Shortly after we moved to MH (when I was 4) I fell over my own feet and crashed into a table. In doing this, one of my mother’s favorite china figurines fell onto the floor and broke in a million pieces.
She was extremely angry. She made me take off my pants and underpants and lay across the kitchen table. She took the wooden paddle (the kind teachers used to have) which was so prominently displayed next to the stove and hit me over and over again.
I tried not to cry. But after 10 or 15 swats, I broke down. I can still feel the burning after the wood hit my bare skin.
My tears only fueled her anger. She pulled me off the table and made me redress myself. She took me by the arm and drug me down the steps to the car. She pushed me into the back seat and slammed the car door shut. Then she started to drive.
I was still crying (but trying not to) and asked where she was taking me. She told me that she wished I had never been born and was taking me to an orphanage.
I don’t remember how far she drove before she turned around and took me home. When we got back she put me in my room and told me not to come out until she said it was okay.
At some point I had to go to the bathroom. She heard my door open and screamed at me to get back in my room. I had to go so bad, I ended up wetting the bed.
I don’t know how long I lay on those cold, wet sheets. I remember trying to not cry. I remember wishing she had taken me to that orphanage.
I sit here and I try to identify what I’m feeling. I remember the physical sensations more than the emotions. I don’t seem to be able to come up with the right names. So I’m looking at a feelings list right now. If I had to pick some of them that seem to fit, I’d pick guilty, frightened, embarrassed and sad.
I want to cut. I won’t. I made that promise to myself a long time ago. But when the memories hit, it’s what I think about. I hate myself. I can’t explain why, but I do.