the chair

I do remember that I was in 6th grade.  I remember this because, kids started asking me why I had a bruise in the shape of a hand on the side of my face.  I was sitting in Science Lab.  Remember sitting at those tables with the sinks and valves for the Bunsen burners?  I was sitting there next to my only 'friend', the one who knew nothing of the abuse.  I didn't know what to say, I usually blamed my very shy and withdrawn older sister for  hitting me.  If kids saw the bruises you know that the teachers did but not one person ever tried or offered to help. They believed those excuses because they didn't want to deal with the truth.  It was different in the 70's and 80's I guess.

What really put that bruise on my face?  This was one of those beatings that I remember clear as day.  I remember every hit and every tear, this one will haunt me till the day I die. 

I lied about something.  It never really mattered what set him off.  I always gave him a good reason to be mad.  I remember my Mom and sister where actually in the room with us.  We were in the kitchen when he smacked me.  I was at that age where the anger and adrenaline would allow me to not cry; at first.  Of course that just pissed Dad off even more.  Knowing what a smart ass I was by that age, I probably laughed at him.  What I know for sure is that he pulled out a dining chair and told me to sit.  I knew that I was in trouble, he made me sit.  Then he slapped me across the face so hard that I fell off the chair.  Then I started crying.  He picked me up and put me back in the chair and then hit me again.  Off the chair I fall again, he puts me back on the chair, etc.  This goes on for a few minutes.  Hit, fall, chair, hit, fall, chair...  I remember my Mom saying something and my sister was crying but he shut them up by telling them they were next if they didn't shut up. 

Of course this probably only went on for a few minutes, but it felt like hours.  Eventually I am sent to my room, without dinner (which was the least of my concerns at that point).  I wake up in the morning and get ready for school.  I have, on the right side of my face, a bruise that is the shape of my Dad's hand.  It is swollen and ugly.  My eyes also have burst blood vessels in them from the head trauma.

What does one do with memories like that?  I turned on myself.  One day I just died inside.  I don't know when it was.  My Mom recognized it without knowing what it really was.  She called 'it' my demons.  She just said that I was her moody little girl.  The one that was never truly happy.  I was that child that lied about everything because I thought that if I told my parents what I thought they wanted to hear; and if I pretended to be the child I thought they wanted  maybe they wouldn't keep hurting me.  What I didn't know was that I would never be what they wanted because I wasn't what was wrong. 

I never made a conscious decision to become a protector but at some point I did.  I took it upon myself to be the one who was the focus of all of my Dad's anger and aggression.  That's the best thing that I did as a child, it was the only thing that I got right.  I protected my sister and mom the best that I could even though I was the baby in the family.  I became a barometer for the emotions in the family.  The second Mom or Dad walked into the house I knew how the remainder of the day would go.  No matter who set my Dad off I made sure he ended up focused on me.  I told myself that I could take the punches and hits for my sister and Mom; and I did.