Waking The Wounds

by Angela Kayne

  And then there was the time the new girl with the bad attitude from the city came after me in the locker room. I had offended one of her friends apparently, so it was her job to teach me a lesson. She shoved me and ripped my shirt, all the while yelling “meet me in the alley” which of course happened in full view of the cafeteria directly above us during lunch. Yes, it was just like an arena with me as the entertainment for hundreds of kids. I got sent to the principal's office and suspended, and for weeks the kids at school were chanting “meet me in the alley”. I think they were making fun of her and not me, but I’d have much rather they’d just forgotten the whole darn thing ever happened.

  There were so many ways I felt the rejection from the other kids, everything from eyerolls to outright verbal assaults. Gossip spoken in front of me intentionally for my ears, a slight shove in the hallway (or not so slight), abrupt laughter from groups of girls as I walk by… and being told “I hope you break your other arm too” after dislocating my elbow in Jr High and returning to school with my arm in a sling. Then there were the spitballs and other small items that made there way toward my head from the back of the bus. The message was received loud and clear.

  I managed to make a few friends during jr high, but I never fit in there. It was the place I went because I had no choice, I needed an “education” after all, and I sure got one. What did I learn? How to survive on my own, that no one had my back, the teachers didn’t care, they failed to notice how much help I needed just as my previous teachers had. I learned I could trust no one except myself. Underneath it all, behind the wall I was building around myself, I longed for someone to love me, and notice me. I just wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere. I wanted someone to tell me you are enough, you are smart, you can do whatever you want, and you deserve good things like everyone else. I was so broken, my soul so wounded, that it led me to making some very bad choices just to fill that void.

  The first time I had sex, I was just fourteen years old. I wasn’t in love, it wasn’t special, and I sure wasn’t special to him. He was one of several boys I gave myself to at that age. At some point I started to believe sex was my only value, up until that point nobody had taught me otherwise. I didn’t know my own worth, so I allowed boys to decide that for me. I would have done anything to feel like I was loved, or had some approval. I didn’t want to feel invisible anymore, when would someone choose me? When would I be enough? If only I had known the power and the strength I had within myself, that I was enough, that God loved me more than anyone else ever could. It might have kept me from the next chapter in my life. The sad truth is it would be many more years until I learned this about myself, and much more pain ahead for me. From around this point on I fell into a downward spiral, fueled by rejection and shame, and of course a never ending desire to be loved by someone.

  Chapter 4

  Someone To Love Me

  I was fifteen years old when I met my someone, that someone I had been waiting for. He would protect me, and love me, and finally I would be enough. I met him through a friend of mine, we had stopped by his apartment to visit him. My friends older sister had a son with him who was just a few months old at that time. I remember thinking he was arrogant, and a bit intimidating, and he often made poor attempts at inappropriate jokes. I don’t remember being attracted to him, he was so much older than me, twenty-eight at that time. He made it obvious he was attracted to me from the very beginning, and I needed attention and approval so badly. He invited us to come back for a party soon, which we did. He had a very dominant, rude way about him I picked up on right away. That should have been a red flag, but of course my need for love and approval won out over any common sense I should have had. I started spending as much time as I could with him at his apartment, which was easy to do. My parents never really asked too much about where I was, and who I was with. I would walk to his apartment after school each day instead of going home, and we began having sex almost immediately. Sex was never enjoyable for me, but it was a price I was willing pay to gain approval, and love. I was needed by him, that made me feel important and special.

  It wasn’t long until the first time he hit me. I can’t remember now what had happened, if we were arguing, or what I had done that made him mad. I should have left then, that day, but I didn’t. It was my fault, I just needed to be a better girlfriend and learn how to make him happy, and he wouldn’t hit me again. Besides, it wasn’t like I had never been hit before, and I survived all that, I was okay right? I found many ways to justify his abusive behaviors, and stay with him. He began using control tactics with me, he wanted to know where I was at all times, who I was with, he had to be first and center in my life. At some point he began verbally degrading me, referring to me as his bitch. When I managed to say something he viewed as witty, I was a “smart bitch” or if I actually did something right a “good bitch”. And when he was angry with me I was then called a slut and a whore.

  He was pretty much a loner, and was home most of the time. He had no regular job, just odd jobs that paid under the table so he could get out of paying child support for his son. (yes, yes, I know, another red flag) He still maintained a degree of control over his son’s mother. He had her sign a contract saying she would drive him wherever he needed to go, even though they were split up, and she did it. One time she had taken him somewhere, and when she dropped him off at his apartment, I was there waiting for him. She saw me, and rage took over. She tried to run me over with her car, I literally jumped out of the way and avoided getting hit. I understand now the place she was in with him, and the rage she must have felt.

  We were together just a few months when I found out I was pregnant. The news came as a shock, of course I had no idea how to raise a baby… me? A mother? I was just a broken mess of a girl myself. I couldn’t take care of me, how would I ever learn how to be a mother? Even so I accepted it, and prepared myself the best I could. He kept saying we need to get married before this baby gets here, so we can apply for welfare. It was clear the only reason he wanted to marry me was for the added income through welfare checks.

  My pregnancy went fairly well considering I was sick often, and had a very poor diet. She was a July birth, and it was a very hot and humid summer. Having no air conditioning in our tiny apartment made the experience even more miserable. I of course was under a lot of stress during that time, he had hit me several times while I was pregnant. I still felt committed to this life with him no matter what, and naively thought that we would get married, and somehow this baby would make everything better. I was determined we would have our happily ever after.

  We were married when I was eight months pregnant with our daughter. You must be wondering how, since I was only fifteen and he was twenty-eight right? Right after I turned sixteen, my mom went to the courthouse with me and signed papers so I could marry him. Yes, she knowingly signed me over to this monster. I think in her mind she thought she was helping me, her instincts to protect me never seemed to kick in at any time in my life long before this point. Our wedding was nothing special, we went to the Justice of the Peace in town, and it was done.

  One of his friends, known locally as “crazy Sherry” served as our witness. She earned her claim to fame after running down Broadway Avenue naked with a butcher knife, because someone had cheated her on a marijuana purchase. But we were married and that’s all that mattered to me. I didn’t need much, I just wanted our happily ever after. Well, of course happily ever after never came. From that point on, things just got steadily worse. His need for control grew, his temper became worse, my life became a living hell within our home. I was his property now, and he had total control over me. After going through most of tenth grade pregnant, (oh yes, public school pregnant... that was FUN!) I had dropped out the end of the year during finals, right after we got married. That meant we were together all of the time. He still had no steady job, and had no plans for getting one.

  Our baby girl was born in July, I had turned sixteen the previo
us March. She was a breech baby because the hospital I went to would only deliver breech babies by c-section. We spent three days in the hospital, he was there briefly for her birth, and then only came back to pick us up on the third day. I remember being in the hospital and feeling so alone and scared, I was a mother but had no idea what to do with this new little life. Just holding her was awkward, I had so much to learn and it was overwhelming. But I still held hope that somehow it would all be okay, and that we would figure it out together.

  He picked us up from the hospital, and was clearly annoyed that he had to be bothered to come and get us. When we got back to his third floor apartment, he made me carry our baby in her carseat, with all of her things up all those steps. I popped several stitches during the process. I don’t think I even told him it happened, I just left it go and eventually it healed.

  Things only got worse from this point forward, I should have known they would. He wanted nothing to do with our baby, and was jealous of any and all attention I gave to her. He would get angry and call her names, “little bitch” among others. I wish I could say I left with her then and there, but I didn’t. Instead my mom babysat her often because I had nobody else to help me, and with violence escalating between us I figured she was better off with my mom. I became his virtual slave, whatever he demanded from me I did.

  I spent most of my time cleaning to meet his insanely high standards. He would inspect my work when I was done, if he found a fingerprint, or a hair, I had to clean it all over again. There was simply no making him happy, ever. I walked on nails all the time, waiting for him to blow up again over something small and meaningless. It was normal for him to drill me for hours, convincing me he was right and that I had done some horrible unforgivable deed. Sometimes this would last several days, to the point that I had no idea how or when it even started. He’d have me so confused and exhausted that I would say whatever he wanted to hear to make him stop. There was no sleeping, eating or drinking anything during these fights. When it was all over he would say “now you can start over with a clean slate”. As if he had forgiven me… for something really bad, and I should be grateful he still wanted me at all. He owned me, and had total control over me, and he made it his duty to make sure I knew that.

  He would often sexually degrade me, by comparing me to other girls he had been with. He had a little book where he wrote down all of their names, and rated them based on looks, and sexual performance. He left me know often that I wasn’t as good at sex as the rest were. He told me I was damaged goods, since having our baby my body was ruined. I was a flat chested bitch, nobody else would ever want me or find me attractive. And of course, I believed him. At one point I discovered he had taken photos of me while sleeping, completely naked, and showed them to his friends. I only found out because several of them actually mentioned seeing these photos. The only value I had to him, if anything at all, was sex.

  That next year with him was pretty much a downward spiral of violence. He still didn’t have a regular job, so he cleaned houses and other local businesses and got paid under the table. He had me go with and help him clean, so he could get done in half the time. One time while we were cleaning one of the houses, I went outside and sat on the steps for a break. He came out and kicked me in my back, because I was being lazy. Then after we left that house and were driving back home I had an open container of antifreeze at my feet. Some of it had splashed over onto the floor. He flew into a rage, pulled the car over, yanked me out of the car and pushed me down a bank. Then he tossed the rest of the antifreeze on me and let me know it was my job to call someone to get him more antifreeze to replace it. It wasn’t the first time he had me call people asking for something on his behalf.

  I never knew what to expect from him, or when. He seemed to enjoy keeping me on edge, always wondering what he would do next. Most of the time he wouldn’t actually hit me, but instead he would make a fist, then pull back his arm, swing and then stop within inches of my face. His face bright red, and nostrils flared, often screaming or even crying like a toddler throwing a tantrum. One time he threw a dirty diaper at me, hitting me in the head and knocking me off my feet. I don’t remember now what I had done to anger him.

  The only visitors we had were his “friends” which translated to the people who came around to sell him weed, or buy some from him. I remember several times going on trips to York Pa and Central park NY to buy drugs. I sat in the car waiting outside some houses in really bad neighborhoods. Sadly, the only times I remember him ever being nice to me were the times he was high. It was if he could only function as a human being if he smoked pot first. Life with him really had become a prison, I had nothing for myself. He had destroyed, or sold my possessions, I couldn’t use the phone to call anyone, and no matter what I did it was wrong in his eyes.

  There were several times throughout our marriage when I tried to leave. One of those time I left on foot, I remember hiding behind some buildings at a nearby park, because I knew he would be coming after me. This was the time he had tried to punch me in the face, but nearly hit our daughter instead, she was around six months old at the time. I instinctively kicked him in the groin dropping him to the floor. I then made my escape to a nearby pay phone. Though the whole thing is vague now, I think my mom came and picked us up at the park, but I went back the same night.

  Another time while living in Lewisburg, during the summer we had been arguing. I told him to just go ahead and hit me and get it over with, I was so tired of his words. He did, I then left on foot, with him in his car following me down the street yelling at me. Someone called the police and we were both fined for a domestic disturbance. So once again I went back, defeated by him I simply was not yet strong enough to flee his control.

  The day finally came when I had enough, I couldn’t live through one more day with him. Our daughter had just turned one year old, I decided I HAD to leave, if not for myself then I had to do it for her. The day I left started out like every other day. We had plans to go to his family reunion in Hanover Pa. that day. He hadn’t told his family about our daughter, he said they were old fashioned and would never approve since I was so young. So my mom came and picked her up, and we went to his reunion. The whole ride there, and back home we argued. I don’t remember what about, everything and nothing at all. He continued to instigate me to argue with him.

  By the time we finally got home that evening, I was DONE. I knew it. I was convinced that one of us would end up dead, most likely me.This was it. But could I pull it off without him knowing and stopping me? I had tried several times before this and he stalked me, found me, and made me go back home. My plan was simple, I stashed a few needed things for myself and my daughter under the base of our kitchen table, which was right by the back door. It was one of those huge wire rope spools he had stolen from a nearby factory, painted and used as a table. I called Mom and asked her to bring our daughter back since we were home. When she arrived at the back door a short time later, I grabbed my things and told her to turn around, that I was coming with her. It was that easy, we left and never returned.

  But… this meant moving back to my parents house, because I still had no friends or support system to help me. My older brother had gone into the military, so at least he wasn’t a threat. I got enrolled into a program through the county for single mothers. It was designed to help me gain independence and support myself and my baby. The program included classes for paying bills, cooking meals, shopping, and parenting. It also offered a GED course, and money to buy a used car, pay for school, and clothes for job interviews. Within about six months, I finished the program, and after going to CNA school I was hired full time as a CNA at a nursing home. I had my own apartment, my own car, and my own life for my daughter and I. Finally, we were free, but I was still just seventeen and very broken.

  Up until this point, I had been physically and sexually abused and neglected by my own family. I struggled through many years of constant bullying and rejection in public school.
Then I married a man who tried every day to destroy me, by any means possible. I had no idea what love looked like, and that I had any true value. Yes, I was finally free from the physical threat of him, but not from my wounds, and not from the aftermath of the physical and emotional trauma I had been through. Because after all of that, the void I had carried for so long was now even bigger. I still just wanted desperately to be loved, and I still believed sex was my only value. For a while I went to parties, drank way too much, smoked pot, and ultimately gave myself to whoever wanted me, just so I could feel something, anything. But it was a downward spiral that always led me right back to more despair, grief, and self destruction.