First Beating I RememberI'm not sure when the abuse started, but the first beating I remember happened when I was around five years old. My mother had decided to homeschool me and my siblings and was doing a reading work book with me. We lived in a trailer on a farm at the time. If I close my eyes it is like I am back in the moment again. I can see almost every detail perfectly. We were sitting squeezed together in a burgundy recliner that was to the right of the room against the glass sliding door. A television was to the right of the chair and on the left a blue recliner sofa was backed up against a half wall that separated the kitchen and living room. Directly across from the chair was a computer siting on a pine desk. It was a nearly perfect day outside and I was aching to go out and play. The only thing I can't remember is where my older sister and younger brother were or what they were doing. I remember feeling squished and thinking to myself that the chair was way to small for my mother and I to share (at the time my mother weighed nearly 300lbs).
I had some learning disabilities and a speech impediment so things that other kids my age found easy seemed like an impossible task to me. We must have been working in that particular workbook for a few days because it was about half finished. The first page we did was an easy maze. The second page you had to match the word with its picture. I came to a word that seemed impossible to read and asked for help. The word was armoire a word I will never forget. I tried so hard to sound the word out, but I just couldn't figure it out. My mother quickly became frustrated and got a spoon from the kitchen. It was a cream colored plastic spoon with slits in the bowl part. It had been dyed a strange shade of blue from being used to stir kool-aid for several years. Once she had the spoon she told me to try again, I still couldn't sound it out. She swatted me on the arm and said try again. This went on for what seemed like hours. She finally told me what it said and then asked me to repeat it. I knew what it sounded like in my head but couldn't make my mouth form the word. So the process of a swat every time I couldn't say it repeated. By this point I had become so worked up that I wasn't able to really say anything. My arm had already started turning black and purple and felt like it was on fire. She finally gave up on me saying armoire and told me to match it to the picture. I had never heard the word before that day and had no clue what it meant. I didn't want to get hit again so I guessed, bad choice. I still got a swat. I tried a couple more times and got swat again and again. She became fed up and made me sit on the floor repeating armoire and pointing from the word to the picture over and over for 45 minutes. Then she asked me to tell her what the word said and point to the picture. You had better bet I was able to say it and show her what picture the word matched with.
This is just the physical part of this particular incident. It is almost impossible for me to write or talk about any of the verbal abuse that my siblings or I endured growing up. I feel like because the bruises are gone so are the emotions associated with being physically hit. But the verbal attacks left cuts on my heart that are continuously bleeding.