Life Story - Chapter 3: Mommy Dearest

Chapter Three: Mommy Dearest

It's quiet here tonight
But this room still feels like you
And off in the corner
With painted-on smiles
Sit Teddy and Winnie the Pooh
I'm spending time tonight
With all my memories
Guess I'm holding on too tight
Can't I learn to set you free?
Will you come down to Teddy Bear corner?
Can we step back in time?
I'm going back to Teddy Bear corner
Back to the time when you climbed on my knee
Back to the days you were mine I remember oh so well,
Pretty bows and dainty shoes
The times you come crying
When you skinned your knee
I'd hold you a minute or two
The years went by so fast
Training wheels to high school proms
Misty memories from the past
I just can't believe you're gone
- Afterglow “Teddy Bear Corner”

This song is sung from the point of view of a father. To me it has always been a dream that my adopted father would dedicate it to me. The song's tender childhood memories have always been something I wish I could relate to. It the fantasy of my youth, reality was quite different.
If the divorce was not the beginning of my new life, then my mom’s remarriage and our move to Arizona was. It was time for everyone to start again. I don’t know what I was like before this stage in my life, but this seemed to be the turning point. Apparently, I would be going through a bad phase for the next eight years of my life.
I was tested for a private kindergarten school. We had to color in the lines, say the alphabet, count to twenty and walk in a straight line – all really a no brainer. We had to wear uniforms to school everyday and take naps. I was kicked out for saying a naughty word. It also might have had something to do with the fact that one day I locked the babysitter in the bathroom pulled down her curtains and peed on her couch. In first grade I remember getting in trouble for stealing toys from the Spanish teacher and lifting up my dress and letting the boys see my underwear. In second grade my mother made 3x5 cards regarding my behavior at school that I had to bring home weekly. I remember always getting in trouble for leaning back in my chair. I don’t remember getting in trouble for too much else, but I must have been a bad kid, since my mother was the only who created behavior cards for the teacher to fill out each week.
In second grade thought I wanted to be an astronaut. I loved looking at the stars and wondering what was out there and what the possibilities were. I remember driving back from dinner on some lonely desert road in a storm and asking, “If God created this world, then who created God?” No one could ever answer my question.
That moment just seemed so representative of my life. We were on a lonely isolated pitch black road. Far away there was a sky full of brilliant shiny stars that could be seen through the mist of rain. I was so small in comparison. Here I was trying to understand the greater meaning of life. I was trying to reach out for understanding, and I felt ignored. I felt alone in the universe.
It is no surprise then that third grade is when my spirit broke. In third grade, I learned that everyone really was out to get me. Even the school janitor was a spy for my parents. He would tell my parents if I threw away my lunch at school and weather or not I drank my milk, or traded my lunch with someone else – all of which were cardinal sins to my parents. This was not a good thing because I absolutely detested sack lunches and anything found inside them that came from my house. Other kids always had cool things to eat in their lunches, but I never did. Other kids had Pringles, Cheetos, Twinkies, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but I never did. I had warm, smelly ham sandwiches with carrots. I didn’t really have a whole lot of friends either. Everyone else always got to play with each other after school or they played sports or something where they got to see each other after school. I always had to report straight home to my empty house. So with no real friends to play and a janitor to spy on my I often wandered off during lunch. Our school didn’t have a fence. It was surrounded by the desert – a natural barrier to most kids, but not me. I would follow the river wash to the big drainage pipe under the street and I would crawl through it to the other side and I would keep going until the school was just out of sight through the mesquite trees. Then I would crawl up in the biggest tree I could find and drink my milk. It was impossible for them to spy on me, but I could spy on them.
At home my mother and I could never agree on anything and everything I did was wrong. I had been enrolled in dance and piano classes which I did not mind going to, but I didn’t like anyone to watch me practice, especially my mother because every time I made a mistake she made sure to tell me. I wasn’t given the chance to get it wrong during practice. It always had to be perfect. So I wouldn’t practice and I would get in trouble because, “these precious lessons” that they were shelling out big bucks for. It wasn’t long before she made me to quit. Later when I begged to take lessons again and I was always denied. It was at that point I was always reminded how I wouldn’t practice. I think the mind set of a eight year old and that of a twelve year old are a bit different. But my mother didn’t see it that way, I would forever be the girl who wouldn’t practice, even though I was never given another chance.
My mother and I also had some kind of problem going to public places together. I guess one time I had talked too much, and my new father put duct tape over my mouth and then tried to take me into the grocery store. I was incredibly upset about having people see me being punished, so I refused to go in and tried to rip the tape off. My father turned around got in the car and drove off leaving me standing alone in the parking lot. Even though it was far away I walked home by myself. It wasn’t the first time that I would be left at a store or restaurant, not would it be the last.
Once I yelled, “I am going to run away!” It didn’t even phase my parents. They got a bag and put some clothes in it. Faced with this reality I desperately tried to rescind my threat, but it did not work. They kicked me out. The passion orange rays of the setting sun fell quickly behind the roof tops as I resignedly walked down the middle of the street – either out of pure defiance or the hope that someone would see me and take pity on me, perhaps the little old lady neighbor across the street who would always give me cookies or Cream D'minth. Anyone. I’d gotten a good distance away before a car drove up beside me and I was yanked inside. I had the pleasure of staring at the sponging patterns from an inch away in the corner of my room for my unmitigated temerity of actually walking away when I was forced out of the house. Even though we only lived in that house for two years, I still think I could redraw the entire fantasy world out I created out of the sponge designs in the corner.
My appearance began to play an important roll in my life. I had the typical arguments with my parents over what I would be allowed to wear, and playing with make-up, but my hair was the worst. My mother still insisted on doing my hair everyday for school. She usually did it the same way with very little variation: two ponytails on the side or two braids on the side. I hated it. The worst part isn’t even something I could explain and it got worse as time went on. In the morning as my mother would begin to fix my hair I would try to stand as still as possible to make it easy for her. I would begin to develop sweaty palms and I would begin to shake. I would beg and plead with her to let me go and sit down and this would only anger her and increase her furor in forcing me to stand up. After being hit in the head by the brush a few a times I would eventually pass out, and when I would come to she would be yelling at me to get up and accusing me of faking it. If I could control my passing out in order to avoid being hit in the head with a brush, believe me I would. Finally she got tired of the daily battle and without my consent took me to a hairstylist who chopped off all my long beautiful hair. They butchered it. I looked like all the other boys my age.
I hated going clothes shopping with her because she never let me pick out the things I liked and I have always thought her taste was positively hideous. I hated going to the dressing rooms, because I felt that I was nothing more that a life size doll for her to dress. To this day I repel from any concept of a knee high sock.
One day I was walking through the kitchen when something glittery caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. Searching the counter to see what stopped me from going about my business, I saw a ring. It was a beautiful gold and diamond ring. “Wouldn’t all my friends think I was cool and grown-up if I had a ring like that to wear in the pageant today. Nobody will miss it.” I slipped the oversized ring on my finger, grabbed my lunch and headed out to school.
Since the ring was a little big for my fingers, it was getting in the way of class work, so I took it off and tucked inside my desk. Quickly the teacher guided us from one activity to another, and before I knew it I was one stage for the third grade pageant without the beautiful ring I had found lying on the counter. While on stage singing some ridiculous ditty like, “The Mexican Hat Dance”, I noticed my mother walking in late. When the show was over school was out for the day, so I gathered up my things from my desk to go home, but the ring was gone. I started to panic. If I couldn’t return the ring to the kitchen counter before anyone got home, they might notice it was gone. My panic didn’t last too long, because my mother walked in and promptly questioned, “Are you looking for something?” I mumbled something about a lost pencil. “Oh, I thought you might be looking for the wedding ring you stole from me that I found in your desk.” Stunned by the fact that my mother had come into my classroom while we were setting up the performance and had gone through my desk, I just starred at her in disbelief. “You cannot deny the evidence young lady, so let’s go. Your father will handle this when he gets home!” Venom was seething from the sides of her mouth. I lowered my head in silence and shuffled my way to the car. There would be no explaining, or reasoning that could get me out of this one.
We drove in silence to Taco Bell, placed our order and silently drove home. Father was waiting for us when we drove up the driveway. I was immediately sent to room without supper. Down the hall I could hear the thousand decibel explanation of how I had stolen her ring, and that I was a thief, a disrespectful, ungrateful, lying, sack of shit, only out to hurt and destroy the family. Then there was silence. I heard the carpeting crush with every step my father was taking down the hallway. I cowered in the farthest corner in the room I could find, but it did me know good. This wasn't the first time I'd been hiding in the corner, afraid of the coming spoon. When his shadow loomed in the doorway, I could see the weapon in his had. The death sentence had been pronounced before the defendant was able to speak to the court. If I didn’t go willing to the slaughter, the punishment would be more severe.
It was the night of the Regan/Carter presidential debate. I think my father was resentful that he wasn’t able to watch it. He wasn’t my father, so why was he forced to do the disciplining? I think he had his own pent up frustrations to take out, regardless of what I had done. Being as I had received this sentence many times before, I prepared for battle. I pulled my pants down and bent over. With the first crack of the wooden spoon I thought I would be in luck. It broke! Only now he was even angrier. He threw me to the floor and raged to the kitchen and returned with the entire jar of spoons. This was the first hint I should have had of how the evening would go; there were over ten spoons in that jar. Before the night was done every one of them would be broken on my backside. There was a beast unleashed in my father that night. I think my mother knew it too. She didn’t even come near the end of the house where her precious daughter was screaming at the top of her lungs and pleading for her life. We lived on an acre of desert, but there was one house that was less than a hundred yards away. After an hour of constant beating, I thought, “If I scream loud enough maybe someone will hear me and call the cops!” I screamed and screamed…
“No one will hear you, and even if they did, why would anyone care about a lying little brat like you? Smack! Are you going to be good? Smack! Don’t bother answering; it will only be a lie! Smack! Do you want me stop? Okay, I’ll stop…Oh, you lied and I can lie too. Smack! You have another thing coming if you think I am going to stop in the near future! Smack! Your crying because you think it hurts now, you just wait. Smack! You little brat! By the time I am through with you, you won’t even be able to sit down!”
This went on for well over an hour. I guess he got hungry because he finally stopped. I was told to go take a bath. Sitting in the tub, I could hear the hum of the debates on the television and the sound of crunchy tacos. I was drying myself off and preparing to put on my pajamas when my name echoed through they hallway. I meekly surfaced from the bathroom. He was standing there with a spoon in his hand. It wasn’t over. The terror continued for at least another hour before it finally subsided. When I finally was permitted to go to bed, I laid in horror that I had just undergone a beating that took so long that it included a dinner break.
My step-father was right; the next day it was difficult to sit down. After sitting on the floor for an hour listening to our teacher read Tom Sawyer, I asked the teacher if I could go to the bathroom. I wandered around the school a little bit before I finally made my way into the bathroom, even thought they were located right next to my classroom. Besides needing to walk around, I might have been in denial about needing to use the bathroom. Our stalls did not have doors and I was very self-conscious about using them. In fact, I hated them, but since I probably would not be let out again if I really had to use the bathroom, I had better go. I guess I had taken way to long, because Mrs. Hallier sent someone in to check on me. I was turned around flushing and pulling up my pants when I was seen. I didn’t know they were there until I heard, “what happened to you?” Shocked, I turned around, “Uh, nothing. I had an accident.”
Later that day, Mrs. Hallier asked me to turn around and pull up my shirt. She saw the bruises that were all over my body. About a week went by, then I remember one night I was in my room reading when my father came in, with a spoon. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve it this time.
“What have you been telling your teachers? Do you even know what child abuse is? If you thought you were abused before just wait. Get out of bed. Let’s go. Smack. You are such a liar! Smack. What kind of stories have you been telling people? Smack. I can’t believe you. Smack. What are trying to do? Rip this family apart?” Smack!
Running away really doesn’t seem like such a bad option, until I hear the wolves howling outside my bedroom window. This is the real desert. There is nowhere to go and I have no money. Where is my Daddy?
Then the news came. Elliott had cancer. As a third grader that statement had very little meaning for me, but it changed my life forever. I am sure you can imagine the trauma that this caused in a little girls life. We spent many nights in the hospital, with nurses coming and going and machines humming and buzzing, but then he was finally able to come home so I thought everything would be better. One night I was suddenly awoken by a bad dream, and ran down the hallway to my parent's room. And my nightmare only got worse. I screamed to find a bald man in bed with my mother. Then he jumped up in bed and then I realized it was just Elliott, but I was surprised to see him bald. He has apparently been wearing a wig this whole time and I was completely unaware.
One night we went out to a really fun restaurant, most likely to relieve some tension. I ordered a hamburger and it came with fries. I don’t remember if I always disliked fries or if there was something particularly bad about this batch, but I did not want to eat them. The rule in my family is that anything you order (or on your plate) you eat. You were not allowed to leave anything on your plate. As soon as I took a bite into the fries, I knew there was going to be a stand off. There would be no way that I could finish all the fries on my plate. As everyone else began to finish up, my mother noticed the large pile of fries still on my dish. “Are you going to start eating them? We aren’t going anywhere until every last fry on that plate is finished.” But, mom! “Don’t you ‘but, mom’ me young lady, eat!” Twenty minutes later I am still being lectured and I am desperately trying to force the food down. It gets to a point when all you have to do is look at the plate and you can begin to feel yourself regurgitating. I try holding my nose while eat, so I didn’t have to taste them. Nothing is working, until I get my bright idea. One by one I start to slip the fries off my plate and under the table. No one seems to notice, so I think my brilliant plan will work.
Finally, my father gets up to go pay the bill. He is returning to the table when he stops short in his tracks. He has spotted my fry pile under the table. He begins a tirade right there in the restaurant. Everyone in the room stops to stare at me. I turned beet red, and lower my head in shame. He makes me get on the floor and pick all of them up, and then I had to apologize to the waitress for making a mess. Then I am promptly dragged outside the building and smacked across the face. My father leaves my mother and I waiting as he goes to get the car. When the car pulls up, the passenger door opens and my mother gets in and they drive away. They left me. I chased the car out of the parking lot, then gave up. I sat down on the curb and began to cry as I watched the car pull out of sight. Five minutes later (I guess they drove around the block), they returned. I got in the car to listen to my, “Now You’ve Learned Your Lesson”, speech all they way home. Somewhere in the middle of my lecture an argument began between my parents. When we arrived at the house I walked in plopped myself down on the couch and said, “Here we go again.”
“Not this time. Your mother and I are getting a divorce!” What a joke, I thought to myself, but as I sat on the couch and watched, my father separated all of his clothes and moved to the opposite end of the house. The rest of the evening everyone went around the house doing their own thing in complete silence. The next morning he was gone.
A few days later I was just getting into bed when I heard a knock at the door. Then there was yelling, I got out of bed and snuck down the hallway, so I could eavesdrop. Elliott had come back for his stuff and my mother was refusing to let him in to get it. This was strange. If the stuff belonged to him, let him have it. I thought it was only right to point this out to my mother, so I decided to tell her. As soon as she saw me, she flung the closest thing she could find and told me to get back to bed, so I went. The next thing I know my house is glowing and flashing with the red and blue lights from the cops' cars outside trying to settle the dispute. I don’t know what happened. The lights where there for a long time and eventually they put me to sleep.
That night made my mother nervous, so she hired a personal security service to patrol the house. I guess they had to watch me to, for about two weeks I had a personal escort to and from the fourth grade. Unfortunately, they weren’t there when I needed them. During lunch one day while I was out chasing snakes and lizards and anything else that moved. A young male student, who was obviously a special education student, followed me. When I finally asked him why he was following me he told me he wanted a kiss. When I refused what had become his insistent demands, he actually pulled a knife on me. This wasn’t just a butter knife or a Boy Scout pocketknife. It was a least a three or four inch sharp blade. But with my lack of fear, I picked up a rock and threw it at him and ran. I ran directly to the office for help. About ten minutes later, he followed in behind me, bleeding and without a knife. There was no knife to be found, and I was the “intelligent” one, so I could have prevented the whole thing, so rather than him being punished, I was. It seemed that no one in the world wanted to take my side and it wasn’t about to get better.