After the complete meltdown in my dorm, I sat and looked
around at the complete wreck of a room I had left. I felt horrible, but more
than that, I felt confused and scared. I couldn't tell my roommate exactly what
was going on, and the sweet girl was so understanding I wanted to cry.
I decided I should to go to the campus nurse and see if
there was anything she could do for me. I'm really not sure what I was
expecting: a magic pill maybe? Could she fly around the earth fast enough to
turn back time? I was very disappointed when she opened the door and
wasn't wearing a red cape.
I didn't really know what to tell her. I stumbled over my
words and managed to mutter something close to “I think I just had some
kind of meltdown." I can't remember the rest of the conversation, but I do
remember that she gave me an excuse to miss the rest of the week's classes. I
was getting all A's so taking a week off wasn't a big deal. The big deal was
figuring out where I was going to go. I had no place to stay except my parent's
house. The thought totally turned my stomach. But I was a grown woman, what
could he possibly do to me? If he tried anything I would have the fucker
arrested.
I don't know how I did it, but I managed to go back home and
act like nothing was wrong. But I think somehow I had always known there
was something wrong, very wrong.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Let's go to back to me in the basement, crying and praying
for death. On the outside everyone thought I was a playful, joyous child. On
the inside, however, I always felt differently: like I didn't quite fit in. Every time my father tried to hug me, I
cringed. I hated everything about him. I
hated the way he smelled, I hated his voice. I even hated the way he ate,
shoveling everything into his mouth and breathing through his nose so
loud. I remember watching him eat and
hoping he choked.
I have other memories of him, too. Memories that should have
been a big red flag, but instead just got filed in the “wow what a fucked up
father I have” drawer.
I was eight. I was in the kitchen. I was standing at the
sink doing some dishes that my mom had asked me to wash. Sitting behind me,
facing away from me, was my father. He was talking on the phone to one of his friends.
He was smoking a cigarette and the smoke filled the room, choking me and
burning my eyes. I always asked him not to smoke around me. He did anyway.
He turned to me and asked me to scratch his back for him. I
said no. He put his hand over the phone receiver and said “Just do it!” I
turned back around to the sink and noticed a knife sitting in the sudsy water.
I picked it up and thought to myself how easy it would be to kill him. His back
was to me, I could just turn around and stick this knife into his back and then
run. Even if they caught me, I’m a kid, what could they do? I even started to
turn around with the knife. But then he told me “Hurry up!” and I slid the
knife back into the water.
I turned around to look at him. He was still facing away
from me, chatting on the phone. I started to scratch his back but the more I
did the more hatred built up inside of me. I sunk my 8 year old nails into his back and scratched as
hard as I could, leaving red streaks down his back that were just starting to
weep blood. He turned around and asked “What the hell is wrong with you?”
But after that he never mentioned it. Is that normal? To
have your daughter do something like that to you and then not say something to
her, not find out what’s going on, not ground her? But that’s what happened. He
seemed to forget the incident even happened. I never did.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I was 9 years old. I
was bouncing around the house playing with whatever is was that I played with, Barbies
probably. My father had some of his work friends over.They were sitting out on
the back deck drinking and talking while my mother made them dinner. My father told me to come out onto the porch.
I didn’t want to go and told him no, but he angrily told me to go out there,
and the look on his face meant business. So I walked out on the deck and
immediately he told me to turn around so everyone could see me and proceeded to
ask his friends, “She has a cute figure doesn’t she? She’s going to be a really
beautiful young woman. She even has little boobs starting to grow.” I was
mortified and ran back into the house. I don’t know why this didn’t strike me
as something that just wasn’t normal, I just thought it was my dad being my
dad, the prick that he was. I never thought it was abuse of any kind.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I was 12. My mom had tickets to go see Journey in concert. I
was so jealous of her, I begged her to take me with her. But more than wanting
to go see the concert, I didn’t want to be left home alone with my dad. I never
wanted to be home alone with my dad, I always avoided it at all costs. But it
seemed that this time I had no choice. That night I spend most of the night
alone in my room. I didn’t want to see my dad so I avoided him, actively. When it was time for bed, my dad came to my
room and told me to get ready for bed. He told me I should change into my
nightgown. “Not until you leave.” I said.
“Oh so now you’re all bashful and shy?” he said. The tone of
his voice made me want to vomit.
“Please leave so I can get changed.”
“Oh OK, have it your way!”
He left my room in a huff and as soon as he did I locked the door. I don’t
remember anything else about that night, but I do remember that when I heard my
mom come home around 1 in the morning, I felt such a wave of relief wash over
me. She was home, and now I wasn’t alone with him anymore.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I was 15 now. My mom was teaching me how to cook. I was at
the stove with a spatula in my hand. I can still remember what it looked like.
It was all black plastic and the bottom part had small marking on it where
someone had let it sit too long and it melted a little. My father was in the
kitchen sitting at the table. He started to tease me about something, but I was
just ignoring him. He finally stood up and started to slap my butt. I told him
to stop. He ignored me and did it again. Again I told him to stop. And again he
ignored me and did it again. I had finally had enough and I turned around
swinging the spatula at him, spraying him with hot oil and yelled. “I told you
to stop, I don’t like it, don’t’ touch me.” I threw the half melted spatula at
him and ran to my room, cranked the music as loud as it would go, and
hibernated. I could still here him out there bitching to my mother about me.
“Who does she think she is? She acts like her shit don’t
stink! She acts like a goddamn princess in the house, she never wants to help
with anything; she’s so lazy.”
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