CHAPTER 2 -- GROWING UP ALONE

2004-10-23T15:44:00.000-07:00

When I was five years old, we moved from Decatur, GA. to Tucker, GA. We lived there from the time I was five until I was 13 – eight years altogether. We moved into a big red three-story house that I loved. There was a huge (at least, huge to me!) foyer with a marble tile floor and great big chandelier and a curving staircase with a mahogany banister. Our grandfather clock, which chimed every quarter hour, was placed in the foyer. Off to the left was a formal living room, which housed our piano and fine old furniture and led directly into the formal dining room. Both were carpeted with a light green color and matching drapes. The large, eat-in kitchen was next. Typical of the 70’s, it had red and black carpet! Everyone else thought this was hideous; for some odd reason, I found it fascinating. The den or family room likewise was decked out with red and black carpet – shag carpet, at that! – with black and red checkered drapes. There was one bedroom on the ground floor, which went to my brother David. Upstairs were three bedrooms: directly at the top of the stairs was my room; Andrew’s room was to my left (in front of the upstairs bathroom) and down the hall was the master bedroom, complete with walk-in closet and full bathroom! There was a full basement, half of which was carpeted (more red and black!) and became the game room – ping-pong, darts, etc. All my various pets lived there as well – snakes, hamsters, a variety of bugs, guinea pigs, turtles, etc. The other half of the basement was my father’s workshop. I’m not too sure what he actually did down there, but there sure was a vast collection of (what seemed to be) junk everywhere! Eventually, a small section of the workshop was finished off for my own work area, complete with desk, carpet, chalkboard, and a smiling clown light above me. However, I was too afraid to be in the basement alone (too many ghost stories about houses being built on top of cemeteries!) to go down there very often alone.

My parents fought very frequently. When they were not fighting, they were co-existing; I never saw or heard any displays of affection of any kind during my entire childhood. It seemed most of the arguments that I can clearly centered around money (or the lack thereof) and my father’s apparent inability to keep promises. (Father: “What do you want me to do?! Just get off my case!” Mother: “Do what you SAY you’re going to do, when you say you’re going to do it!”) Of course, I’m sure there were other issues involved as well, but that one phrase in particular stands out more than any other because I heard it so frequently. I never saw any actual physical violence beyond doors being slammed or my father banging his fist on the table, but there was plenty of super loud yelling. I never saw any differences being calmly discussed; I never heard or saw an issue being resolved (peacefully or otherwise); I never heard either parent apologize to the other. I recall angry confrontations when my father “borrowed” money from my mother’s purse without asking her, and the time the family silver (and my prized stamp collection!) were sold at a local pawn shop (also without any advance knowledge on the family’s part!) in order to cover debts. In other words, it was definitely not a model of a healthy marriage relationship. I honestly grew up believing that most marriages were full of strife and bitterness; it came as a big surprise to me when I learned that there were couples and families who actually enjoy each other’s company!!!

Every night after a (usually) tension-filled dinner, my parents would each have a martini to “unwind.” My father generally only had one or two. My mother oftentimes kept drinking; it didn’t take much for her to become drunk. Obviously drunk – weaving, falling down, slurring her words, the works! There were many arguments on the nights my father didn’t go immediately to bed after dinner. If not arguments, then stony silence. Needless to say, I don’t recall ever feeling safe as a child!

I learned early to make myself completely invisible. My father was of the “old school” tradition: children are to be seen and not heard; children have no rights, or rights to their own property (many times I was told that “my” stuffed animals were his and I had no right to call anything my own); every word out of my mouth had to be followed by “Sir” or “Ma’am” at all times; my father had “fear” confused with “respect.” He figured the best way to make me “obedient and respectful” was with his fists or feet, along with liberal use of his belt! Anything that was even perceived as the least little bit disrespectful (even when it was not) would result in his wrath being unleashed on me. He would never explain why I was being spanked, saying only that “You know what you did wrong!” when in reality, much of the time I had absolutely no idea! Any spankings were done in a fit of rage with whatever was handy. As I got older and more afraid, I would try to run or get away. This resulted in being grabbed by the hair or throat and pummeled with his fists, or kicked with his sharp pointy shoes as I struggled to escape. I remember being sent to my room once for having an active imagination…. I had put socks on my hand and was pretending to be a pony. This was fine as long as I was in the other room…however, when my father discovered me reading a story (I was a particularly clever pony!) he was outraged and proceeded to yell furiously at me, saying that horses can’t read, and so on and so forth. The end result was an argument that landed me in my room sobbing hysterically for hours (which was another common occurrence). If I hid in my closet, he would violently ram his shoulder into my bedroom door until it broke open (or I was terrified into unlocking it) and he was able to drag me out, screaming.

While he occasionally took me to football games (or the local pub on Saturdays) or played Monopoly and Checkers with me from time to time, I was never shown any concern, love, or affection from him at all. The only time I ever received any sort of “affection” from him was if I woke up in the middle of the night and got scared, and crawled into my parents’ bed for comfort. Usually my mother was passed out drunk on the couch downstairs at the time, and (without going into details) I learned all too well at a very young age (earliest recollections are from age 4-5) what married people did together in bed. This continued until I was almost 13 years old, several times a week. What i really sad is the fact that because this abuse began so very early in my life, it wasn’t until I was six or seven years old that I realized that not everybody’s daddy acted this way! And by then, I was too afraid and ashamed to do anything about it. For years I even sincerely believed that it was all my fault because I “allowed” it to continue!

If I remained downstairs after my father went to bed, I was an easy target for my mother, who would 9 times out of 10 be totally plastered. Unprovoked attacks were not uncommon. If I was watching one of my TV shows, she would start to say things like, “That’s right, you lazy, fat, no good bitch, just sit on your fat butt all night and get even fatter…. no wonder you have no friends!” If I did something that made her angry, she would come after me full force – grabbing my hair, punching me, kicking me, calling me all sorts of names, even a couple times actually chasing me around the room, trying to burn me with her lit cigarette! Fortunately, she was so drunk that she was easy to outrun. Once I remember I was drawing on a small chalkboard (about 3’ x 3’ in size) trying to watch a movie I always wanted to see, “Fiddler on the Roof.” In a fit of rage (and I don’t remember what provoked it…. homework, maybe???) she grabbed the chalkboard from me (it was fairly heavy, being made out of wood!) and lifted it over her head with both hands in order to bring it crashing down on my head! Time froze for a split second as I realized, “Oh my God – this could really kill me!” For once I couldn’t move and was frozen into place. Fortunately, once again she was entirely too drunk to stay upright – the heavy blackboard over her head caused her to lose her balance and stumble backwards; thankfully, I got away! The verbal abuse continued as I got older (along with the physical) and got more and more vicious. I had ruined her life by being born. Nobody wanted to be my friend because I was fat and ugly. I was a first class bitch and a child of Satan. Certainly I didn’t love God – the posters of Christian singers/groups I hung on my walls proved that I was nothing more than a groupie and a slut! (Interesting to be deemed a slut when I had never been on a single date! At the time, I figured she was referring to my father’s actions).

My brothers (due to being so much older than me!) had moved out when I was still very young, and basically I felt more or less like an only child. During her drunken tirades, my mother would strongly emphasize to me over and over again that the reason my brothers moved out was because I was such a bratty bitch and they couldn’t stand to be around me anymore. She consistently told me that if they saw the way I was “behaving” they would be deeply ashamed of me and that I was an embarrassment to them. Of course, as a young child with zero self-esteem of any sort, I believed every word she said! I desperately wanted to go live with either one of my brothers and used to regularly daydream and wish and pray that my parents would get divorced and I’d wind up with one of my brothers and their wives! But I was far too ashamed to appeal to either of them for help – and too afraid. I just knew that either my mother was right, or that they would never believe me and tell my parents about the stories I was making up and that I’d get in BIG trouble! Somehow I knew everything that was wrong was entirely my fault. Now that I’m an adult, of course, I know that everything she said was an alcohol-induced lie, and believe that had my brothers truly known what was going on, they would have done something to help me. I hold no bitterness or resentment toward either of them; they couldn’t change what they weren’t aware of!

When I was approximately ten years old (give or take a year or two!) an event happened that would forever change my life – for the better. The outward circumstances of my life did not change in any way (except to progressively grow worse!) but I changed instead. My next-door neighbors were moving away to another state. Knowing that I am the consummate bookworm, they gave me several books to read. One book in particular spoke to me. It was called “Living it Up,” although I have no clue who wrote it. In simple, easy to understand terms, it explained that God loved me very much. In fact, God loved me so very much, that He sent Jesus to die on a cross to take the punishment that I deserved for my sins! The book went on to explain that once you have asked Jesus to come into your heart and forgive you, He will never leave you or forsake you, no matter what. For God so loved the world, that He gave His one and only Son, Jesus, so that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life! (John 3:16). While I found it difficult to accept (on an emotional level) that God could truly love someone as horrible as myself, I saw the truth of these words clearly in the Bible. That night I asked Jesus to come into my heart as my personal Lord and Savior, and to forgive me for my sins. After I prayed, I didn’t “feel” any different than before – no flashing lights, no voice from heaven, no instant miracles. But the Bible said that if I asked Jesus to come into my life, He would do so – and God isn’t a liar. From that point on, I knew Jesus was with me, no matter what the circumstances. Things in my life were no different – but He had given me something of great value – a true and living HOPE that I could depend on Him to somehow take care of me when others failed to do so. When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up! (Psalm 27).

Finally, in about the fifth grade, I began to make appeals to people I knew – neighbors, teachers, etc. – for help. Our class had gone through an abuse awareness education program and I realized that many of the things discussed and read about in class applied to me. At first I tried to minimize my situation – “Oh, it’s not really that bad where I live! I’ve never had any broken bones or 3rd degree burns or anything like the kid in the story!” But eventually, the truth began to sink in – I was slowly crawling out of “Denial River.” It was a bit difficult, but I was forced to realize that my mother was an alcoholic – and (on an intellectual level, at least) that my father was a pedophile and what he did was not my fault. (I still felt it was my fault, but at least intellectually, I could say it wasn’t). I told some neighbors and teachers what was going on in my home. I was so terrified of getting in trouble! I was afraid my parents would find out I “squealed” and that my life would be even worse afterward. I needn’t have worried so much – as it turns out, nobody believed me!!! I was scolded for making up such “stories” about my parents (who, during the day and in public, were honestly two of the nicest, politest people you could ever meet! You’d never guess what it was REALLY like behind the scenes….). Neighborhood kids were forbidden to play with me. Schoolteachers gave me funny looks. And nobody lifted a hand to help. I was trapped with apparently no way out – at least, until I was 18! I resigned myself to carry out my sentence and survive until I was old enough to make my escape.

THE FORGOTTEN CHILD
Written and Copyrighted 1998 by Kathy Orr

You feel like a forgotten child

while you sit in silence off to the side

Nobody ever held youwhen you cried.

But you are not forgotten

You are not aloneMy precious child!

All around you while the storms blowyou weep alone

and think no-one knows...

But I see..I know...I care...I am there with you

You are NOT the forgotten child

I AM by your side

I AM the One Who holds youwhen you cry

I hold you dear to My Heart

Never shall we ever be apart!

You are NOT alone, My beloved child.
***

"Can a woman forget her nursing child, and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely, they may forget - YET I WILL NOT FORGET YOU!" Isaiah 49:15

Chapter One -- The beginning...

2004-10-21T21:39:00.000-07:00

Hello out there! :) Welcome to my rambling writings, LOL. As you've already read in the welcome message (it's right under the blog name, in case you missed it! LOL), this blog is about my life: it's the story of my journey from a violent, alcoholic home where i was abused in EVERY way possible, to my disasterous subsequent first marriage to an abusive and violent person, to where I am today. I'm not sharing this to "be in the spotlight" or whatever... i'm sharing because I know millions of people have gone or are going thru this very thing right now. And for those of you who aren't... it's highly possible you know someone who is -- even if you don't know it! I'll update this about every week or so, but with my goofy work and college schedule, and the kids, and hubby.... ! :-) Will do my best. :)

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IN ANY WAY.

I will begin my story at the beginning, which is usually the best place to start. On
February 10, 1973, I made my surprise entrance into this world. According to family legend (as told to me by my Aunt May and brother Andrew), my arrival was a complete and total shock because allegedly, my mother was not even aware that she was pregnant. The story goes that upon investigating my mother’s frantic scream, my brother Andrew was sent to race down the street to the local doctor’s house; our family physician (“Dr. Sugar,” we called him) delivered me in the bathtub. I weighed approximately 4 ½ pounds, if that, but was otherwise healthy.

I was the third child born to E.M., Sr. and N.J.L. My brother David is approximately 14 years older than me; my brother Andrew is almost 13 years older than me. My mother was 38 at the time of my birth; my father was 36.

Of course, my earliest memories are scattered and somewhat fuzzy, but I do remember living in (what seemed to me) a large house on Lullwater Road in Decatur, Georgia. I remember we had a back yard/patio with a stone and wrought iron fence, where my brothers hosted parties occasionally. Further back, we had a large chain-link fenced yard with a small barn or some short of storage shed. I remember the rotting brown wood in the flooring, and how that same shed once housed a float my brothers were building for a high school parade. I don’t remember actually seeing the completed float, but I do remember seeing the work in progress. We had at least one dog that I can clearly remember, a German Shepherd named Hushka who was my self-appointed guard dog. She would sleep under my crib and growl if anyone dared to comenear; in the event I woke up in the night, she would retrieve the nearest adult.

I remember an orange kitchen counter (typical of the 70’s!) where I would sit while my mother was on the phone for what seemed to be long periods of time. I would amuse myself by dropping puzzle pieces, papers, and whatever else would fit down into the crack between the counter and the kitchen wall, not realizing (or not caring) that in order to retrieve the stuff, the counter would have to be pulled away from the wall. As far as I know, there are still puzzle pieces in the wall of that same kitchen!

Each night, my mother would zip up my white “feet” pajamas with red stripes (like a candy cane) and I would recite the Lord’s Prayer and the traditional “Now I lay me, down to sleep….” then I would look out the window and say “goodnight” to the moon, the free-standing garage we had, and whatever else I saw around. During the very earliest years while we lived in Decatur, this routine never varied. However, that was the extent of any discussions about God. God was not a part of our day-to-day lives; saying prayers at night was just something that was done “just because.” The idea that He is personally interested in our lives and seeks a relationship with us was apparently unheard of. Or, at least, nobody told me!

I have shadowy recollections of things being “not quite right,” and of my father being in my room at night sometimes, but as I was so young, these memories are very foggy and undefined…more of a sense or feeling than a solid memory. However, as the years went on, I was provided with many more experiences to remember – and try to forget!

Beauty for Ashes

CHAPTER 2 -- GROWING UP ALONE

Chapter One -- The beginning...