The Proverbial Red Bag

"Hope he takes me home",  I think to myself as a petrified five year old.  Looking out the passenger window of the old rusted out yellow and white Chevy pickup I sit confused.  We're driving down a long, narrow, and windy gravel road.  Rocks spackling the wheel well loudly and the headlights barely able to catch up to the dusty darkness ahead.  I can remember sitting there with my huge, red leather overnight bag.  Resting in my lap, filled with nothing but the contents of my underwear drawer dumped out from the dresser as I go over recent events in my head.  Why was he doing this? What was so bad about what I did that they are taking me away?  The drive seemed to last forever but being so young it may not have been as far as I had perceived it to be.  Who would have known that sitting in the front yard, talking to my neighbor friend while waiting for dinner to be done would end up so traumatizing... 

Earlier in the day,  my mother had told me to come back home from next door because dinner was almost done, dad was almost home.  So I, being the fast thinker that I was (and still am), had decided to stay in my yard and talk with my friend and patiently wait on the property line.  Technically, we were still in our own yards. Little did I know that it would warrant such a punishment. 

I was whisked into the house, spanked, and got the verbal lashing of the century.

Enter the big red bag. 

She throws it on the bed, tears the drawer out of the dresser and dumps everything into this bag.  It was then that I was not so eloquently informed that I was a horrible excuse of a child and that due to this fact, upon my fathers return from work I would be leaving the home forever.  They were taking me someplace else since I didn't know how to obey them.  I, at the age of five, was told that I was not good enough to live with my parents any longer. 

Dad would come home, pack me and my belongings into the truck and soon we would be on our way.  Some time during that horrifying yet silent drive, he turned to me and asked if I was ready to behave.  With my head hanging in shame, for what reason I still don't know, I would agree.  He then turned the truck around, drove me back home, and this would begin my life long struggle with my family, trust, and relationships. 

Sometimes I feel that it's still just me and my big red bag.  Some of the items inside have stayed with me all of this time. Some of them have changed, and been replaced by others.  I still find myself sorting through it and being reminded to this very day.  Hopefully, someday in the near future I will be able to hang it up and leave it behind completely.  Until then, this bag and everything that goes along with it is still a very big part of who I am. 

"Begin at the Beginning"

Where to begin? The quote from Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland comes to mind. 

"Begin at the beginning," the King said, very gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop."  

The events leading up to this blog post have literally consumed my entire being for the past three weeks at minimum.  So many things have lead up to this entry. It is no secret that I have endured the battle of child abuse my through my entire youth.  MY parents happened to get away with it. However, on this very day a certain individual gets away with murder.  On this day I reflect upon several other incidents involving child abuse. One of which partially involves my very own daughter.  And so I suppose the beginning began right here.

My daughter has a friend.  For the sake of privacy we will call him Charlie.  My daughter and Charlie have spent numerous hours together playing, swimming, and collecting laughs for a year now.  Charlie, I fear, has also been collecting deep, disturbing secrets that no four year old child should have to harbor. 

Secrets...  We all have them don't we?  Remember that old saying, 'What happens in their house is their business'?  I am a firm believer in a completely different idea. Some rules are meant to be broken just as some secrets are meant to be told. That house has secrets. The father especially and let's name him 'Steve'.  Steve is one of those men averaging the age of 25 I believe, and is the epitomy of one giant raging ball of anger. On several occasions I hear him yelling at Charlie, sometimes the most obscene phrases and using words that no young child should be hearing.  Steve, however, is oblivious to the fact Charlie is not the only one enduring this verbal attack almost daily. I hear it as well. From outside of my house I can hear the name calling, throwing of things, and I see the amounts of home repairs being completed due to Steve's childish rages. Needless to say, there is a huge disconnect in that family and I'm rapidly learning that the biggest piece to the puzzle that just isn't fitting looks more and more like Steve every day.

One day, the neighbors and I took turns babysitting our children during a holiday weekend when our regular sitter was closed to avoid having to both take several days off of work. Day one:  I catch Charlie with his pants down in my daughters bedroom.  He blamed it on his one year old sister.  When he left, my innocent little girl and I discussed why this was inappropriate and what to do next time this occurs. 

Day two: repeat offense. Only this time, my husband is quietly waiting to see what would ensue as Charlie shuts her bedroom door.  He proceeds to tell her, "Lets play the 'yucky' game but don't tell anyone etc."  As soon as the room gets quiet, he opens her door, and there lies Charlie in her bed under the covers.  Both got escorted out, ours still fully clothed thankfully.  His mother was outside and upon delivery of her increasingly annoying little boy, she was advised of these recent events.  AGAIN. She takes him home, while the innocent little child that we'd once had proceeds to tell us all of the things that Charlie told her to do to him while his pants were down.  Charlies mother just "didn't know who to believe".  Of course, unsure of whether to throw up, or to start questioning Charlie myself I made the executive decision to let them work this out in their own home, and informed the daycare provider.  Within a week, the same thing occured at her home and the child was let go.  None of us have spoken in a week.  Until Saturday.

Saturday Charlies mother tells me that she's not mad at us.  Fine. I apologized for not saying something sooner. Not something I love to make a habit out of however, in this particular instance, I did what was best for our daughter.  She also informs me that Steve "just won't be as forgiving".  He hasn't spoken, won't look at us, and is just plain rude to my kid. Again. I could care less and if he wants to pout like an infant then so be it.  

Speaking of infants the more I think about it, all of the anger he holds so near and dear to the depths of his soul, the fact that he also refuses to change the one year old daughters diapers, and bathe her because it's "inappropriate"  makes me question him.  Does he not want to make amends because he feels that we're on to him perhaps? Does he feel that if Charlie keeps coming around I'll start asking him questions?  I'm beginning to feel like this is a test. I will, without a doubt and with every ounce of my entire being, obviously do what needs to be done to protect my own child. I will also do what I feel needs to be done to protect another child receiving this type of undeserving treatment.  I should also mention, that on July 4th, the kids somehow ended up alone in our backyard on the swings for a few minutes, and our girl comes running up front screaming that Charlie wanted to play the nasty game again. His head hanging low in shame as she lectured him upon her daddy's rescue...

What happens behind someone else's door IS our business however, I'm not sure how to go about calling attention to it again just yet. We all know what needs to happen. I am beginning to feel as though I have to decide, "do I feel like walking outside every day and seeing a potential child molester walk out the door or would I prefer to see his wife who used to be a great friend, glare at me for putting them through that kind of disaster?"  No matter what we choose to do, it will never be the right answer. Ah to be an adult, a parent, a protector in this day and age.

I'm not sure if this is the beginning or the end but it's definitely the part where I stop for now.  Feel free to comment because I am (for once:)  at a desperate loss.     

 

Unwell

My poor daughter.  First thing this morning, my 4.5 year old walks out onto the patio, (as I was starting my blog).  She looks at me, blank stare, as pale as a ghost.  She opens her mouth, and this would be the start of the day from hell.  No pun intended considering today was the day of the "rapture".  Luckily, we're all still here UN-luckily cleaning up a few different rounds of vomit.  That poor child.  It completely horrifies her to get sick like that.  The first time I got lucky. We were outside. However, the second, third, and fourth times, she was in the house, on her bed, in the bathroom, living room.  It's times like these that I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that it's not her fault.  She isn't old enough to understand when she needs to run to the bathroom and find the toilet.  You might ask why I have to stop and think about not getting angry when my precious daughter is ill like this.  I can remember countless times as a child being this sick and making huge messes in the home.  My mother, my angry, clean freak mother would completely blow a gasket when we got sick as children.  I can remember being scared to death after getting sick in the house for fear of being in trouble.  Never a comforting hug, never apologizing for how horrible we felt in that moment.  Just yelling, cussing under her breath, screaming at us to go to the bathroom. Just pure anger over the mess on the floors, or sheets.  I remember feeling like a huge inconvenience to her when we were sick.  As a parent now I could never understand that.  I'm not saying that it isn't extremely frustrating to clean that up but all I could think about this morning was trying to keep her calm, clean her up, get her back to bed, and then deal with the mess.  My daughters feelings were much more important than my worrying about the mess.  I couldn't IMAGINE yelling at her for that.  Speaking of Sickie McSickerton, I guess I should go get her tucked in!

The Purpose

Hello and welcome to my new blog! For those of you who know me, the reason behind my new hobby will need no explanation.  To those of you who don't, well... Let's just say for the time being that you will soon find out however, I'll brief you.  My story begins as a small child living with my stay at home mother, hard working father, and a brother 4 years my junior.  From the outside we appeared to be a well put together functioning unit.  But inside closed doors, things were quite the contrary.  My soon to follow posts will explain the verbal, physical, and emotional abuse that I endured as a child which continued into my thirties as well as the effects it's had on my life.  I hope that by writing this blog other adult children of abuse will learn to overcome their own trials and tribulations.   I hope that parents reading this will not make the same mistakes that my parents did and will take something away from my writings.  I hope that anyone reading this who shares the same struggles will find their own voice and begin to fight for their convictions.  Please know that this blog is not meant to incriminate anyone.  It is not meant to belittle or berate my family.  It is what it is.  My release.