I felt the need to share this memoir I wrote several years ago. It's appropriate right now, because I have a family situation that made me reflect on it. I have changed the names of my children to grant them privacy.
WHEN I WANT TO HIT THE KIDS:
Breaking the cycle of child abuse
Sitting here at my kitchen table, the odor of bacon, eggs and burnt toast lingering in the air, solidifies the rough night I had. God, I’m tired. Keith, my five-year-old, was sick last night, depriving me of sleep. When I looked in the mirror this morning, horror was the best description available. The bags under my eyes attested to utter fatigue. With hair sticking up like I had electric shock, combined with the jaundiced color of my skin, thoughts of famine relief entered a fuzzy brain.
This total exhaustion continually wears me down and causes reflection on this situation. I just lost my job because of a car accident, the bills are piling up, and I’m alone. The tears have all dried up, there’s just no crying left. Hope, faith and strength have fled through an open window. What now? The children are squabbling.
“You took my marker!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Don’t hit me!”
Then, the dreaded ear-shattering scream. “Mom! Amy hit me. Mommmmy!”
Keith runs into the kitchen, grabs my leg, clinging like an octopus…and whining. That incessant whining. It drives me crazy. I intervene as always and restore peace and order. Back to the kitchen table, maybe to grab just a few minutes of my own peace. Without even making it to the chair to sit down, the children are at it again.
“Mom, Keith is in my room. He’s bugging me.”
“I am not, Mom, she’s lying.”
When does it ever end? The constant fighting and arguing is stressing me out – thinking straight is not an option. That’s it. I’ve had it. I can’t take it anymore. It will be made clear who’s in charge here.
Thinking back on that minute between the kitchen and the bedrooms will forever be emblazoned in my mind. As I raised a shaking hand to my son, I looked down at his little innocent face and froze. He gazed at me, his beautiful blue eyes tinged with fear. It made my stomach turn. How could the thought of striking him even enter my mind? My frustrations are like demons nipping at my brain. The anger at my situation uncoiled serpents, ready to strike with no regard to who my victim was. At that moment, my mind flashed back to my childhood.
I was about eight years old. My father was on military maneuvers, and I was allowed to have two friends over to play. Mary, the trouble maker, sneaked into my parents’ room. When I found her in there, a bolt of anxiety gripped me. I yelled at her to get out and slammed the door behind us, sure the thing was ripped off the hinges.
A few hours later, my mother, screaming like a mad woman, came raging down the hall. “What were you doing in my room?” she demanded.
How she’d figured out anyone was in her room was beyond me. “Mom, I’m sorry. Mary was in there, but I told her to get out.”
My mother’s reply stung me. “You’re lying. I called your dad and told him I can’t handle you when he’s gone. He’s coming home.”
My heart hammered in a tightening chest. Surely, death was imminent. I tried to convince myself there was no way he could abandon his exercise, leaving me a few days to live. Later that evening, as mom ironed and I lay on the couch coloring, the door burst open. There he stood in all his Army gear, covered in mud and filled with rage. It brought to mind the monsters at the Saturday matinees. He stalked toward me with fists clenched so hard the veins protruded. He reached down, grabbed me by the shirt, hoisting me to dangling feet. He shook me till my teeth chattered, as he screamed in my face, his foamy spit spraying like a rabid animal’s. Trying to wriggle free only managed to anger him more. He reached out and grabbed teh iron, raised it over his head and in what seemed like slow motion I saw the glint of silver descending upon me. My mother grabbed the cord and pulled the iron from his hand, the only time she ever intervened in a beatin. When he realized his hand was empty he balled his fist. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his fist coming at me; the ceiling light danced on the red stone of his Army ring. His fist and my eye connected. A split second later, a sticky wetness was flowing down an already swelling cheek. In that moment of confusion, my chance for escape came. Lumbering down the hall to the safety of my room, my bed, was the only thing on my mind. Reaching for my face, shaking fingers traced the swelling. Though my vision was blurred, crimson snakes running down my fingers were clearly visible. My terror-filled scream brought mom and dad running. One look sent mom wailing to her room. Dad scooped me up in the blanket and rushed me to the hospital. Another emergency room visit. Another lie to another doctor.
When I snap back to the present, Keith is frozen like a statue in a red-light, green-light game. Lowering my hand, I turn and leave the room. How could the thought of putting my child through that brutality even enter my mind? The anger does not lie with him. It’s just anger. This moment of reflection forces me to step back and think about the situation. I go out on the stoop, count to ten, recite the National Anthem, whatever it takes to get a grip. Once I get myself on an even keel, the situation will be handled calmly, rationally and with love. I have made a conscious decision to stop the cycle of abuse that has existed in my family. I must keep reminding myself that physical and mental abuse is not the answer to any dilemma. Children should never be the victims of everyday stresses and problems that push us to lose control. The trust my children have in me must never be destroyed.
I am a survivor of such destruction. If the pressure becomes unbearable, I’ll find help before there are regrets and actions that cannot be reversed.
You can do the same...
