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... 't think he'd do anything to me, except scream at me, maybe. He spun me around, grabbed my wrists, and threw me down, against the stairs, banging my head and upper torso into the hard steps. He pulled, yanked me up, and threw me back, repeatedly hurling me into the stairs. I was screaming. However, besides my own voice, I would have sworn that the entire world was silent.
I heard myself scream, "NO! NO! NO! NO!
NOOOOO!" Right then, the banging stopped, and my ears were next confronted with a different voice, the voice of my angry rampaging father screaming, "JUST LISTEN TO ME!" Then everything stopped for what seemed to be an entire moment, yet was only a nanosecond in time. Then, in this "moment, " he let go of my wrists, and I immediately covered my face with my hands and started to shake my head. At the same instance, out of my body flew more than a barbaric yawp, but instead, a shrill, high pitched, blood curdling scream, when any time before that moment my response to fear would have been to refrain from motion and noise. I guess I had never been that scared before. My father's screams of anger and frustration blended with mine as he slammed his fists against my face, left, right, left.
Once more, he hurled me into the stairs, then turned, and ran down. Suddenly, I was aware that I hadn't breathed during the entire battle, and therefore I began to gasp for air, all the while feeling as if I existed in a vacuum where the oxygen had just then run out. I tried to get up and on my feet, but I couldn't even feel my body. I could only gasp and cry. I wasn't even able to process any thoughts, except instincts. I tried repeatedly to arise to my feet, but stumbled each and every time, just the same.
I finally managed to crawl to my bed, climb into it, and I lied there until I regained some composure. After a few breathless moments, I got up, brushed my teeth, put on a little make-up, changed into blue jeans, grabbed my wallet, and put on my tennis shoes. Then, I attempted to escape from Hell. I tried the front door, a logical escape, but my father wouldn't allow me to leave. He held me back, and I nearly vomited at the thought of his touching me.
I wrestled away, and ran to the back door. I opened it, and ran out. Finally, I was free! Free... until my father dragged me back in. I then tried the windows, but I couldn't get away from my father long enough to get one open.
I then grabbed the phone, and called my boyfriend, Scott. And with it being so early, I woke him up. I was crying so hard that he couldn't understand me. "Scott, come and get me, PLEASE! My dad hit me, Scott, and I need to get out-" But then my mother grabbed the phone from me and told him to stay where he was and to leave us alone. She hung up on him. Next, I ran as fast as I could to the back door...
again. I ran down the steps, around the house, hopped the fence, and started to walk. Soon enough, my father was beside me in a tiny, white pick-up truck, begging me to enter and come home. He promised me he'd take me to Scott's house. What the hell? I thought, after much internal deliberation, and I reluctantly entered the vehicle.
He didn't take me to Scott's house; he took me home. However, he did give me my car keys upon our arrival, and told me I could go if I wanted to. My mother ran outside to stop me, though. She was crying, as was I, and she didn't want me to leave.
She was afraid that I might not return. But I didn't let my mother's tears get to me. I tried to calm down during the twenty-minute drive to Scott's house, but the flood of tears streaming down my face made me a live traffic hazard. When I arrived, the tears had stopped flowing, yet their previous existence was still apparent on my face. I began to walk towards his house, down the driveway, across the lawn.
Once I had nearly reached my destination, Scott came outside in an effort to meet me half way. When I saw him, my face exploded once again into tears, and I lost all feeling my body once more. I next began to stumble. But Scott ran to me, and he caught me, and held me, allowing me to cry on his shoulder, not even knowing why.
He took me inside his house, into his bedroom, and laid me down on his bed, on his pillow. I told him all that had happened, because he didn't understand over the phone. And Scott comforted me, soothed my needs, and cried with me until I fell asleep in his arms. He stayed with me, watching me sleep, keeping me warm and safe. But after the hell of that day, March 5, 2000, I still went home.
Maybe I'm crazy, but I felt that I just had to go home, at least to be with my mom. It was weird though. My family acted almost like nothing had happened. They ignored me as usual, and wouldn't talk about the violent event. I recently read a survey entitled Parental Discipline. Apparently 40 % to 50 % of parents will insult or swear at their children repeatedly in order to punish them, yet 28 % to 38 % of those parents believe that repeated yelling or swearing at a child will lead to long term emotional damage (Mays).
Rather hypocritical, I'd say. It was a tough decision, but just as every other day, I went home. I tell myself that I had to come back; I had to, for the sake of my future children. Without my parents, I couldn't afford college. And without college, I couldn't get a well-paying job. And consequently without that good income, I couldn't afford to give my future children and family the life that I want them have, that I didn't have.
Sometimes I'm nearly glad that I live in this uncivil environment. Emotional abuse may destroy a child's self esteem, but if you realize that you are not the one who misbehaved, and your parent was wrong in his or her actions, then you probably won't become an abuser yourself (Gelles). At least I know that I won't hurt my children. I'd rather die. I don't know what the future holds for me or my family. I might be living here for five more years.
Then again, I might be living here for five more days. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said "Whatever course you decide upon, there is always someone to tell you that you are wrong. There are always difficulties arising which tempt you to believe that your critics are right. To map out a course of action and follow it to an end requires courage. " I know that no matter what I do in my house, I'm wrong. But if I have the same outcome either way, why care? Bibliography: Work's Cited Gelles, Richard J. "Child Abuse. " Microsoft Encarta 98 Encyclopedia. 1993 - 1997 Microsoft Corporation.
Mays. Johnson. "A Supplement to Stat. 208 Statistical Thinking. Fifth edition. Thomson Learning Custom Publishing. 2000. web "Don't Stop the Carnival. " 11 - 20 - 00
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