Cry Happy Mothers Day 2006

May 13, 2006

LeJoi S.

19 September 2005

Eng 110: MW 11:10-12:30

Paper #1: Narrative Essay

Cry

In an instant the lights shine bright. I duck deep under the covers

to shield my eyes. It is the middle of the night or very early

morning, I do not know which. Three footsteps, heavy on the floor,

and I am ripped out of bed by my hair. My small body flails and

fights to support itself, but to no avail. Mom is too strong and my

scalp solely supports the full weight of my body. High-pitched

shrills of anger fly out of my mother's mouth, along with bits of hot

saliva. I cannot make out all the shrills, and do not know

specifically what I have done; but I know It is my fault. I am bad,

very, very bad. My exposed skin receives carpet burns as it is

dragged across my floor, down the hall, and through my parents' room.

Mom manhandles me into a standing position and with all her strength,

takes a brush to my matted, snarled hair. Bolts of pain emanate from

my scalp and I whimper and flinch in pain. She continues. I cry

louder and try to wiggle free. She snaps. She tries to pin me with

her left hand as the brush in her right hand spanks my bottom again

and again. " Don't you cry! " she screams. Only thin clothes pad the

hard plastic bristles on some strikes, and against bare skin on

others. I wriggle my hands free and try to protect my raw, aching

bottom as my mom screams, " Move your hands, now! " The pain telling

me to block the blows conflicts with my inner voice telling me to

obey. Luckily mom soon looses strength. I am stood upright and my

neck is harshly turned so I stare straight into the mirror. Suddenly

mom shifts. " No pain, no gain, " she explains insincerely-sweetly. As

she continues to rake my hair I stare stoically into my reflection.

The pain urges me to risk a request, " Can't we please use conditioner?

How 'bout next time we use conditioner? " Through a wide smile she

softly says, " No, it isn't right. It takes pain to be beautiful. " She

pauses from raking my hair and stares straight at me, " You do want to

be beautiful, don't you? " I do not respond. " Well ok then, no more

crying. "

* * *

On my back, I stare up and to the right at the shelves of books that

go all the way to the ceiling. I pound at the books with an open

hand, focusing on the 'slap-slap' sound-- trying to drown out the

grunts and moans coming from Pastor . The weight makes it hard to

breathe. Under the Pastor, friction causes my body to burn with pain.

Friction also causes my body to cramp and tremble. I start to

whimper. Pastor enters me again and again. Pastor 's mouth

coos, " Shhhh, hush " disconnectedly from the rest of him. I put my

arm down and pull within myself. Burning from my vagina grows

intensely. I feel light headed and nauseous; I pull deeper into

myself. Deeper into the fog. I know what is going on and I know there

is pain, but I am not under my skin anymore. I pull so deeply into

myself, that I am no longer in my body anymore. I am floating up now.

I turn around and watch Pastor 's thrusting backside, my two

little legs sticking-out beneath him. I am there and I am not. There

is no time. Pastor gets off, straightens his clothes, and sobs

softly. Floating in the ceiling corner, I watch as his trembling

hands delicately dress me. " I'm your Godfather, , and I'm your

Pastor. Pastor . You know I love you. " My face scrunches up and

tears well in my eyes. Pastor fights tears too, " Shhh, you know

I'd never do anything to hurt you. Don't cry. Neither one of us will

cry. Shhhhh. " Pastor gently lifts me into a standing position,

smoothes my dress, then takes my hand and leads me away. Floating

behind, I follow myself and Pastor as we leave the room.

* * *

I look for dad. With mom's recent words echoing in my head, I walk

from room to room in search of dad. " You're stupid, you're ugly. Its

no wonder your classmates don't want to be your friend. " I pass by

each of my sisters' rooms and pause at their doorways in turn. Both

are out. Mom's voice continues in my head, " You're lucky to have me.

Don't you want to be with me? Come here, I need a hug. " Hearing

whistling and the sounds of washing dishes, I head towards the

kitchen. My pace increases until I skid to a halt on the linoleum

floor. The sight of my dad gives me a big smile and streams of tears

at the same time. I bounce with excitement and anxiety. " What'd you

need kiddo? " he says with his back towards me. Overwhelmed, nothing

coherent comes out. Dad dries his hands, grabs a snack and sits at

the table. Looking up at me, he stiffens, averts his eyes and

suddenly becomes very interested in his food. Blubbering sobs flow

freely now and except for the repeated word, 'mom,' I am

incomprehensible. Dad twitches uneasily and his eyes dart everywhere,

except where I am. Grasping for straws to regain his attention, my

efforts backfire and I cry more loudly. " Ahhh, I'm going in the

living room, " he says softly as he gets up and leaves. I pull my

shoulders back, stand as still as I can, and take several deep

breaths. My body stops trembling and I wipe my face dry. I hear the

TV turn on in the distance and I walk until I am at his side.

Silently, he picks me up, holds me close and we watch TV together.

* * *

Another unknown wrongdoing equals another episode of shaking. Mom's

nails grasp my shoulders and shake me with all her might. Irate

curses ring in my ears as hot spit intermittently hits my face, scalp,

and neck, depending on my head position in the whiplash. Something

new is added. The back of my head makes contact with the wall behind

me. This new insult sends me into new heights of pain. I cry out.

My head hits the wall again and again and again. I scream and cry out

with the full power of my lungs. " Anne S.! Stop that

crying. " I continue, but more softly. Though her anger is at full

rage, mom's strength begins to wane. With shaking arms I am thrown

onto my bedroom floor and the door slams behind me. " Stop that

crying. It is late, go to sleep. You should have been asleep hours

ago! " mom calls from the other side of the door as she stomps away.

My crying continues as I crawl on my hands and knees across my floor,

and into bed. My head throbs, pounds, and feels as if it's going to

explode. Pain increases as I lie in bed and my cries increase with

the pain. I am at the top of my vocal range. Mom comes to my door

and yells, " Cry-baby, cry-baby! Such a little cry-baby. Stop that

crying, or I'll give you something to cry about! " My voice continues

to rip out of me. My door flies open, and instantly mom is by my

bedside. Mom's anger escalates, her voice raises and becomes

incomprehensible and a pillow is placed over my face. My arms are

pinned by the weight of mom's torso. Desperately I gasp for air.

There is none. I kick and thrash and shake my head. The pillow is

pressed harder and harder into my face. Suddenly I am in my bed alone

and in silence. I pull the pillow off my face, and my room is pitch

black. In a single motion I turn on my lamp and roll out of bed. I

half crawl, half walk to the adjoining bathroom and flick on the

light. I stare at my reflection. My entire face is as blue as a

blueberry.

* * *

My mom has Borderline Personality Disorder. The same disorder Joan

Crawford had; as seen in the movie, " Mommie Dearest. " One trait of

the disorder is the inability to remember abuse they commit.

Recently, my mom told me she remembers being, " Really quite a good

mother. Well above average. " Pastor died in 2004 of cancer. I

am told he was defrocked by the ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church of

America), but I have been unable to substantiate this claim. Dad is

still married to mom and is less accessible now that he's retired.

Mom reads his emails/mail and he does not have his own phone.

Although my Dad is a source of love, he continues to downplay mom's

abusive behavior. My sisters and I are close. They have been my

main source of healing and understanding. In my childhood, I told a

couple teachers, a police officer, members of church, and a counselor

about the abuse, but was never taken seriously. I spent my twenties

dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depersonalization

Disorder, Dyslexia, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and various social

difficulties. Today, I am 31 years old and I am happy for the first

time in my life. I accept that I am a little odd, and I like who I

am. I legally changed my name from, " Anne S. " to "

LeJoi S. " is the name I've always gone by and the name that

really represents me. LeJoi is my father's middle name. The day my

mother almost suffocated me, was the last time I cried out loud.

Although I no longer make sounds when I cry, I no longer try to hold

the tears in.

May 17, 2006

Hi

This took me some serious time to digest. Wow. Thank you for taking the time

to share such an intimate piece of yourself.

Question for you: How do you know that BPD was the disorder displayed in

" Mommie Dearest? And do we truly know that a characteristic of BPD is the

inability to remember abuse they commit? Or is it the inability to remember it

accurately?

Thanks

BUTifulGrace

bleukatie wrote: