When I was little, I was acutely aware of conversation.
Each conversation was a mine field and I navigated them with so much grace you almost wouldn't know that I had come close to losing limbs a few times.
There was abuse in my household. It was no where near like the stories you hear where girls wear coats to cover up the bruises, or the ones where they want to tell people but can't. I thought this was how families were. I learned much later about the terms and the treatment, but we were gaslighted, monitored, made to dance for amusement and then abandoned. It didn't look that way from the inside though. Maybe I thought that my parents should be a little more lax about the state of my room, maybe I thought that sometimes this shouldn't happen, but overall I thought it was normal. Spankings, the yelling, the throwing away, the pain and the tears all felt like part of a normal household.
Example:
Every Sunday I would go to church with my mother and sister. I didn't go for a belief in the religion, as at the time I still wasn't sure what I believed in. I kept an open mind and went because I could sing. They'd let me sing as much as I wanted as long as it was in these books. I even got to play instruments, sing, dance, act, and perform as long as it was with their message. I ate it up. It didn't matter what i sang, just that I did. Singing is the core of my soul and the one thing that without I would be lost. Every Sunday I did this. It was my own religion. Through the notes, through the harmonies, the descants, the instrumental lines, that picardy third, they were my church and my steeple. I was chosen for solos and descants as much as they'd let me. I'd have to endure the other quieter times of preaching, the stories that I couldn't quite add up, the characters that I couldn't relate to, the feeling of being lesser somehow for not understanding and FEELING this deity move through me. It was freeing and exhilarating, but it was also discouraging and frightening. It felt so very right and wrong at the same time, and it felt that was my fault somehow.
The church service and choir practice lasted no more than 2 hours. When it ended and we piled into the van I was always a whirlwind of emotion. We would drive the short distance home and come home to lunch, which was usually mac and cheese and hot dogs. Mom and dad sat at their computer desks in the living room off the side of the house. My sister and I sat in the dining room and ate by ourselves rarely talking. We knew what was coming, and we knew it well. Even if we stayed quiet there was little escape.
As I walked back to my room, I saw the paper on the door. The top half was text, bottom half pictures, and it was taped to my closed door. As I read through it, it was outlined how unacceptable the state of my room had been. I was a pretty typical kid with my piles and stuff but there were no mice, ants, or spiders so I thought I was pretty okay. The paper went on to explain the clinical cleanliness that should have been upheld and the steps I should take to make it so. The pictures at the bottom were of my room, and the contents therein. You wouldn't know this however, by opening the door. There was nothing on the floor, dresser cleaned off, some shelves emptied. These things were deemed the "messiest". These things were collected and thrown away. These things were clothes, keepsakes, stuffed animals, books, anything and everything. If it wasn't deemed organized enough, it was gone. Sometimes I was told that we needed to put some things into storage, so I should pack up some of my things in garbage bags and he would keep them in storage for me.
I didn't find out until years later when I went looking, that he immediately threw those away.
I dreaded this moment. This moment where my weekend was condensed and resulted in nothing but cleaning. I would have to clean the place top to bottom. I would be yelled at, ridiculed, and told that although I was cleaning it was taking me too long, I was doing it wrong, I didn't understand, why couldn't I just listen the first time?
I was a kid. I was a kid that was depressed even though I didn't know what depression was. I thought this was normal. I thought locking yourself in your room in the dark and not being able to move because you felt like you were held down by the darkness was something that everyone did. I thought wanting to spend my time in the closet instead of the living room was a kid thing.
I learned quickly when to speak and when to be silent. I learned when I was insulted to be silent. I learned that when someone was angry with you you were to be afraid, but also complacent. I learned when to say "Yessir" and when to say "No sir" and when neither of those was appropriate to answer with. I grew angry and it festered. I went from depressed and complacent, to angry but silent. I learned to curse and how I could still feel in control and remind myself how to act if I dug my nails into my palms. I learned that as long as the retorts stayed in my head and my eyes stayed neutral that I could skirt the worst of it. I learned that rubber spatulas were the worst, closely followed by wooden. I learned that closet doors can splinter when they are punched and I learned that even after covering it up there was still a perfect representation of what happened. I learned that when you're in the middle of a hurricane you don't always see the effects of the storm.
Let me make this very clear to you, I was only ever spanked. My household wasn't a war zone, and my family did love me. We are all taught what is "normal", and this is what we all thought it was. There is more to abuse than bruises, and more to life than black and white. It's all over now, and I wouldn't have it any other way, but now I'm coming to terms with what happened. I hope me sharing my story makes one person not alone.
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