When I lived with my family I always found myself looking over my shoulder. I know I mentioned it an article or two ago, but I have so much more to share about the fear I came to live in. I will begin with the fact that we were only allotted a certain period of time to take a shower/bath. If we exceeded our allotted time, my step mom would barge in as a form of humiliation for us. She did this to me as well as my younger brother. This always confused me. I couldn’t quite grasp if she actually had a desire to see me naked or if she liked the way she could embarrass me. Either way it wasn’t okay for her to do that. On many occasions she would do the same with my bedroom door as well.
“I was just another empty face in a large unknowing crowd.”
My brother’s room and mine were connected, and in order to get to my room you had to walk through his. She would bust open my door without knocking and sometimes I would be in the middle of changing. I always feared that because he lived one door over that she was trying to cause him to see me, which would have been traumatic. I can’t remember exactly how many times this happened, but all I know is that I couldn’t even undress myself with out being cautious. I assume that public/private humiliation was her favorite thing to achieve. I believe this because she spent a whole lot of time trying to cause my younger brother and I stress this way.
I don’t want to get into my younger brother’s story at this time as he is still living with her and has not opted to give me permission. I am going to respect that for now and we can go into those details after he has left the house. He’s such a smart and caring person and I hate that I had to leave him there, especially since I was his only blood relative.
My step mom was the type of person who would find the smallest things to make a huge deal over. There was a time when I was about 14 or 15 when we were getting ready to leave for school. At that point in time I wasn’t able to drive and was still riding with the family to school. I was sitting in a large chair next to the door with my backpack sitting next to the chair. To give you an idea of what this looked like I’d also like to point out that my parent’s bedroom door was directly next to this chair I was sitting in.
My step mom walked by me while I was sitting there and she mumbled something that wasn’t audible. I didn’t know what she had said and she said it so quietly I assumed that she was speaking under her breath. Shortly after returning to her room she came out and began to scream at me. She started yelling about how she had asked me politely to move my backpack and that I directly disobeyed her orders. I pleaded and tried to explain that I didn’t hear her, but that only fueled her rage. She grabbed me right below my shoulders and jerked me out of the chair and began screaming even more. By this point she was inches from my face and I could smell her breath. She yelled so much that little bits of spit shot all over my face and her grasp grew tighter. She kept going on about how I was out to destroy our family and how I was the cause of everyone’s grief.
After what seemed like long drawn out minutes she threw me against the wall next to the bathroom door and walked away. I looked at my arms and there were four holes on each of my arms where her grasp was so tight that her nails broke the skin. I went into the bathroom to try to clean up what began to form as little blood droplets. I also went to my room to find a jacket or new shirt to cover it up so no one at school would see it and think I was crazy.
Later that day (after school) I told my dad what had happened and showed him the marks on my arms. This didn’t seem to phase him. His response was this “I guess you had to have been doing something pretty bad, huh?”
I asked him to please talk to her, but I doubt he ever did. He didn’t ever want to be the cause of one of her outbreaks. My dad valued his security over mind as he always has done, and that is how that story ended. I never brought these things up except to a few other friends at school. These aren’t things I shared with adults because of my own father’s response. I was just another empty face in a large unknowing crowd. When your own hero rejects your words who else is left? In my mind if my dad couldn’t fix it then who could?
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