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Melissa comes to town

Melissa came to us after Mrs. Judy left.  I never saw Mrs. Judy again after she was wheeled out of our house into the waiting ambulance.  Melissa was her replacement.  She was five years older than me.  Two years older than John.  She was a godsend.  The three of us became close.  Melissa was mainly … Continue reading

  • My father would often beat John just because he felt like it. There was no rhyme or reason for it.  My father took out his rage on John and he did it often.  John did not do anything in particular at that moment in time.  Except maybe breathe.  John's breathing probably did upset my father.  And by this I mean John's existence was what upset my father.  There was not much John could do about this.  The hatred was evident.  The hatred was evident even to me as a small child.  I did not understand my father's hatred of John. At least I understood that my father loved me even though he was doing these awful things to me. It was pretty evident to everyone in the know that our father did not love John in any way. There would often be cues as to how my father would start behaving. John and I learned to look for these. John started taking to hiding from my father as a regular habit. I couldn't blame him. John would often go to the side of our house and hide out there behind the trash cans. No-one would spot him there. No-one that was except for our neighbor, Mrs. B. Her kitchen window looked out over the side of our house and our back yard. She would often see John hiding there from my father. Once she said to John, "if you kids were better children then your father wouldn't have to treat you this way." I only know this because John told me about this recently. I could not believe it. This neighbor was basically saying to John it was his fault my father beat him. She was after all a friend of my parents. They are still friends to this day. I haven't seen her in many years. I would probably have to take issue with her for this. She knew my parents were beating us and she did nothing about it. She also worked for the county school system for years. I hope she chokes on it and goes straight to hell when she dies. Mrs B was the one person in my universe who could have helped me. She was the one person I know of who actually knew what was going on when it was going on. She had the real ability to help John and myself and she chose not to help. How can someone who makes a living working with and for children condone child abuse? Maybe she didn't see it that way? Maybe she thought it was ok to beat the living daylights out of your child because he looked at you. Maybe she thought it was ok to constantly deny a child dinner because she had said something that didn't match her version of what being a child should be? Maybe she thought that beating the crap out of me on my front lawn for going into my neighbor's house was an accepted thing to do? Maybe it was just easier to be my parents friend and keep her mouth shut.
  • I was in my bedroom minding my own business in the late afternoon playing with my stuffed animals.  My mother came in and pulled me off my bed by my hair and dragged me into the kitchen and forcefully pushed me into a chair at the kitchen table.  She was ranting about her missing lipstick.  I had no idea what was going on or where her missing lipstick had gone.  By this time I was definitely crying.  In the beginning, I told my mother I had no idea what she was talking about.  After fifteen or twenty minutes of her slapping me and ranting at me I have become mute.  There was nothing left for me to say.  My father came into the kitchen through the garage after a long day at work.  The look on his face scared me.  You would think I would be used to this behavior by now. I was shaking by this point and unable to say much of anything due to the fear and pounding in my heart.  My mother asked me again what happened to her lipstick.  I had already answered on numerous occasions that I did not know.  I sat there quietly and say nothing. This made my father very angry."Don't just sit there.  Answer your mother," my father said."I don't know what happened to your lipstick," I finally answer."Keep your mouth shut if you can't say something right," my father said.I was often confused as a child and this was why.  Also because I did not understand my parents behavior and I did not like their behavior very much.  I couldn't understand how two people who were supposed to love me could treat me this way. My father grabbed my armed and pulled me out of the chair and then dragged me into my bedroom again.  My stuffed animals lay scattered about my bed where I had been playing only half hour before. "I'm going to teach you how to treat your mother properly and answer her questions correctly," he said.I knew what this meant from long experience.  I hoped he would use the end of the belt without the belt buckle.  The belt buckle always hurt worse.  He did not.  He undid his belt and removed it quickly with that wooshing sound the belt always makes as it comes off pants.  I was already crying.  The first blow was always very hard.  It came down across my rear end with the ruthless sting of the buckle on my skin.  The belt would land again and again on my back side.  All the time with my father saying thing like this will teach you to be so rude to your mother.  This will teach you not to take things that didn't belong to me.  And he would keep going until his rage subsided. I knew my father was taking his frustration from work out on me, but it didn't help how I felt. It felt like one hundred blows.  It was usually closer to fifteen.  He finally left, screaming.  "Stay in your room.  No dinner for you tonight," he said.I was not hungry anyway.  I could barely walk.  The welts hurt something awful.  It would last a couple of days.  Did I mention this was summer?  No school for me tomorrow.  My parents weren't stupid.  They knew how to abuse their two children and cover their tracks.   
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