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

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

I had gotten the answer to my question.  I had never done anything to make anybody love me.  At least now I knew.
Mama continued to demonstrate her hatred for me throughout the years and it showed on my body.
P**** and I would fight like sisters do.  One day mama took us to Recreational Park to play on the swings and slide down the sliding board.  P**** and I got into it and mama told us to get in the car.  The fight continued and mama made me get out.  P**** was always right.  Mama drove off and left me.  It was in the mountains and was probably a good five miles from the house.
It took me a while and it was getting dark, but I made it home.  I knocked on the door and when mama opened it, she said “oh, it’s you.”  I think she was disappointed.
When I was ten, we were playing dodge ball at school.  I was still tiny but I was quick.  It was the girls against the boys and the girls won.  I was the last one in the circle and this boy, A**** M***** threw the ball at me in anger and snapped my leg.  It was the same leg I had broken before.  I didn’t want to cry but I did.  I don’t know if I was crying because it hurt or because I knew mama was going to be mad at me.  She had told me the first time I broke my leg that if I broke it again, she was going to whip me.
I saw the same doctor who had set my leg the first time.  The school had taken me to the hospital and mama had to come get me.  She kept her word, but at least she waited a few days.
We were never allowed in my mama and daddys’ bedroom but they had a television in there.  One Saturday, “Creature Feature” was on and I wanted to watch it.  Mama was at Grannys’ house so I made a cup of hot chocolate and sneaked into their bedroom.  I was on the bed but was being careful not to spill my chocolate.  How she got back without me hearing her, I don’t know.
She came in, took the cup of hot chocolate from my hand and threw it  all over my leg.  It burned me pretty bad but I had broken the rules, so I got what I deserved.
Monday, I was in class and I kept fidgeting with my skirt because it was sticking to my leg.  My teacher saw me and came over to my desk.  She gently picked up my skirt and saw my leg.  She took my arm and said “come with me.”
She took me to the nurses’ office and put some salve on it.  She looked at me but never asked me a question and never made a comment.  I still have a scar on my leg from that burn.
Mama was always talking about how I was “filthy.”  I had cradle cap when I was little and P****  used to call me “clabborhead.”  She’d say “why don’t you wash your hair?”  It would make me cry and she would laugh.  My ears stuck out and P**** would call me Dumbo and she and mama would both laugh.
We had PE (physical education) in school and had to wear these little short jumpsuits.  We’d be lined up and I would look at all the other girls’ legs.  I couldn’t understand where all the marks were.  My legs had red stripes all over them.  Where were theirs?  I thought maybe theirs must have already healed.
Mama and P**** loved to make divinity fudge.  They would make it  and then go watch television while they ate it.  They made it one night and I asked if I could have a piece.  P**** looked at me and said “did you pay for any of the ingredients?”  I said no and she said “then you can’t have one.”
When my daddy got home, I asked him if I could have a piece of the fudge.  He said “why sure, youngun.”  I told him that P**** had said I couldn’t have any because I didn’t pay for any of the stuff to make them.  He went into the living room and told mama and P**** that HE “paid for the Goddamn groceries” in that house and if I wanted a piece of fudge, I could have one.  They were both shooting daggers at me.  My mama was absolutely outraged that my daddy had taken up for me.
After that, mama would always call me “your royal highness” or “your royalness.”  I would hear her talking to P****, and she would say things like “we’d better check with her royal highness.”
I have a memory of sitting in the kitchen with my head in my hands, crying of course.  I don’t know what had happened or what I had done or how long mama had been whipping me but all of a sudden, I heard Granny say “sister, if you don’t put that down, I’m going to call the police.”  I turned around and mama was standing behind me with a hammer in her hand.  She had this crazed look on her face.  I think Granny saved my life that day.
I used to wonder how mama could look at her bruised and battered little girl and feel nothing.  I wondered if she ever felt bad.  I wondered if she ever wanted to tell me that she was sorry.  She had never hugged me and of course had never told me she loved me because I hadn’t earned it.
One night I woke up and she was in the bed with me.  I was too terrified to move.  I didn’t know if she had come in there to smother me in my sleep or if she had wanted to put her arm around me because she felt bad.
When I was thirteen, everybody at school was getting their ears pierced.  A friend of mine had just gotten hers done and said she would loan me a pair of earrings if I wanted to pierce my own.  I went home and worked and worked on getting holes in my ears and then finally got the earrings in.  I thought they looked great.
The next day, I heard mama saying to P****, “her highness has put holes in her ears.”  P**** said “I know” in a disgusted, “can you believe it” kind of tone.  Then mama said “I wonder why she doesn’t go ahead and put a bone through her nose.”
Not two weeks later, mama and P**** both had gone and gotten their ears pierced.
Mama didn’t discriminate when it came to when and in front of who she beat me.  P**** had a boyfriend named B**** and he had come over to watch television with her.  Mama was mad at me and was beating the crap out of me, right in front of him.  I went to the kitchen and was sitting at the table with my head in my hands, like I always did.  B**** came in and put his hand on my shoulder.  He scared me at first.  I looked up at him and he had tears in his eyes.  He didn’t say a word.  He just stood there with his hand on my shoulder.  P**** came in the kitchen and with an accusatory voice asked him what he was doing.
I wondered if he was going to go home and tell his mama.  It actually occurred to me that his mama might be mad at me for being bad.
I used to be pretty religious.  I believed in God and I believed in all the rhetoric about Him being a loving God.  I used to pray every single night, asking Him to make mama love me.  I would promise Him that I would try to be a better girl if He would just do that.  I would have given anything for my mama to have loved me.  I actually continued to pray well into adulthood.
I guess He said no.

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

    • I remember praying for my mama to love me.
      I’m not sure I ever prayed for Loser to love me. I think it was pretty clear from the beginning (although it took me a while to admit it) that he only loved was himself, his root family and his tramps.

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      • I think you touched on the reason in one of your posts about your childhood, when you wrote that there was something wrong with your mama. I agree with that. Physical and emotional abuse is never because of the child, it is the adult who has some form of issues. As for a “greater reason” than that, (spiritually, or something like that) I could not tell you. I have only read up until your childhood posts, so I am not aware if you got any help in processing what was done to you as a child. However I hope you have been able to heal as much as is possible. My heart goes out to you.❤

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          • I can understand that, I have read quite a lot on your blog by now and you have had to carry burden s way too heavy. I am not really much of a religious person, but I do hope that there is some good force in the universe that can help you along on your continued life journey. I think it is very good that you are writing your story. Take care of yourself, I will continue reading your blog. You are a really good writer, by the way! I get really connected to the way you write your story. Maybe you were not meant to read books, but to write them.. 💜

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            • I think (hope) writing my story is helpful. People have been telling me for years to write a book about my so-called “life” but I have always said “it’s so damn sad” and it would leave everybody thinking “why the Hell didn’t she leave that asshole after the first ‘fucking pumpernickel’ statement.” I never thought I deserved any better I guess and I was the perfect pawn for that narcissist scumbag.
              Wouldn’t that be just a little slice of justice….if I wrote a book? That’s all Loser ever wanted to do…write a book.

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                • Maybe I should contact the publisher of Bastard Out Of Carolina. My RBS has been urging me to read that book. I thought it was about another asshole husband but it’s about a girl who suffered egregious abuse. They made a movie about it but I have never seen it.

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                  • It never hurts to try to get it published. The worst thing that could happen is to get a no, but that’s what most writers get used to all the time.☺ I think most writers try with many different publishers before they get published.. and most probably get no. But it is worth s shot! Maybe it is also possible to “self publish” on Amazon etc these days, I don’t know. I hope you give it a try some day! 😊

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                    • Well, I’m certainly used to hearing “no.” It takes all forms. I think I’ve been hearing it all my life. LOL. Having prayed my entire young life, I finally gave up…it seemed like the answer was always “no.” I’ll give it some thought.

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