Home » A Wasted Life » Answering The Question – “Why Did I Stay With Him?” (Part One)

Answering The Question – “Why Did I Stay With Him?” (Part One)

My earliest memory is from when I was three and a half years old.  I was in this big, dark room and my uncle was holding me in his arms.
My uncle smelled like alcohol (although I didn’t know what it was at the time.)  I just knew that he always smelled that way.
I was looking down at my little brother and I’m not sure I could really grasp what was going on.  His name was R***** and he was in a coffin.  He had on a brown/orange/yellow/green plaid flannel shirt and brown corduroy pants.  He was barefoot and I remember just staring at his feet.  I don’t know if I was consciously wondering why he didn’t have on any shoes….I just stared at his feet.
All of a sudden, two huge double doors opened and I saw a light that you would expect to see when Jesus comes to render the final judgment.
My mama and daddy were walking in.  Mama had on a full-skirted red satin dress, red high-heeled shoes and she had a kleenex in her hand.  Neither one of them looked at me.
The next memory I have is hearing my grandpa telling my daddy, “if we’re going to raise her, we’re going to adopt her.”  Apparently,  I had been staying with them since R***** died.  School was about to start and location would be a consideration so my daddy took me “home.”
I don’t know how long I had been there before I made mama mad.  I remember her slapping me in the face, over and over and over.  I ran downstairs and hid under the stairway.  I remember hearing her coming down the steps and I was absolutely scared to death that she would find me.
I watched her walk by and she had a washcloth in her hand.  I guess she found me.  Maybe she put the washcloth on my eye.
The next day, I went to school with my first black eye.  My teacher came over and asked me what happened.  I told her that my sister had hit me with a baseball.  I was sure that my teacher believed me but you could see the bruises that my mamas’ fingers had made across my face.
My sister, P**** was a girl scout and had brought home some thin mint cookies.  I asked her if I could have one but she said no so I went up the street, to G****s’ house to play.
I knew mama was going to be home soon.  It was Friday and Friday was grocery shopping day.  When mama would come home, she would blow the horn all the way down the driveway which was my signal to come carry the groceries into the house.
I was in a hurry to get home before mama knew I was up the street, so I jumped off the porch.  I knew I had hurt my leg but I needed to go home.  I walked home with my leg “giving out” all the way down the driveway.
I made it and went inside and laid down on my bed.  My leg was really starting to hurt and I was trying so hard not to cry.
I heard the horn but I just couldn’t get up and I knew mama was going to be mad but I just couldn’t move.  Mama finally came in and saw me laying there but didn’t say anything.  I think even P**** knew I was hurt.  She gave me a cookie but it melted in my hand.
I laid there the rest of the day.  My daddy came home from work and he decided to call Dr. C******.  He had been our doctor since the stone age.  He came over and told my daddy to get me to the hospital.  I remember my daddy picking me up and carrying me to the door.  It seemed like mama was mad.
We got to the hospital and my leg was broken.  I had a cast from my foot all the way up to my hip.  It was heavy and probably weighed as much as I did.  They gave me some crutches to use but my daddy probably had to pay for them.  Nobody made a big deal about it.  I still had to climb on top of a sawed off ladder to wash the dishes.
One night, I woke up and I was thirsty.  I started calling for mama.  She finally said “what?”  I  told her I was thirsty and she said “well, get up and get some water.”  I got up, hobbled to the kitchen, got on my ladder and lost my balance.  I dropped the glass and broke it.  Mama came tearing into the kitchen, slapped me and through gritted teeth, said “go get back in the bed!”
I didn’t miss a lick.  I was up and on my way to school….broken leg, crutches and schoolwork.  The crutches hurt my arms and I got so tired of walking on one leg.  I used to switch legs….I would hold up the good one and walk on the broken one.  It was winter and the cold air would cut through you like a knife but I still had to walk to school.  I would make it all the way up a snow-covered hill and make one misstep and then slide all the way back down.  We weren’t allowed to wear pants so my legs would be frozen.  It was just so normal to me that I didn’t think anything about it.  Sometimes, it would almost strike me as funny.
We had a swing set in the front yard and I was outside trying to find something to do with a broken leg.  I decided to crawl across the top.  Mama happened to look out the window at that instant and saw me.  She came outside, got a “switch” and whipped me.
I didn’t know what it was about me that made mama so mad all the time.  Mamas’ mama (Granny), used to tell me that I was a thorn in my mamas’ side but she never told me why.
Mama could be sadistic at times.  I had once again made her mad.  She told me to take off everything that I didn’t buy with my own money, which was everything I had on.
I took off all of my clothes and she sent me outside.  I was standing on the porch in front of the door.  People were driving and walking down the street.  Now and then, she would open the front door and say “did you knock?”  I would cower and say “no ma’am.”  This went on for hours.  Finally, she said “if you don’t knock, you can’t come in.”
Mama beat me unmercifully.  She would grab my hair and yank it so hard that it would leave huge knots on my head.  She used belts, broom handles, limbs from trees or anything she could get her hands on.
She would beat me until I cried and then say “that’s right….turn on the waterworks.” Then she would beat me until I stopped.  She spoke with perfect cadence when she would say,,,,”SHUT….YOUR…..MOUTH….. …”SHUT…..YOUR…..MOUTH…..SHUT…..YOUR…..MOUTH” and would land a blow with each word.
Every single time I would swear to myself that I wasn’t going to cry.  Every single time she would win.  There was always this look of satisfaction on her face when she saw the first tear fall.
I was the dishwasher.  My sister, P**** had to sweep the floor after we ate and then she could go watch television.  Sometimes it would take me hours to get the dishes washed….standing on my ladder.  I whined to my daddy once about why P**** never had to wash the dishes.  He made her wash them that night and I paid dearly the next day when he went to work.
As further punishment, I guess, a few days later, mama woke me up by throwing the whole drawer of silverware in my face.  I guess I missed a spot on a fork or something.  When I went into the kitchen, she had gotten every dish, glass, pot, pan and utensil out for me to re-wash.  She sat in a kitchen chair with a switch in her hand, watching me.
My poor daddy was stuck between a rock and a hard place.  He couldn’t choose me but he couldn’t be mean to me either.
The night after I had rewashed every dish in the house, we were at the table eating and mama said something to me.  I didn’t understand what she said.  “I thought she asked me if I liked the beans but I wasn’t sure so I said “these?’
She came over, picked up my bowl of beans and smashed them all over my face.
My daddy stood up and said S****!  Mama backed off and sat back down but as usual, I paid later.
Mama had been somewhere because she was all dressed up.  P**** and I were in the kitchen and I could tell mama was mad about something as soon as she walked in.  She had something in her hands and she couldn’t slap me so she kicked me between the legs.  She had on her usual pointed-toed high-heeled shoes.  Blood started pouring down my legs.  I didn’t know what that meant then but I do now.  P**** laughed at me.
Mama had been on a tirade and I was black and blue all over, it seemed.  I had retreated to my room but came out and walked into the kitchen.  Mama was in there.  My head was down, my shoulders were dropped and I was crying so hard, I stuttered the words when I said “mama, why don’t you love me?”
She looked at me with those cold, ice blue eyes and snarled “what in this round world have you ever done to make anybody love you?”

11 thoughts on “Answering The Question – “Why Did I Stay With Him?” (Part One)

  1. I can’t stand it anymore!!! I’ve read through very entertaining posts under the category ‘disease giving husband’ with yes one thought on my mind! You see my WordPress started out as my escorting tales and I always wondered if I’d catch something namely Genital Herpes, I didn’t, I’m sorry but do you mind me asking what disease did he give or is this quite rightly private. Andrew

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    • It was Herpes. It’s incurable and I have been honest about it in my blog. One note of caution…i had it for eighteen years before I had a clue. I wasn’t promiscuous when I was young, so when the symptoms started showing up, I thought I was dirty. My ex (Loser) knew he had gotten it and he knew he had given it to me but said nothing. Had I not gone to EMT school, I would have never known…even though my doctor kept telling me to “be careful who you’re having sex with.” I thought he was teasing me. I left Loser and he eventually found another WTC….she already had it, so everything was Jake. In Losers’ words…”if you care enough, it doesn’t matter.”
      It sure mattered to me, but I wasn’t given the choice to decide.

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      • Thank you for replying, I feel a little bad for asking this next morning then again people are VERY honest here and I’ve been asked questions and yes judged which is fine. I’ve read a great deal about narcissistic relationships and omg can’t comprehend anything worse than being married to one for gods sake, that he actually knew is staggering. Again thank you honey I guess all I can say is all the escorts I’ve slept with were adorable women who looked after themselves. every one a lady, Andrew

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  2. It feels like we are getting to the bottom of the abyss, and the dark puzzle pieces are gradually coming together to reveal the heart of her life story. Why did this come to be? What was the root of all this, the cruelty, the seismic anger of a crazed, brutal parent at a mere child of three? If feels like we will soon know, but may never understand.

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