too subtle and hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it themselves. More importantly, it was all we knew as kids. For myself, I didn’t even know that the abuse was abuse. I didn’t know that it was even bad. I thought all loving parents spanked their kids and sometimes bruised them.
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