Monday, February 27, 2012

Close to Gone

I am 11 years old.  I am sweeping the dirt away from the front driveway.  I have been at it for hours.  It's a windy day.  My stepfather says that is the perfect weather for this chore.  I know that it isn't, but I keep on, knowing that the alternative will be more painful than my weeping, blistered hands and aching back. 


This has been a pretty bad day.  Time spent with my stepfather this morning was arduous.  He had a hard time making his body work the way it should and he says it's my fault.  I am not small anymore, I am not as sexy, I am not good at my job.  Nothing I did with my mouth was as good as it used to be- I got cuffed for that.  Nothing I tried on for him worked.  Not until he decided I would talk baby talk, did things start to go the way it always has.  


After, he ordered me outside with an old push broom.  It is long and heavy and I have a hard time finding a rhythm.  A blister opens up and starts bleeding.  After glancing all around, I finally sit and take nips of the crackers I have hidden in my pockets.  I am thirsty too so I chance a trip to the water spigot around the side of the house. 


The house is situated on a quiet intersection.  Many people stop here to ask for directions and today there is a truck idling in the road.  The man behind the wheel is looking down, proably at a map.  I know how to help him, I do this all the time.


He waves me over, just as I am about to ask him if he needs directions.  I usually I don't have to go to near a car, but he cups his ear as though he is hard of hearing, so I approach.


He says he wants to know how to get off.  I start to tell him that I have never heard of that place when I see that he is without pants and his penis is stiff and long.  Before I can turn to run, he has me tight by the hand that I had placed on his open window.  He wants to know where I am going so fast- I haven't helped him to get where he needs to go and that is not polite.  I find my feet moving as the truck begins to accelerate.  Soon I am running along side the vehicle and when I can't keep up I fall and he hauls half of my body into the cab.  My face is in his lap.


Time slows.  In a deviated place in my mind, I think that perhaps this is a valid option- to go with him.  Perhaps he will take me somewhere where I won't have to do chores.  Maybe he is actually nice.  Maybe he has a beautiful house and horses and cats and dogs.  For the first time, I realize that I hate my life, I hate that my mother never talks to me, never holds me.  I hate that my stepfather is never happy.  I hate the things he makes me do and I am dog-tired of the chores.   So I hang from the truck, legs limp, contemplating this impossible choice in a microcosm that has slowed down for just this implausible moment.


He slows the truck a little as we turn up a dirt road.  He has just enough time to mash my face into his putrid crotch and like the cornered animal that I am, I lash out.  I struggle and scratch, kicking my legs all the while.  His arm comes down to protect his goods and I bite down as hard as I can.  In this scrambled moment he loses his grip on his precious prey.  He steps on the gas and I tumble like a log in the gravel, feeling every lodged pebble and each place where I know a massive bruise will rise up, colorful and then hideous.  I roll into the culvert and listen for him, but I only hear his wheels throw dirt as they spin out and grab the pavement onto the main road above.


I lay still, accounting for each part of my body- what might be bleeding, broken or just bruised.  There is damage, but I have felt worse.  I climb out of the ditch and run home.  I am only relieved to be here because it is familiar.  Still, as I see my stepfather glaring at me from an upstairs window, I wonder if I have made a mistake coming back here. 

...


Now, loving my life as I do, I feel very lucky that I am alive after this incredible moment in my life. Here are statistics on abduction:
http://kidsfightingchance.com/stats.php


Child Abuse, Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Anxiety, Self-harm, Depression, Survivor, Survivor of childhood abuse, Post-partum depression and psychosis, OCD, Recovered memories, Repressed memories, Spousification, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, Teen Suicide, bullying, drug abuse



4 comments:

  1. You just couldn't catch a break could you?

    ReplyDelete
  2. It was so strange to be me for the longest time. There are more weird things like this that i will write about. I will also write about how I was finally able to put an end to it. Thank God my life is not like that anymore!

    ReplyDelete
  3. My goodness Cairn...I can't even imagine =(

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Me neither! I could imagine it several times in my childhood and into the few years after my daughter was born- but now? NO!

      Delete