Chapter 3. Sticks and stones...
We all know how the little rhyme goes that we are taught in response to someone saying unkind things:
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."
Sounds like a bunch of Elizabethan bullcrap to me. In those early years as I was finding my way through those awkward grade school trials, I dealt with so much at home. Yes, sticks and stones hurt, but so do hurtful words. I don't understand how people can be so hateful to each other, let alone a mother to her children. But we all do it. Why?
Once my father was gone in another state, my mother's rages grew into enormous fits. No longer did she have my father to take it out on. Whenever we would do something that displeased her, she hit us. Sometimes with her hand, sometimes with a fly swatter, a belt or a yardstick. Often we did not really understand what we had done. Granted, my brother and I were not angels, but we were not always disciplined for things we did. Sometimes it was things we didn't do, might have done, or looked like we were going to do.
My mother's first job was as a lunch lady at our school. It was embarrassing to me, but whatever, not too big a deal. Then she got a job soon after that across town. She is habitually late, and when she ran late, she became angry. So, as an eight year old, I had the honor of manning the morning alarm clock that went of early enough for me to get me and my brother up, and call for my mom to wake up. I knew if I let her sleep, we would get it. Then she worked later, and we were given chores to do. I agree, kids need to help out around the house, but if we as 6 and 8 year olds did not get everything done on time, or call by the cut off time to let her know we were home, we were in for it.
I was punished if my brother did something wrong, because I was older and should have been a better example. Sometimes, my brother, who is and was a very difficult, strong willed (borderline personality) person, was punished too severely by my mother. I could not stand by and let her rail on him and hit him with a belt or what ever she grabbed. I would step in, and then I would get it. Often though, it was enough to make my mother stop. I was becoming his little mother.
As we grew, I still was his caregiver, despite how much he would physically fight with me. He gave me my first (and only) black eye, and I broke out his tooth with a cup. I threw it at him when he flicked me with a wet towel over and over when we were doing dishes. We fought fiercely with each other, but were one another's fiercest champions.
My mother began dating, taking us out with him, often staying at his "home" or meeting him at truck stops at 2 am. These were school nights. We would be dropped off at school in the same clothes we wore the day before. Teasing happened daily by now from the other kids. I became more withdrawn, and did not usually defend myself. I was an easy target.
In fifth grade, I met my best friend. She was actually more popular, and well liked by other people. I had earned the honor of being a Crossing Guard, complete with a badge and reflective belt (which did not fit my fat little body well). So had the other kids with good grades. They weren't all nerds like me, and they weren't all very nice. One day, one of the really popular girls was just being so mean to me, making fun of me. I really did not have good comebacks, still don't. But Dee jumped down from where she was coolly perched against one of the support wires for the power pole and came to my defense. We formed an unbreakable bond from that moment on.
In the "in crowd" I was a tag-a-long for her, but she left them often to hang out with me. Her family welcomed me in and I spent every moment with them I could. My mother hated her. At this point, my brother was a wild child, out on his bike with friends until dark and staying away from mom.
I was so blessed to have a friend like Dee. Her family welcomed me into theirs, willing to take me wherever they went. I think they knew they were my escape, at least for a little while. Knowing how much my mother disliked her and my time with her, her avid dislike was one of the reasons I learned to lie. My brother and I both feared her response, and contrived elaborate stories to cover up things. I think it is so sad I felt the need to lie rather than share my friendship with my mom. Little kids are like animals, they adapt to their surroundings.
