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“You are worthless, stupid, ugly and I wish you had never been born,” my mother said as she pushed me out the back door in my underwear during winter.

What had I done as a seven year old that warranted this treatment?

I had asked her why she was so mad at my older sister and was hitting her. No, beating her and throwing her around by her hair. Instead of answering the question, she pushed both of us out the back door on this cold winter’s night. My eight-year-old sister stood there shivering, having had the clothes ripped off her.

My sister and I looked at each other. She was crying, trying to untangle her hair from where Mom had grabbed her. I turned my back to her so she would not be embarrassed. I took off my T-shirt, handed it to her without looking so she could at least cover herself. We sat down on the cold concrete. My sister leaned against the wall with her legs folded under her, pulling the T-shirt down around her feet. Now what were we going to do? Dad was out of town - as usual. Certainly our two older brothers had heard the commotion and would help us.

I wish I could say that this was an isolated snapshot in my life. Unfortunately, it was a video of constant abuse. Even though we grew up in the sunny South where Spring and Summer days could be very warm, I usually wore long pants and long shirts to hide the marks on my body from the belt the night before.

Honestly, I cannot remember one incident that triggered the beatings, but I knew it must have been bad. I knew that I was bad. I believed all the harsh, negative things my mother said. After all, she was my mother. I still struggle with hearing her voice in my head, and she has been dead for over a decade. My mother’s voice is deeply etched in the playlist of my mind telling me that I am worthless, ugly and stupid. (Note: If you are a spouse or parent, regularly tell your spouse and children how nice they look, how proud you are of them, and how much they mean to you.)

Abuse happened to three of the four children regularly. My sister recalls that I got the worst of it because, she explained, “Dad liked you, so she hated you to get at him.” Ricky, my oldest brother, was the exception. Mom favored him. Always did. Said so herself many times. It didn’t hurt that as he grew older he began to look more and more like Brad Pitt.

Looking back on this season of life is challenging. In fact, like most people who have been abused, I have tried to forget it. Abuse must be forgotten or recycled in some way in order for life to go on. If you do not deal with disappointments from growing up, whether you have been abused or not, you will find yourself stuck at the emotional age you were when some major disillusionment finally triggers something. Growing older is not an option. Growing up is.

I remember coming home from school with almost all “A’s” on my report card when I was nine. This was no small accomplishment. The school I attended had “Advanced Placement” for children who were “advanced” at math, reading and science. As a third grader, I was placed in sixth grade math and reading and in fifth grade science. The only time I saw students my age was at recess, lunch or special events. In my naiveté, I thought my mother would love me now, be proud of me, and not push me into the back porch closet anymore because I got good grades. Instead she said, “All you’re good at is book learnin’. You ain’t got a lick of common sense. Get your ugly face out of my sight until you learn some common sense.” That meant I was to go somewhere else - anywhere else - until she was no longer angry at me or Rick rescued me.

The only problem was I didn’t even know what common sense was! All I knew was that my mother was unhappy with me, as usual. Even though I tried to please her, to show her that I was smart by getting the best grades in the class, I was still stupid. Worthless. Unattractive. 

If she wasn’t telling me she wished I had never been born, she told me I was supposed to have been born a girl. That way, there would be two boys and two girls in the family. I ruined everything.

• How do you recycle abuse when it happens?
  How have you recycled the hurts and pains in your life?
  Have you experienced Verbal Violence?

I truly would love for you to hit "REPLY" and give me your immediate, knee-jerk answer.

Rejoicing, On the Victory Side!

Beau

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