This blog post is a continuation of my memoir, picking up where The Calling left off. As this blogging system does not care to recognize my formatting, please pardon the large gaps where there were page break symbols. A warning: to those super-sensitive the subject matter may disturb. I'm sorry for that, but I cannot change the past no matter how much I would like to.
Blessed Be,
Jade
Between the ages of five and seven years old my mother attempted to drown me. I say between 5 and 7 because it was before I started school (I started school at 6 because my birthdate falls later in the year and I missed the enrollment date by being too young). There was the holding my head under water, while claiming to wash my hair in the bath tub, as well as holding my face under a shower spray as I choked and strangled. I was having a fit because I could not breathe and was getting water up my nose and in my lungs. She claimed she did not know, was unaware of my difficulty. Difficulty? I am a human being. I do not breathe underwater.
I do not believe that a caring parent can be so obtuse. You do not disregard your child's ability to breathe!
This was the time that I started noticing odd little things, of which I lumped my mother trying to drown me as a part of. I was often locked outside, alone, and left to amuse myself. I was confined to a small area of our yard, so I could be watched. But I wasn't. My mother often forgot me and my step-father could not have cared less.
She had remarried when I was 2 so the only father figure I had known (besides a doting uncle) was this step-father. He never wanted kids, but he wanted her, so I was always treated as that extra piece of luggage you could discard or leave behind.
It was apparent that I was not wanted around. She kept trying to get pregnant, wanting a baby for herself, but also claiming she wanted to give him the child he never had. It would make us a real family. No it didn't. It never did.
My great-grandmother died around this time. I was stunned at her passing, not entirely sure what had happened. I remember my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, being very upset, and my older cousin being pretty mean about it.
No one had bothered to explain what had happened, and it took me a bit to understand. My cousin used his I'm-older-and-better-than-you voice to tell me how awful I was for not crying. I was a bad person. Hadn't I loved her? Of course I had, I still did! My biggest concern was that when I touched her hand--knowing she would not mind--was that she was too cold. She had often gotten chilly and I was afraid she was cold. I was told that that did not matter, she could not feel it anyway. She was going to heaven. Those words did not console me.
After the funeral, weird things started to happen. My mother got all jumpy and strange, and my step-father was not around at the time. I think he was at work at the time.
My mother was afraid to be on her own after that, and wanted me to stay with her. So, one night as we were trying to sleep, she told me she was afraid. Afraid, I asked? Of what? She confided that she was afraid Bobo--which was the nickname my great-grandmother had--would be lying on the couch in the front room. I reminded her that Bobo was dead, and she would never hurt us, even if she was in the other room.
When my mother became frantic, I agreed to go into the other room alone to see if Bobo was there or not. Of course, she wasn't. I only saw the couch and the empty room, but I am not convinced my mother would have seen the same thing.
At that time I was aware that something had gone on, something had happeed. My mother was very scared, the kind of scared she got when she did something wrong and was afraid she would get caught. She was guilty of something, I just did not know what.
I was given a little duck as a present. I remember how fluffy it looked with its feathers all askew, and the delight it showed at being put in a number two wash tub, half full of water, with a whole two bags of minnows. That little duck had a blast! He also ate till he was stuffed.
I named him Waddles, because of the walk. He started following me every where I went. When I was sent to take out the trash, Waddles followed me. He was a ray of sunshine in my bleak existence. Not surprisingly, he was easy to love and a sweet pet.
For a brief time, life was good.
When my step-father started to beat her, it was a horrific, but occasional thing. It was a shameful and shocking thing to me. I was terrified. I was also told to never say a word about it or I would get it worse. As time passed the beatings and over all violence grew more frequent and then it spilled over on to me.
This was when the danger was cranked up several notches. My step-father liked to flash around his overly large hunting knife, almost as much as he liked to wave around his guns. He really enjoyed pointing his gun at my mother and threatening to pull the trigger. He absolutely terrified me at these times. The look on his face, the glitter of real malice in his eyes made me very much aware of the fact that he was jonesing to kill us. He had as much intent to kill as that snake had.
After these horror filled incidents, my mother would get in my face and warn me to say not a single word. She was very threatening herself at these times, insisting he had not been serious. But the bruises on her face and the tears said otherwise.
Then this one afternoon, he took it too far. He was supposedly cleaning his guns, preaching about the care and welfare of these weapons. I remember the smell of gun oil hanging on the air, clean and smooth. I liked the smell, but hated that it meant he would be waving around his guns, especially the riflles and shotguns.
After terrorizing my mother, by pointing his rifle at her, and pissing her off in spite of her fear, he turned it on me. He laughed as he pulled the trigger. I tensed, fearing I was about to die. I did not want to die yet! I hadn't done any of the things I had dreamed of doing.
He delighted in my fear, mocking me, that evil gleam in his eyes. Then he told me how stupid I was, saying the gun wasn't even loaded. He pulled the trigger again and blew a hole through the ceiling. It had been loaded. He had not taken the bullet out of the chamber. I glared back at him, silently accusing him of nearly killing me. I did not dare say anything or he would have killed me, I was sure of it.
This was when I had to say goodbye to my best friend, my pet duck, Waddles. My parents said we had to give him up, he could not make the trip with us. Our neighbors said they had a farm and promised to take him there to live with relatives. I never believed them. I hoped they were telling the truth, but I feared for my friend. I never got over the hurt or the sense of loss, knowing that I had been forced to betray my feathered friend.
It was that whispery inner voice that warned me, that told me the adults were full of it; they were frauds.
I did not trust my mother to be honest, she found it amusing to lie, especially if it hurt others. She did nothing when Penny, our German Shepherd was hit by a car. Fortunately, Penny seemed to have only been clipped. She also showed little remorse when Rusty, our Pekingese convulsed to death from overeating of pork chops (Do NOT give your dogs or cats pork. Pork can cause internal bleeding and your dog or cat can convulse to death). It was horrific and I have never gotten the image out of my head. Both were good dogs and they deserved better.
It was after that, that things got really bad, that we moved from the deep South to Los Angeles, California.
