Facing the Fear (Part 1)

A Week in the Life of an Abused Child (Age 8)

As I write this, memories are stirred, most of which I’d rather have left undisturbed, but it is impossible to detail the pain without opening the door to its cause. For most of my life, that cause was my mother.

Though I grew up without knowing a mother’s love, I don’t believe my mother was evil. She was sick, and had she gotten the proper help, I believe, her life and mine (along with my siblings) would have been vastly different.

I don’t know the exact type of mental illness my mother had, but I do believe with all my heart that was the reason for her fits of anger. Her own empty childhood created a wellspring of bitterness within her that couldn’t be quenched, and she didn’t know what to do with it other than use it to lash out at the only ones nearby—her children.

This doesn’t excuse what my mother did, but now that I’m an adult and I can look back at the past, I see that my mother didn’t have the skills, knowledge, or mental capacity to raise children without drawing from her own experiences which weren’t particularly pleasant.

My mother left school after the third grade because her own mother was mentally ill, leaving my mother to help raise her two younger sisters and a mentally-challenged brother. She never went back, and her lack of education along with increasing problems with alcohol, inability to cope with the struggles of daily life, and the need to have control over one portion of her life, rendered her incapable of providing a nurturing, caring environment, possibly even unwilling to provide such care.

Whatever the main cause for my mother’s inability to love, I still believe to this day that mental health care and therapy would have given her a different perspective on life and would have given me a childhood worth remembering.

Friday evening

I’m staring at the stained ceiling again. I can hear them fighting. Momma’s upset because Daddy’s come home late again. I think she just threw a plate. I can’t really tell. So many things break at night now that I never know.

Momma’s just said something about the ladies Daddy meets in the bars, but Daddy doesn’t want to listen. I don’t understand why he goes to the bars when he knows it makes Momma mad.

Daddy only wants to go to bed. I can hear him staggering down the hallway, bumping the walls while Momma curses behind him. Then their bedroom door slams, shaking our trailer.

We’ve lived in a trailer for most of my life. Right now, we live in Greenville, South Carolina, but soon we’ll be moving. We move a lot. Daddy doesn’t like to stay in one place too long, but I think that’s because he doesn’t like to pay rent. We’ve been asked to leave a lot of places.

Something slams the wall, and the trailer shakes again. I pull the covers up to my chin and try not to think about what’s happening just a few feet beyond my bedroom door.

Instead, I think about what my life is going to be like when I’m grown. Will I be rich? Will I be famous? Will I get married and have children of my own? My heart starts to thud within my chest. Will I be like my own momma? Will I love my children, or will I tell them they were a mistake like she tells me?

I turn over to face the wall, and my leg bumps against my sister’s. She grumbles and rolls, mumbling in her sleep. She doesn’t want to wake up. I can’t blame her. There’s nothing to look forward to tomorrow. No school. That means we’ll be here all day with Momma. She’ll have us clean the yard, rake the leaves, and pull up weeds. She likes to keep us out of the house.

I can hear the wind rustling the leaves on the trees outside my window, and when I look up, shadows dance across the ceiling. It’s scary-looking, but I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from crying out. I know better. I’d rather be scared than face Momma.

I’m already thinking about tomorrow, and I shake even harder. Daddy has to work so he won’t be home. Momma will be here alone with me and my sisters.

And Momma can be mean.

#childabuse #mentalillness #mentalhealth #childneglect