Growing Pains Growing up I was an abused child who wanted nothing more than to break free of the horrible torture that was imposed on me every day of my childhood. My mother hated me, and she was not shy in saying so. She would belittle me as if it gave her some kind of sick pleasure in destroying my fragile, developing ego. Naturally, I would grow up to be a person who didn't have any ambition or goals for the future.
This was because I focused all of my energy on the thought of getting away. I just wanted to be free, somewhere, anywhere; it didn't matter to me. I am not sure exactly when my mother decided that she hated me, but it was definitely apparent in all of her actions. She would blame me for anything that happened in her life that prevented her from getting what she wanted. My father left us when I was only two years old. My mother always spoke ill of him and told me that I was better off not knowing who he was.
For some reason I think he would have stayed if it wasn't for the responsibility of taking care of me and I think that my mother knew that as well. My childhood years were occupied mainly by making excuses for the numerous injuries that my mother forced upon me every day because some part of me still cared about my mother, and I never wanted her to be in trouble, or maybe perhaps more logically, I was too scared. In my teenage years, most of my time was spent in school, and after I left there I would come home to a strung out mother that would be ranting and raving about dishes that needed to be done and telling me about how I was her biggest mistake, and that I was nothing but a lazy, hopeless loser, which I knew wasn't true, but when you are a child the thoughts just run through your head over and over like a bad dream that you cannot wake up from. During that time, I had to find a way to break out. She would never let me leave the house unless it was to go to school, so I would leave at seven every morning and not return until midnight or later because I couldn't face the beatings anymore.
I began to heavily use drugs and try to escape to a place without pain and fear. Unfortunately, I knew that when I did come home, that I was really in for it. I remember that when my mother was angry her normal hazel eyes would turn into a tornado of green fury. A few of my injuries were quite serious, the broken nose, bruised ribs and the constant thoughts of feeling like I shouldn't even exist. Many days I would sweep up the chunks of pulled out hair that left tiny little bald marks all over my aching head. When I would escape I would go to my best friend's house.
Her mother Denise despised my mother and always said that if she could adopt me that she would do it in a New York minute. I loved to be there because I felt safe. My mom hated Denise and would insult the family and call them unspeakable obscenities. She knew that I would have rather been with my best friend's family than with her, and she would accuse me of not having a loyal bone in my body. I did though; I was loyal to what I thought was right and true, and it definitely wasn't beating an innocent child because I hated my own life. I didn't care what she thought; in my eyes she was the monster; she was the one who couldn't accept the blame for anything.
She was the one that would never apologize no matter how much pain she had put me through. It was obvious to me that my mother had a serious problem. The drugs that she would take just to get through the day and the abusive childhood had played a role in the person that she had become. Her father had started the cycle of abuse and my mother let it continue turning her into the weak domineering, selfish evil mother that I never wanted or deserved. I always blamed myself for her behavior, partly because every time that she would punch me, I always told myself that I would never forgive her.
I ignored that promise to myself all the time. It was only a matter of time before I decided that I had enough. My mother had dropped me off at my grandfather's house and she left to do some errands. That was when I decided that I was leaving.
I didn't care about the consequences, I called my best friend and she came and took me away. I remember seeing my grandfather's face wrinkled in disappointment screaming at me to come back, but I just ran. I felt like an escaped prisoner and it felt good, although I knew that I would be caught eventually and the punishment would be more severe than any other that I knew in my short life. My mother had returned to my grandfather's house and discovered that I was gone. The next thing I knew, she had showed up at my friend's house and was beating down the door. My best friend's mother, Denise answered and told her that I was not there.
My mother warned her that she was going to call the police. At that time, I decided to flee to another safe house. When I walked out the door, there was my mother, she grabbed me and threw me in the car. I knew that I was in serious trouble and she told me that I was in for it when we got home. When we arrived at the house, my mother dragged me in with the clench of her long fingernails digging into my fragile, numb arm. She then opened the door and flung me inside like a rag doll.
Then she proceeded to kick me wholeheartedly in my ribcage over and over until she was sick of hearing my cries for her to stop. She then proceeded to spit on me, and then she called the police. The police arrived and I was so relieved. My mother had apparently had a bleeding scratch on her finger, and I was crying so hard that I couldn't even catch my breath to speak in my defense, so I was taken away for assault... The police took me away and I stayed in juvenile hall that night. My mother had refused to come and get me.
At that time, the charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence and her past domestic violence disputes. The courts then told her that she had to sign me over to the care of the state. I was adopted by a nice Christian children's home. I stayed with a polite family who took care of me till my senior year. My mother never addressed her problems. She thinks that everything is fine and dandy to this very day; however, my bruised inner ego is still suffering and she thinks that I have forgotten.
I will never forget these horrendous acts upon which I suffered because of her inadequacies. Occasionally I speak to my mother, only because I decided to be the better person. Some days I wish that I hadn't but I know that in the end, she will know that I made it. I got away and I am free. This experience has taught me that although I could not choose my mother, that I could choose to try to have a wonderful life that is free of negative thoughts and self destructive behavior. I have a new outlook on life.
I now know that my inner strength saved me from giving up on myself. Maybe one day, she will ask for forgiveness, but if she does not I will still be smiling.