A Night of Slaps

If you read this, please do so with care. If you are not in a good place right now, you might want to pass on this writing.

Although this blog reflects poorly on my late Mother and late brother, please know that I hold no hard feelings toward either of them. My heart is filled with love and forgiveness.

When I was 14, I wrote a letter to my Father asking permission to live with him. Unfortunately, this letter never made it to his home, some 650 miles away. My Mother intercepted and read my words before it was mailed. She was very ill, both physically and mentally. Indeed, she had been laid up in bed, flat on her back for weeks prior to the event I am about to detail. Miracles upon miracles, she arose from her sick bed and began chasing me around the dining room table, my letter in hand. Since I knew she had been ill for quite a while and fearing for her health, I allowed her to "catch" me.

She managed to grab hold of my hair as she pulled me to the living room floor. (I knew I should have cut it a week sooner.) This half mad, sickly woman secured me in place using the weight of her body and by keeping my arms tucked underneath me. The entire time, she was screaming, raging at me. Then, she started swinging at my face, thankfully, with an open fist. With each blow, she would utter a word. WHY (slap) DON'T (slap) YOU (slap) WANT (slap) TO (slap) LIVE (slap) WITH (slap) ME! Since I valued my life, I did not say what I was thinking. (Gee, mom, I don't know; to escape your abuse?)

I couldn't utter a word, not even a whisper found its way out, out from the depths of my terror; but she wasn't finished. It was time for the all too familiar, belt. There I stayed, on the floor, motionless. Legs bruised and spirit dead, I heard my Mother shout words even more horrific than the beating I just received.

"Joe! Come here, I need you", she bellowed.

Since my Father left, my oldest male sibling, Joe, served as the father figure in our household. (I am the 5th child of 6 children. 3 girls and 3 boys.) My Mother used Joe to supplement her parenting skills (or lack there of). And, like a good son, he almost always did what Mother asked of him. When I heard his name, my heart fell. I wished myself away, away to another land, another time, a new family. I begged God to intervene. I knew what Joe would do to me. The last place on earth I wanted to be was in my bedroom… My inner voice yelled, "No Joe, not now." I would rather have taken more physical abuse from my Mother than suffer sexual abuse, from my brother. However, at this point I could no longer walk. I probably could have made my legs carry me but something inside, just quit. Survival instincts, I guess. I knew if I went up those stairs, something unspeakable would happen.

God rushed in.

Joe, seeing my beaten and torn body, took pity upon me as he picked me up, carried me up the stairs, and gently tucked me in bed. He NEVER touched me; not that night or any night that followed - ever again. I listened as Joe made his way back down the stairs. When I heard the sound of the front door closing, I took a deep breath. The next thing I knew, a brand new day was dawning. Even though I was unable to attend school and my mother pretended nothing had happened the night before, I knew that I had been given a blessing from above. It hasn't escaped me that I owe my mother a heart-full of gratitude for that night of slaps and belt whips. If the events hadn't played out just as they had, Joe's heart wouldn't have been touched by our Heavenly Father. If he hadn't felt sorry for me, well, who knows? I may not have had my healing.

I want you to know that in the retelling of this story, I am in no way harmed. In the same light, I don't wear it as a badge of honor either. Our history is just that; it is what it is. If we learn from the events that made us who we are, then our history is a glorious gift and truly, a blessing.

My mother lacked the parenting skills, maturity, confidence, and mental health to be a proper mother. She did however, come through at times. It is my belief that in her heart, she loved me. That conviction kept me going through the years.