I think I’m just going to jump right into the memory thing with the mother. I don’t know how to start it easy so I’m going to jump right into it. This is what I remember.
She would sit on the edge of the love seat and I’d sit between her legs. Sometimes she was just combing my hair but I had to face her with her legs open. She wasn’t wearing anything at all or what she was wearing was a half slip pulled up under her arms. When I’d complain she’d tell me I couldn’t see anything because she was too fat. She said her fat legs didn’t let me see anything. Sometimes I kept my eyes closed but it didn’t prevent me from smelling her. Sometimes all she did was comb my hair but other times she wanted sexual contact. I was not allowed to do my own hair until high school. To this day I don’t get on my knees for fuckin’ anybody or anything and I certainly don’t crawl. I don’t crawl.
When the stand in therapist got on her knees in front of me when I was showing her my artwork the above is what I saw. I figured either she was going to scoot close to me or ask me to come to her. When it comes to physical attacks I fight back and hard but when it comes to sexual attacks I freeze up. I’m not sure I would have fought had the therapist decided she was going to ask for more than to look at art work.
What I just wrote doesn’t sound so bad I guess. What I mean is, it’s “light” compared to other stuff the mother did with dowel rods, hog tying us (as she called it) or putting that damn muzzle on us.I guess when I wrote it I didn’t see why I’ve been so freaked out all this time. I don’t know… I guess I keep seeing myself in my Junior year on my knees in front of my mother. That just really pisses me off. For some reason what I wrote sounds insignificant, unimportant and like I’m just looking for something to be upset about.
My further thoughts about the sofa thing are this…. I’m bothered that I did her “right” the first time . I thought of it the same as doing the dishes. I could do the dishes right the first time and skip a lot of trouble. If i did them right I might not have to hear how horrible of a person I am or get my ass kicked only to do the dishes over again. Only we’re talking about sex with my mother not the dishes. I could hear about how horrible of a lover I was or how good I was. I don’t know which was worse. I learned to do it right the first time. Really though, I came depend upon the warmth my body felt after a beating. I believed her when she said that warmth was a sign that God hadn’t forgotten me. But it nearly breaks my mind to admit I figured out early how to satisfy my mother. It makes me feel sick and crazy..wicked… She didn’t want someone to just get her off, she wanted that person to participate and learn what to do.
I wonder still how I came up with all these so called coping skills. I taught myself how to enjoy dowel rods against my skin so I wouldn’t lose my mind. How did I come up with that idea? Was it really better to do it right once than get my ass kicked but get to keep a shred of dignity? I don’t know. I can’t go back and change that but the guilt of it all eats me alive sometimes. If anything I wish I could go back and snuff the life out of her like she tried with me so many times. It is ironic but of no consolation that this non-smoker will die of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. She’ll suffocate to death. It’s ironic but not enough, not for what she did to her kids and others.
Kneeling Before The Mother-Friday, September 26, 2008-11:44PM EST
It is significant. It is important. What she did to you was no less torture than the physical abuse. It’s of a different form, but it still hurts.
I know how easy it is to discount the experiences. Believe me when I tell you, that was horrible what she did to you.
Horrible doesn’t begin to describe that kind and degree of sick abuse. I felt dirty after just reading about it, so I can only imagine how it made you feel at the time. And how it makes you feel today.
You learned to do your mother “right” the first time out of pure survival instinct. I think all abused kids find their own method of survival which only adds to the depth of their shame.
Only God himself can measure that depth and the degree of heart wrenching sorrow which overwhelms an abused innocent. We can be assured that some day judgment will come, sure and swift. But in the meantime we are left to deal as best we can with everything bequeathed to us during the years of our childhood desolation.
(I don’t think that what you wrote about is “light” compared to anything else that woman did, it was merely a different type of sadistic abuse.)
You are not dirty or guilty. Your mother is. You are a good person.