Читать книгу Dared To Survive - Olya Mancuso - Страница 7

I ran down the stairs, choking on my vomit and tears. I was beaten every day. It hurt so much. I was whipped, kicked, bitten – whatever – you name it. My body took it all.

I smelled because I wet the bed. I was always dirty because mother was always too busy for me. She was usually hysterical because my brother ran up debts, conned people, and committed crimes.

Mother told everyone—even my friends – how bad I smelled. My suffering never ended unless I was in bed. Every day, I waited impatiently for the night and darkness to give me shelter so I could hide inside myself.

For me, there was no better tomorrow, no brighter future. My future was no different from the present where I struggled to survive to keep myself alive. Every day, I was bashed. Fear made my stomach cramp. This fear was all I knew. It was part of me, deeply instilled.

I had problems sleeping even though other kids my age slept just fine. I often had sweaty hands. Almost every day, I had heart palpitations and nausea. I was six. But, I still wet the bed. I had dry mouth very often. Therefore, I always drank a lot of water. This did not help my bed wetting issues.

I could not sit still or calm. I was unruly at school. My behaviour at school was shocking. It added to my physical punishment at home. However, I never stopped behaving badly at school – no matter how cruelly mother beat me for this.

One day, I lost my bike. I was terrified because it meant my mother would kill me. Picturing in my mind the punishment that was awaiting me at home, my whole body began to shiver with the intense fear of pain. I knew I would be whipped and beaten again. I would have to stay inside again for another week or two doing my chores. These clever punishments of my mother were invented, deliberately impossible to accomplish or complete.

The creativity of my mother’s punishments knew no bounds… They were always inside. I was forbidden to play. I was petrified of being in mother’s way. I lived with fear. I was always walking on eggshells.

It was my first day out after having been locked up for two weeks. I had blown it again by losing my bike. Mother would never forgive me. She would beat me and then lock me up again for another week or two. Dad was not home, and I did not know when he would be back. As usual, I was on my own.

Tears rolled down my face. I dug my nails into my flesh so hard that little drops of blood appeared on the surface of my skin. I had to confess to mother about the bike.

When I got home, I told Mother that the bike had been stolen, and that it was not my fault. Timidly, I was looking at her, trying to plead for mercy. Tears were rolling down my face. I was thinking of some tricks to delay the punishment, hoping that, by that time, Dad would be home, and I would be saved. If I stayed by his side, no harm would come to me.

I show mother the blood from digging my nails into my arms and neck. I always do it to distract her, thinking this will get her pity. Pity is all I can hope for.

But, mother did not pity me. Nevertheless, I always tried. Anything to gain her pity. It never worked, but I never gave up trying. Mother spit on my clothes, grabbed me by my ponytail and hit me in the face. Hard. She kept on hitting me. I toppled to the floor, screaming and begging her to stop it. I screamed as loud as I could,» Stop it, mama. Stop it, please. Please stop it. Pity me. Have mercy. Please stop it.»

I have learned all sorts of tricks to decrease the number of hits mother can inflict on me. It doesn’t work in most cases. First of all, I fall on the floor and scream my guts out, as loudly as possible, showing her that I am in pain. Then, I start vomiting. I have trained myself to vomit anytime I want.

Sometimes, I wet myself during the daytime – but not deliberately. When this happens, Mother starts laughing. Then, she tells her few friends about my accidents. Worse. She tells the few friends I’ve managed to have. I don’t have many friends. Most of the kids from the neighbourhood already know that I am a «scum», the «child from hell» and «a leper». Mother always makes sure that no one mixes with me and I mix with nobody because I am «bad» and may «contaminate other good kids with my evil ways.»

Mother used a variety of methods to make sure no parent would allow their kid to hang around somebody like me. She said I don’t deserve to mix with «good» kids.

As a child, I came to believe that I deserved this treatment. I was so lonely. I wished I was a «better» girl to have some friends to play with like other kids did.

The girl I met a week ago in the park is my friend. But, I told her that we can only be friends «secretly». I played with her today. Mother does not know I made a friend. Thank God.

I lost my bike because I was so happy to play with that girl at the park that I forgot about my bike. Then, when my friend had to go home, I looked around. But, the bike wasn’t where I’d left it. Someone had stolen it. I hope mother does not find out I made a friend.

Mother kept on hitting me. She dug her nails into the flesh on my arm. She did not stop. I was in pain. I must act as if I am in even greater pain to exaggerate my suffering. My mother gets satisfaction from my pain. The greater the pain she thinks she is delivering, the greater her satisfaction.

Mother liked to see me crawling away like an insect, clutching and rubbing the places on my body that are aching, burning from the pain. She enjoys this. She called me an «INSECT, dirty, worthless insect, little bitch, dirty whore, disgusting shit who will amount to nothing good in life.»

I believed that. Why wouldn’t I? I have heard it so many times. In fact, I heard it every day. I was not expecting any other message at. I hate myself for being like this. I don’t deserve any other way. I was born into mother’s family, born from mother, born to stay with her and bear everything she decided to implement a plan to make me «a better girl».

I was born to live this way and to belong to mother. I was resigned to being her property for the rest of my life. This was my life. All I had to look forward to is to the day when my suffering would end, the day of rest and peace where I was not alive and, consequently, no longer would I have to live with mother and her rules and the pain I carry.

I learned to dream of DYING. I had fantasies about death. They’ve been with me from as early as six years of age.

Life should not be this way, I know – at least not for kids. I watched other kids. Their relationship with their mothers was different. They were happy and loved. But I was stuck with mother.

For years, she had convinced and programmed me that I didn’t deserve anything good in life, as I was the worst «IT,» pathetic, weak, ugly, terrible creature, not a human being! I felt sorry for who I was. I wished I were different, that I deserved some love and hugs.

I was jealous of the girls from the next door. I saw the bastards, almost every day, holding their mommy’s hand, happy and smiling, always playing and cuddling up to their mom. I was so jealous. The mother next door always kissed them and hugged them. She was all over them, idolizing her kids.

Bloody bitch! Why can’t you be mine and take me as your daughter?

No! I told myself. I would not leave my Dad for any mom, I loved my Dad. But, I longed to be part of someone’s family where I could share the hugs and kisses, where I could be loved too, just like those two girls from next door.

They never looked at me. They were not allowed to play with me because I am the «child from hell», the child who is from a dysfunctional family, the child who should not have been born.

That is what their mother told them to keep her kids away from me. I hate her for treating me like this. I would give everything I have if she could be my mother and I could be her daughter. She hated me. But, she loved her girls. Nobody would ever love me.

I sat under the table, sobbing and begging mother to forgive me for the bike, promising and screaming it will never happen again. She crawled under the table and dragged me out by my hair. I screamed and wriggled like a worm. I regained my posture as she shrieked into my ears. I felt her spit on my ears. I tried not to move. I couldn’t stop shaking. I acted timid, nodding to her at her threats.

Mother grabbed me by my hair again. Bunches of hair fell all over me. But I tried not to worry about losing so much hair. What’s more important? My hair or my life? The most important thing was to survive.

«You will find this bike, you scum, bastard child. I hate you, you ugly monster, you fucking, dirty whore, shit girl, just like your father. I hate you, you would be better off if you’d been hit by a car. You will find this fucking bike, or I will skin you alive. Do you hear me scum? Do you hear me??»

Obeying her command, I ran as fast as I could outside. Deep inside, I knew that the bike would not be found. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Nobody knew that it was vitally important to me and would save me from punishment, if the bike was returned.

To my horror, Mother ran down the stairs, chasing me with the belt from Dad’s uniform. She was still yelling at me. I screamed and begged her not to beat me. I didn’t want any other kids outside to watch us. I would die from embarrassment.

«No! Please, not here,» I begged. «Not in front of other kids and neighbours. This is so degrading.»

«Please, mother,» I begged. «Don’t do it in front of people. Don’t humiliate me like this.»

Everyone observed us. I could hear people lining up to watch, pointing their fingers.

Mother laughed sarcastically: «Why not? Let everyone see how you get punished. I am sure people will enjoy watching. You are a fucking jerk. You are a clown, she screamed. «What are you hiding for? You were born to be a clown to entertain others, I will make others see how pathetic and disgusting you are,» she accused. «You’re a monster, a child who should not have been born. You are an evil, scum beg. Everyone is laughing at you, anyway. Nobody likes you. Don’t you get it? Nobody can stand being around you. You are a LEPER, a worthless, shameful piece of shit… you are IT… you were made to be ridiculed. You are shit – not wanted in this family. Is not she pathetic, my daughter?» mother asked the few people who were near the tree staring at both of us.

«Yes, mother, I am pathetic,» I whimpered. «I am a bad child. I am a worm. I am an insect, a flea. I am less than that. Perhaps, I am an „It“. Maybe I deserve what I got.»