#CopingWithAbuse

[caesarandthecity]

The Pain of Bullying That Started at Home

My adoptive father saw me skating on a pair of borrowed roller skates from the neighbor. I was so happy because I had finally learned how to skate. I didn’t have my own pair, and my adoptive parents would never buy me one, but still, I wanted to learn. José, feeling sympathetic and after my persistent requests, bought me a pair. They weren’t my size; in fact, they were much bigger, but I loved them anyway. I had my own roller skates.

On the first weekend, I went out with all the other neighborhood kids to skate on a busier street. Unexpectedly, I fell and scraped my legs badly. It was a nasty accident. Afraid of being beaten by my parents, I rushed home and went straight to the shower. Since it was the weekend and everyone was home, they found it strange that I went to shower in the middle of the afternoon. My adoptive mother interrupted my shower, barging into the bathroom and seeing the injuries. Instead of helping me, she became furious and started beating me violently. I was screaming in pain, and as if that wasn’t enough, she grabbed a loofah and scrubbed my wounds so hard that I passed out in the shower.

I only remember her oldest daughter saving me and rushing me to the emergency room. Of course, I was forbidden from mentioning that my mother had beaten me. I simply explained that I had fallen and received treatment.

When I returned home, all the neighborhood kids were at my house, wanting to know how I was. However, Isabel made sure to tell them that I had passed out in the shower because she had beaten me. Most of the kids started bullying me because of the story—a bullying that was deliberately instigated by my adoptive mother.

One of the strategies my adoptive mother used to control me, to ensure I would never want to leave the house, lose friendships, and become isolated, was to speak badly about me to everyone around—friends, neighbors, colleagues, bosses, everyone she could. How many times did I catch her badmouthing me while I left her alone with a friend? Because of this, I started to believe that I was a horrible person, because in my mind, if my mother said it, then it must be true—I must have been a horrible child, a cursed teenager.

But deep down, something inside me screamed that none of it was true.

[writtenbyjayce-blog]

The Aesthetics of My Mother

     There is cigarette smoke burning the flesh of your throat; the tender skin where so many syllables have scraped across to form insults and belittlement. It escapes through your teeth. When the nicotine fades, coffee will infuse its pungent smell on your breath and linger there a while. Nine years later, I still associate liars and warped truth with caffeine and nicotine. 

     I used to wish you’d find it in yourself to brush your teeth. I used to think that the urge to take care of yourself was buried down below a concept called depression that was so foreign to my young ears. I also lacked the experience to know that it couldn’t be dug out by my crayon artwork or other tiny glue and construction paper trinkets crafted by my small hands. 

     Now, I stand at a shaky sixteen years of age, but despite the odds you threw, I am standing. I straddle between indifference and malice whereas your health is concerned; six months since the ink (blood?) dried on the divorce decree and I still can’t find it in myself to bear the title of the bigger person. I have learned the tactics of gas-lighting far too late. 

     In conclusion, I hope your teeth fall out, mother.