I want to tell the story of the very last time my mother tried to strangle me. I was 16 so it was over four decades ago, but I remember. She had me flat up against the wall this time. Her hands grasped my throat and she kept squeezing tighter and tighter screaming, pulling, pushing, banging. She would pull me towards her and my eyes would be near her open mouth and then immediately she'd push me back and my head would bounce hard off the wood paneling. I was caught. I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t strong enough. I tried my go-to strategy—“going limp” so that she’d think that maybe I was dead and stop. It failed because that would pull on my neck and hurt. That day her focus was on how ugly I was and how the only thing beautiful about me was my hair, but it was coarse!—coarse!—coarse! as a horse's tail. Screaming it over and over again. Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang. I submitted.
Finally she was finished. She began to cry, as usual, and told me how sorry she was, and just how much she loved me. I told her I loved her too, because this is how it was done. Then it would be over and for that day we could pretend that nothing had happened.
It would start all over again the next day. I would wait for it. Maybe she would tell me to come to her and beckon me to come through the doorway where she stood with her right arm making an arc over the entry and her left arm poised to strike. Or maybe it would be a stomach-down beating where I'd be on my belly and she would jump up and down on my back. "K-aaa-aa-t-h-y!, I'm going to keep this up until I draw blood...just you wait! K-aaa-aa-t-h-y!" Going limp worked well here. My mother would pretty soon realize what was happening and this would shorten the actual hitting and jumping time. She’d move to crying and moaning and telling me how much she cared about me, how sorry she was. Then I would do the next part. Console her. Tell her everything would be okay. Pretend it didn't happen. Cover the bruises over with makeup. Wear one of my many turtleneck tops, which were the best for hiding.
Then one day I was talking in my bedroom with my best friend Yvonne. I found out that she wasn't ever beaten. That she'd never been strangled either in her whole life either. Or jumped on. I ‘d just assumed this was what happened to all bad girls when they sinned or broke a rule or weren’t nice to their other family members. Like if they put more than two inches of bath water in their tub. Or if they made a mistake while practicing for their piano lesson. Or if they complained about doing chores. Or fought with their brother or sister. And worst of all--if they had an "arrogant look" on their face. I would try and try to change my face but I could never get it to look right.
Yvonne was disconcerted and told me what my mother did was wrong and bad. She told me that I should tell someone. I was horrified and told her that I never would do that since I loved my mother and didn't want to get her in trouble. I begged my friend to keep my secret and so she did.
But Yvonne's response planted a seed. So when I was strangled the next time—that last time—I didn't tell anyone right off. But something was different. I knew that I was bad but I knew that my mom was too.
The next morning, I got dressed carefully. I skipped my makeup. I deliberately pulled my long hair back into a ponytail. The black and blue marks--new and old--were striking. I put on a lower cut top. Not a turtleneck. My only ornamentation was the set of colorful bruises--a stark contrast to my plain and painstakingly assembled outfit. I left the house like that--calmly, slowly, aware of what I was doing but moving seemingly on automatic pilot--without a plan but knowing this was the very thing I had to do. The only thing.
In my first class, my teacher noticed. She was horrified and asked me what happened. I calmly replied, "My mother strangled me again." My teacher asked no more questions but was clearly rattled. She quickly left the classroom. Other students looked at me, afraid to say anything. When someone finally asked, I told them the same thing.
"Does she do it a lot?"
"Every day."
My teacher came back and class resumed. Not too long after that, someone came from the principal's office to pull me out of class. When the principal questioned me, I answered briefly and with composure, the same way. Then I returned to class.
I felt calm. Peaceful. Okay. Like things were finally okay. The day went on. Side looks. Whispers. I didn't care.
When I went home my mother was waiting. She stood above me on the landing of our split-level home and screamed at me, "Kathy, how could you do this to me? You got me fired! How could you do this? You KNOW that what happens in the family stays in the family! Now you’ve ruined my life!"
My mother was the truant officer for my high school. She had lost her job that day.
I spoke calmly to her. In the past, I'd never spoken up to her for any reason. That would have been disrespectful. I said "If you don't want me to tell then don't do it again." And then I walked away from her. I felt good and strong and safe.
My mother never hit me again. She screamed, she ranted, but she never touched me.
A long, long time later when I’d hear my name called by someone—“K-aaa-aa-t-h-y!”— I would still startle. I finally decided to rename myself in order to let go of the bad memories, the past, the hurt, and the terror of living in that family. I changed my name to "Olivia", which means "Peace".
The reason I write about this here is because of that good and wonderful thing--that primal, feral, bold thing that rose up in me--the thing that gave me the courage to wear a different kind of outfit, to pull my hair back, to display my bruises, to respond with the truth when questioned by my teacher. That thing--that compulsion and drive towards health and life and rightness and justice and safety and self-protection. It was instinctive. Innate. Intuitive. I’d never been trained to do it. I never saw anyone do it. It just was there.
A connection to my soul that could never be extinguished or beaten out of me—something good and whole and steady and brave—inside of me! Years before child abuse was discussed in any way or in the media, this spark of life rose up in me and guided me to do the thing I could do to take care of myself.
For years I thought God had failed me. That He had forsaken me as a little girl right when I needed Him most. That He was a Father like my father—righteous and probably holy but mean and angry with me too—and ready to abandon me when things got hard. Because deep down He didn’t really like me all that much or want to protect me from bad things.
Life has taught me otherwise through hard-won lessons. Now I don’t believe that God is like my father at all. In fact, I think that it was God who gave me the spark—He implanted it in my heart when He made me so that I could learn to be brave. It is the way I feel His presence and guidance in hard times. It is my special gift from a real Daddy who does like me very much indeed and loves me more than I could ever understand. When it rises up—when my life spark rises up—He is there with me—on His hind legs roaring louder mouth agape teeth barred and ready to do battle for me.
May all little girls know Him thus.
Written for the Messy, Beautiful Warriors Project: To visit the Momastery site and find out about the book, click on the image below. To read other stories from messy, beautiful warriors, click here.
~Photo and original art by Olivia Brown
