She knew she had only seconds to escape.
She'd seen that enraged look before. She'd followed the quick glance that the woman, twice her height and over twice her weight, aimed toward the hook on the wall where they both knew there was a man's belt hanging for just such a time as this. Her body suddenly felt flushed, tingling with inner electricity.
She darted like a frightened deer through the opening between the woman's elbow and her waist. She didn't think; she reacted. She could hear heavy footsteps behind her, trying to keep up.
She ran - no - clambered on all fours up the stairs like a spider monkey running from a jaguar, panic rising in her throat. The steps followed. She dove into the nearest room - where to hide? - the deepest closet in the house! She pushed her way past the dresses, trousers and coats inside, her breaths coming in small gasps, her pulse beating loudly in her own ears. She didn't know it, but she was cornered.
The footfalls stopped. The woman's hand snaked inside, fished around relentlessly and grasped her by the arm, wrenching her from her safe refuge. She could not stop herself from being surprised by the woman's face; it was at close range and contorted with rage, just like it was every time. Yet she convinced herself she did not recognize it. Her only recourse was to appease - in the split second before the first blow fell, she filled her lungs with air and screamed at the top of her lungs, "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry...." over and over, even though she didn't know what she had done wrong to deserve this level of reaction. But she must have done something horrible.
Screams melded with sobbing as she, to no avail, continued to apologize. Was it for existing? Was it for making the woman angry? She didn't think of these things - she was only trying to get away - every twist of her body to escape the blows only opened a new angle of attack, fresh skin on which a welt would soon form.
She didn't know how many times the arm raised and fell - how many stripes the cracked strip of leather would leave. It never crossed her mind to count them, to show them to someone. She felt too guilty for the bruises the woman would show her on her own hand later - bruises left on the parent by gripping the belt to strike the child. Eventually - seconds or minutes later - the hitting stopped. The strong hand released the girl's arm and the heavy footsteps receded, leaving the child to continue her sobbing in a heap on the floor, totally broken - irreparably damaged where no one could see: deep inside. Not by welts that would heal, but by the knowledge that she was of no worth.
She was only eight years old - already a discarded old woman in her heart - her childhood, her personhood ripped from her again and again.
It is forty years later. Now the woman, the former aggressor, seems so much smaller physically than her daughter - who herself has children of her own.
Yet in the former daughter's soul, she is still very much afraid: afraid of being attacked, cornered like prey - and devoured. The scars on her spirit have marked her throughout her life, left her perpetually sobbing inside, calling out soundlessly to everyone who will listen that she is sorry, she is responsible, it's her fault - whatever the problem is or who might be to blame. Her fear, her woundedness, her determination with never being out of control ever again, of controlling and manipulating those she loves in order to protect them, has driven her own husband and children away from being able to connect with her, and likewise alienated people who would have offered their friendship.
She is unhappy and alone, even though on the outside, all seems to be perfectly fine. Her external facade has held, perhaps with a few cracks. But she bears within the burden of all the shame of all those terrible rages, the feeling of being cornered, of that all-too-common breathless, unspeakable terror.
She snaps out of her reverie, and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looks into her own face in the glass, and sees the little girl's heart behind those eyes, the one who is hurting, who is abandoned, who is lonely. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly. This is going to take some time.
She glances down at the trembling page in her hands and reads the words on it, for the first time of many, many times, reads to the frightened little girl inside:
"What happened to you was not your fault. It was wrong. And it was her problem, it was never yours."
"You ARE worth something; you are worth a great deal."
"You can be yourself - you don't have to change into anyone or anything else."
"You are precious, you are treasured, you are loved." "
"Your opinion matters."
"What you feel is normal for what you have been through."
"People can like you exactly as you are."
"You can feel what you feel. It's okay. You can cry, you can laugh."
"You can like yourself. You can love yourself."
"You CAN heal."
She'd seen that enraged look before. She'd followed the quick glance that the woman, twice her height and over twice her weight, aimed toward the hook on the wall where they both knew there was a man's belt hanging for just such a time as this. Her body suddenly felt flushed, tingling with inner electricity.
She darted like a frightened deer through the opening between the woman's elbow and her waist. She didn't think; she reacted. She could hear heavy footsteps behind her, trying to keep up.
She ran - no - clambered on all fours up the stairs like a spider monkey running from a jaguar, panic rising in her throat. The steps followed. She dove into the nearest room - where to hide? - the deepest closet in the house! She pushed her way past the dresses, trousers and coats inside, her breaths coming in small gasps, her pulse beating loudly in her own ears. She didn't know it, but she was cornered.
The footfalls stopped. The woman's hand snaked inside, fished around relentlessly and grasped her by the arm, wrenching her from her safe refuge. She could not stop herself from being surprised by the woman's face; it was at close range and contorted with rage, just like it was every time. Yet she convinced herself she did not recognize it. Her only recourse was to appease - in the split second before the first blow fell, she filled her lungs with air and screamed at the top of her lungs, "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry...." over and over, even though she didn't know what she had done wrong to deserve this level of reaction. But she must have done something horrible.
Screams melded with sobbing as she, to no avail, continued to apologize. Was it for existing? Was it for making the woman angry? She didn't think of these things - she was only trying to get away - every twist of her body to escape the blows only opened a new angle of attack, fresh skin on which a welt would soon form.
She didn't know how many times the arm raised and fell - how many stripes the cracked strip of leather would leave. It never crossed her mind to count them, to show them to someone. She felt too guilty for the bruises the woman would show her on her own hand later - bruises left on the parent by gripping the belt to strike the child. Eventually - seconds or minutes later - the hitting stopped. The strong hand released the girl's arm and the heavy footsteps receded, leaving the child to continue her sobbing in a heap on the floor, totally broken - irreparably damaged where no one could see: deep inside. Not by welts that would heal, but by the knowledge that she was of no worth.
She was only eight years old - already a discarded old woman in her heart - her childhood, her personhood ripped from her again and again.
Yet in the former daughter's soul, she is still very much afraid: afraid of being attacked, cornered like prey - and devoured. The scars on her spirit have marked her throughout her life, left her perpetually sobbing inside, calling out soundlessly to everyone who will listen that she is sorry, she is responsible, it's her fault - whatever the problem is or who might be to blame. Her fear, her woundedness, her determination with never being out of control ever again, of controlling and manipulating those she loves in order to protect them, has driven her own husband and children away from being able to connect with her, and likewise alienated people who would have offered their friendship.
She is unhappy and alone, even though on the outside, all seems to be perfectly fine. Her external facade has held, perhaps with a few cracks. But she bears within the burden of all the shame of all those terrible rages, the feeling of being cornered, of that all-too-common breathless, unspeakable terror.
She snaps out of her reverie, and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looks into her own face in the glass, and sees the little girl's heart behind those eyes, the one who is hurting, who is abandoned, who is lonely. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly. This is going to take some time.
She glances down at the trembling page in her hands and reads the words on it, for the first time of many, many times, reads to the frightened little girl inside:
"What happened to you was not your fault. It was wrong. And it was her problem, it was never yours."
"You ARE worth something; you are worth a great deal."
"You can be yourself - you don't have to change into anyone or anything else."
"You are precious, you are treasured, you are loved." "
"Your opinion matters."
"What you feel is normal for what you have been through."
"People can like you exactly as you are."
"You can feel what you feel. It's okay. You can cry, you can laugh."
"You can like yourself. You can love yourself."
"You CAN heal."
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