All of these lines across my face

This post may be a trigger for some, as it deals with child abuse. Please don't read further if doing so will upset you. :(








I guess it would make sense to start at the beginning of things. The very beginning.

My maternal grandfather was born to two of the best people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing in my entire life; he grew up on a farm with two sisters and a younger brother. My great grandparents passed away eight years ago and I still miss them everyday. My maternal grandmother was born to an alcoholic father and a bat-shit insane mother (no, the apple does NOT fall far from the tree); she grew up in poverty with eight siblings, with others that are still being identified (seems Great Grandma liked to play around while Great Grandpa was away and gave those babies away, not speaking of them until the mood struck her, sometimes 40 years later). My great grandfather took his boat out while drunk one night and was never seen or heard from again. Last I heard, the Evil Old Woman was still alive.

They met when they were young (18 or 19?). Apparently my grandmother was pregnant when they married. My great grandpa (grandfather's dad) never liked my grandmother (smart man, that one). My mother was born shortly after they turned 20.

The first known incident of abuse occurred when my mother was all of 18-months old. My grandmother's sister was babysitting my mom and discovered welts from a belt on her bottom when changing her diaper. She discussed the situation with her husband; they decided to approach their family doctor, who happened to be my family's doctor. The doctor told them to mind their own business and did nothing further.

My grandmother had "feminine issues." She thought she wouldn't be able to have another child, which is probably part of the reason my aunt was treated as the all-sainted saviour. After my aunt was born, my grandmother had a hysterectomy at 23.

I know from what my mom was recounted, life was relatively "normal" until they moved six hours away from their family and friends. They were in a new town; my grandfather was working a new job; my grandmother had to get a job. In short, she was miserable. As such, she made my mother miserable by taking it out on her.

They moved when my mom was 12. My grandmother alternated between trying to kill herself with pills -- I think Mom has lost count of the number of times she came home from school to find my grandmother unconscious and would have to call an ambulance: Grammie Dearest spent a lot of time in the psych ward during this time -- and alleviating her discontent by terrorizing my mother for the following four years.

Mom recalls memories of my grandmother beating her with a wooden spoon until it broke; this only served to enrage her further, so she just carried on with her hand. She could literally make my 15-year old mother pee her pants in sheer terror from across the room with a look or the tone of her voice. She would flip out over some infraction not at all related to my mom and send her to her room without dinner; my grandfather would wait until Grammie Dearest was distracted and sneak a peanut butter sandwich outside to pass to my mom through her window.

And lest you think him blameless, my grandfather was as complicit, IMO, as if he'd beat her himself. There was yet another ridiculous infraction in which Grammie Dearest decided that she had had enough of my mother, and packed up all her belongings so she could go live with my great grandparents (Mom was over the MOON at the prospect of living somewhere she would be loved. I am so grateful to my great grandparents: it was their love that showed my mom how a parent behaves, which in turn prevented her from continuing the cycle of abuse, I'm sure). It took my grandfather five of the six hour drive before he finally spoke up and told my grandmother that she was being ridiculous, that they couldn't "give" Mom away.

He had to go out of town on a business trip one weekend. My mother was scared out of her mind to be left with my grandmother for an entire weekend. My grandfather spoke to a co-worker who was also a trusted "family" friend and explained the situation; he told my mom that if anything happened, she was to go to the shop and F would take her home with him until my grandfather could get back to town.

The first day was fine. The second day, my mom was allowed to go to the mall with a friend (I think they were 13?). They missed the bus when it was time to go home. She tried to call my grandmother repeatedly for almost an hour with no luck. She ended up leaving with her friend. Because she knew she was going to be in terrible, awful, no good trouble, she had her friend's mother drop her off at F's house. F's wife M took Mom in, no questions asked; M called F at work, who phoned my grandfather. He made arrangements to come home immediately.

Mom was absolutely beside herself, worrying about what would happen if she went home. I'm not sure how Grammie Dearest figured it out, but she ended up calling F and M's house, demanding that my mother be brought home; when M explained that Mom would be staying until my grandfather could pick her up, my grandmother told M she'd call the police and tell them that M kidnapped Mom.

Mom went home.



I love, love, love "The Story" by Brandi Carlile, so I'm gonna use a line of lyrics as the titles to the story of my life. If you're not familiar with the song, go give it a listen. Please.