Prepared for Impact

I've separated my childhood into sections: the Moab part, the changed reality part, the violence part, after mom knew part and then the getting to 18 years old part. In the "Ouch" post, I described the time when my reality changed and the sexual assaults were the constant focus of my life. After those stopped, the ongoing violence became the focus.

There were times my brother and I were the targets of the violence, but the majority of it was survived by my mother. My mother stands 4 feet 11 inches tall and has probably weighed less than 100 pounds during the majority of her life. She's the definition of petite! She is also the definition of a quiet person. She's avoids confrontation at all costs, and I mean ALL costs. She can get angry and voice her displeasure, but it takes a huge amount for her to vocalize it to another person. She was shy, timid, introverted and not ready to launch a defense for the war she was about to face.

To say my step father found reasons to be angry in everyday events is the best way I can describe what "caused" the fights. There were the top issues - money, uncompleted household tasks and jealousy, along with the unpredictable ones that lurked around every corner. We all worked really hard to make sure he never got mad, but we failed at it every single day. The minute we saw him coming down our gravel lane, we would jump up and find something to do to look busy or hide upstairs in an attempt to avoid his wrath. But what about mom? She had to manage it, protect us and keep everything moving forward.

Often I hear talk about our "fight or flight" response but there is another one I've learned about and it is called "dissociation". Our brain automatically makes decisions when a threat is perceived. If we go into the fight or flight response, our heart rate accelerates to send blood to our extremities so we can run fast or punch hard. But when we know we are not going to be able to out run or out fight the foe, we have a different response. We prepare for the impact, the injury. Our heart rate goes down, our body releases it's own painkillers - opioids. We disengage from the external world and psychologically flee into our inner world. Time slows down and you may feel like you are floating or watching a movie. This is all a part of another adaptive capability. If you do this many times, your ability to retreat to the inner world - safe, free, in control - increases. A key part of that sensitized ability to dissociate is to be a people pleaser. You comply with what others want. You find yourself doing things to avoid conflict, to ensure that the other person in the interaction is pleased, as well as gravitating toward various regulating but dissociative activities. Finding balance can be an exhausting challenge for anyone with this trauma altered stress response system. The search to avoid the pain of distress can lead to extreme, ultimately destructive, methods of regulation. This describes how I, my mom, and the rest of our family functioned. We were constantly managing him, dissociating, getting ready for the injury and no one had to do it more than my mother.

The brutality is what you might typically see on a "made for TV" movie. I remember once my mother had a baseball bat in her hands screaming at him to leave her alone. That bat sat in the corner of the room for quite a while and I would worry about her every time I saw it. Once she said under her breathe "he knows how to hit so no one sees the bruises" when I asked her about the goose egg on the back of her head, along with bruises on her back. He never hit her in her face, that I'm aware of, so he left no obvious marks. It's amazing to me that someone that violent has control in the midst of their anger. It makes it feel more sadistic to me. Once I was cleaning the kitchen when he started questioning her about the amount of money she spent at the grocery store, which he required regularly, so it wasn't an usual event. He made her get every item she listed out of the fridge and the cupboard to prove she had purchased what she said she had, again, not a new situation. We had been here before, so I continued my work trying to stay as small as possible. At some point, he attacked her and she ended up on the floor. I don't know if I gasped or made some noise but he looked at me and told me to get out of the kitchen or he was coming after me next. Mom told me to go upstairs and I did. We had a porch that was the 2nd story to the main porch. It was screened in and had no working door knob on the door. We kept a spoon in the hole to use to turn the door latch open when we would go in there to play. It wasn't a main part of the upstairs because it was too hot or too cold depending on the season. I ran upstairs into the room and took the spoon with me as I shut the door so he couldn't get in. I was scared I was going to be the next to get beaten. Once he was done with mom, he usually left the house and went to his parents for a while. He did that same routine this time and once he had left my mom came upstairs to give me the all clear. Her reaction was matter of fact. She was ok, I was ok, everything was ok. She didn't try to explain anything. There was no conversation about it. Just like all the other times, we just got on with our day.

As I got older, I started to get angry with her too. I somewhat understood that she didn't have many options, but I also felt there had to be a way out. I wanted so desperately to be away from him, from the constant terror, but she seemed to be able to deal with it and I couldn't understand why or how. Part of my journey has been to understand the why and the how and I'm grateful that with that understanding, I've been able to feel only compassion for her. She weathered so much and tried to protect us the best ways she knew how at the time.

The brutality wasn't only in beatings, it took other forms. As many people living with high stress, I developed horrible eczema on my hands. At first I though it was athletes foot but on my hands and I was so very embarrassed! Eventually, mom took me to the doctor and he informed us it was eczema and was likely caused by an allergic reaction to the chemicals my hands came into contact with. I tried to limit what I put my bare hands into. We occasionally had rubber gloves, but they were a luxury we couldn't afford very often. I would wear them, they would get holes, I'd wear them and all the stuff would leak in. It was a never ending cycle of break outs. It would start with a rash that itched horribly, then the rash would dry out and my skin would split and I would have open wounds all over. Once I held hands with a boy I liked and he said "what's wrong with your hands? Is it contagious?" I was mortified! But more than embarrassment, it hurt and itched so bad that It would keep me up at night. To help understand why my hands got so bad, is to understand just how poor we were. Dad didn't consistently work, he was unemployed frequently. There was never insurance and there wasn't money for the basics let alone all the extra's like medicated cream or special lotions. The only thing I would have to help was Vaseline and that wasn't a consistent option. The eczema became a focus for my step dad: "why wasn't I doing the dishes? allergic to work?" So one day he decided this eczema thing was a poor excuse and wanted me to mop the kitchen floor. Either my mom or I explained that there were no rubber gloves so maybe we should wait until we got some, but it didn't matter to him, in fact, it made him more angry and more resolute that something had to be done to ensure I wasn't being lazy. He got a bucket of hot water and poured cleaning solution into the bucket and told me to get the floor mopped and I knew there was no mop to be used. I grabbed the rag and as my hands hit the water to wring it out they started to sting and burn. They were already covered in small cuts from the cracks in the skin and as the cleaning solution seeped in, my hands became redder and redder. That night I sat in my bed watching as they swelled. In a few days they were covered in the red rash that proceeded the dry, flaking and painful part of the cycle. The rash got so severe that several of my fingernails lifted and fell off. I was miserable for months. What I know is how insidious eczema can be but I am also amazed at how easily it can be treated. But it does require a bit of calming the stress cycles also. And that wouldn't come for years, nor would my access to the appropriate medication and calming lotions that would eventually give me relief.

Each of the family members adapted in their own way and prepared for the impact of his brutality. We each found ways to dissociate and go into our inner worlds for safety and protection. Each one of us has had to learn how to trust, love, relax, and enjoy our lives and the relationships we have been gifted. None of us have had an easy journey to more healthy habits and relationships. I understand the people pleaser part and at times I feel like I have been one but then at times it makes my skin crawl when I witness it. My mom still struggles with managing how everyone feels and I try really hard not to react when I see it, but I must admit, I often flinch. She has such a kind heart and I know deep down that she means well, but I can't stand it when she kicks into hypervigilance making sure someone is being soothed, especially the man in her life. She has evolved over the years and has worked on being more healthy in all aspects of her relationships and I am so very grateful. But there are some that are pretty intrenched and can be jarring when I see them.

It has taken me years not to leap up at the sound of my husband's truck in the driveway. Years to not overreact to an itch on a finger and run to grab the Eucerin cream (which I still am never without!). All of my relationships with men have been difficult and some dysfunction has existed within them for years. The brutality left more than goose eggs on my mother's head, bruises on backs and bottoms. It left a ton of psychological and physiological impacts as well. We did adapt and luckily, adapting is a skill that continues throughout our lives, so we can learn new ways to be in the world. But as I have said many times, the healing would take years. I'd love to say that my mother has healed completely, but there are still frequent screams at night while she sleeps. Those have yet to subside. She scares easily and we all see the terror in her face and it's heart wrenching. Recently, the 2 of us went to see the new version of The Color Purple. We love movies and songs and escaping into the stories. We got our popcorn and Diet Coke and sat down to enjoy it. I didn't think that the violent scene's might trigger her until the moment when Mister slaps Celie and mom gripped my leg as she gasped. My heart sank because I knew in that moment that she was reliving her own personal abuse. I prayed for her to be quickly transported, along with Celie, into the new world where she too had become empowered and whole. At the end of the movie, the scene and song around the tree caused us both to weep. We sat in our chairs crying and I knew the tears were for the younger mother and daughter not ON the screen, but IN the chairs of that movie. We spoke of things and feelings on the way home and I told my mother that she was our Celie. She had done the same thing Celie had and I let her know how grateful I am to her for all she has done to bring us through the pain and into the love of our family and of her. Although it has taken me most of my life to understand it, she worked her entire life to teach me what that movie tries to share: “I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. People think pleasing God is all God cares about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.” - Alice Walker, The Color Purple. My mother would say it differently, but this same message is at the heart of her life. She focused on creating beauty around us, no matter the situation, and has never stopped.

She's beautiful, right? I remember this dress as one that she bought for me to wear to a school dance or something, but knowing mom, it always had dual purposes. What I know for sure is that she survived more than anyone should ever have to and I love her with every inch of my body and soul.