| Biographical Non-Fiction posted October 4, 2023 | Chapters: |
...3 4 -5- 6... 
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The struggle continues Age 10
A chapter in the book Ghost
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by Lea Tonin1
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
I looked across my living area, and in my periphery, I could see my computer. It entreats me, once again to sit down and write, even though I just finished a chapter. It was a hard chapter for me.
I'm discovering that sifting through my memories is a dangerous. To do justice to my story and the reader, I must access these memories and feel the feelings of the time, yet protect my psyche. It's a difficult, delicate balance.
Each chapter I write takes its toll, but it also takes away some of the sting.
Writing about the time we tried to run away left mew feeling a but simultaneously victorious.
It is an odd mix of feelings.
I wander back and forth in my living area, always with the computer in the corner of my eye, beckoning me to continue, to not set aside the proverbial pen simply to mull over painful memories.
A very wise person said to me,
"Some people sit in their situations because it's known and familiar but, after a while, it gets old and rotten and you gotta get out!" No truer words have been spoken, and none have come closer to home than that. With a mixture of emotions, I set my trembling hand on the power button for another spin of the wheel...
Mother decided that the silent treatment was appropriate for the grievous sin of running away. Never once did she ask why we did it. but then, why would she? It's not like she didn't know the answer. She just preferred to play the victim and feign ignorance.
I thought that if we ran away, maybe they might care about us, or send the police to look for us, maybe they might look for themselves to show us that they do care about us. But none of those things happened.
In hindsight, I know the reason why. My stepfather did not want anyone to enter our bubble, because he knew what he was doing was wrong.
When adults keep their secrets, children suffer.
It was a summer day, I was standing on the front lawn picking grass up after we had cut and raked the lawn. Even the dazzling sun on lush green could not lift the gloom from my heart and soul. I stood there crying, on the front lawn when my mother burst open the front door and yelled loudly,
"if you think your father's going to come riding in on a white horse, you can forget it!"
Hopelessness, fear and pain. That was all I felt.
Then it occurred to me, "Who was my father?"
I never thought of it before, until she mentioned him. "Who was he and where was he?" I thought.
I didn't dare ask.
I didn't know what to do with these feelings, so I sat in the closet behind closed doors, tearing at my shirt in frustration and the powerlessness and constant betrayals from those who were supposed to protect us. But that wasn't the only reason to be in the closet.
When the man started to rampage, I could hear my sisters' screaming. I could feel their pain. How I wanted to go down and beat the snot out of him!
But I couldn't. I was too small and too weak. More guilt to add to my ever heaping plate.
School provided no solace, either. Life there was equally difficult. We were different, and everyone knew it. Our stepfather was of a different ethnicity --the only person that was true of on the entire island.
Our clothes were not what the other kids were wearing either. Even our lunches set us apart from everyone else. We were permitted one sandwich of peanut butter and jam and one apple. Every other child in school brought nutricious and wore decent clothing.
We also didn't participate in very many school functions. When Valentine's and Easter came about, it was hit and miss if our parents would allow us to join the festivities. They attended zero school events and zero parent/teacher meetings either.
For thtese reasons --and countless others-- the kids looked upon us like we were a disease or a blight upon the school. Almost daily, I had to run home as quickly as I could and use different routes to avoid getting beaten up by schoolmates, only to face the same kind of fire at home. "Fight your own battles." my parents would say when I told them what was happening.
At five years old, I wanted to die so I took a bike in the face to try and do so. At ten years old, the feeling returned. When the hard reality hits with the knowledge that nobody loved me, that nobody loved us, we acted accordingly. We chose to leave.
Our parents pitted against each other. My middle sister thought that if she reported what her siblings were doing, she could become more accepted by our mother and stepfather. My youngest sister remained silent, seemingly oblivious.
Emphasis on "seemingly". This was one of the many manipulations of our stepfather for his amusement. Another particularly cruel act was pretending to punch so that he could watch us cower while then laugh about it.
My ten-year-old body was beginning to grow, and a new torture arose. When I was near my stepfather, he would poke me in my tender, growing chest, which caused me pain and embarrassment. Another source of amusement for him.
In the darkness, I could hear the click of the door handle, the grasp of a hand gripping my arm, pushing me down the stairs to the kitchen, along with my sisters to answer for some great crime. At two A.M., half asleep, jolted into awareness by a punch to my head. I saw starsbursts and fell to the floor. This only made him madder.
Meanwhile, my mother sat at the table, watching it all happen lifting not one finger to do anything about it.
My frustration, my rage, and my sense of justice, all came bubbling to the surface at once. It took all of my courage to yell out, at the top of my lungs, as I stared directly at him, "FUCK YOU!!"
Immediately realizing the danger of what I had just done, I turned and bolted out the door. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me, because I knew if I went back there, I was to suffer greatly. I waited until I was sure he had gone to work before I went back to the house, shivering in my underwear.
This was how our days, and weeks, and months and enfolded. I thank the powers that be for giving me whatever that something was in my head that kept me from going completely crazy in the face of it all. I was given an innate knowledge that it was wrong. It's not from any example that I'd ever seen to the contrary or by anything anyone had told me, but simply by the voice in my head. So, I followed it, even when the blood flew.
And oh how it flew.
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I looked across my living area, and in my periphery, I could see my computer. It entreats me, once again to sit down and write, even though I just finished a chapter. It was a hard chapter for me.
I'm discovering that sifting through my memories is a dangerous. To do justice to my story and the reader, I must access these memories and feel the feelings of the time, yet protect my psyche. It's a difficult, delicate balance.
Each chapter I write takes its toll, but it also takes away some of the sting.
Writing about the time we tried to run away left mew feeling a but simultaneously victorious.
It is an odd mix of feelings.
I wander back and forth in my living area, always with the computer in the corner of my eye, beckoning me to continue, to not set aside the proverbial pen simply to mull over painful memories.
A very wise person said to me,
"Some people sit in their situations because it's known and familiar but, after a while, it gets old and rotten and you gotta get out!" No truer words have been spoken, and none have come closer to home than that. With a mixture of emotions, I set my trembling hand on the power button for another spin of the wheel...
Mother decided that the silent treatment was appropriate for the grievous sin of running away. Never once did she ask why we did it. but then, why would she? It's not like she didn't know the answer. She just preferred to play the victim and feign ignorance.
Mother decided that the silent treatment was appropriate for the grievous sin of running away. Never once did she ask why we did it. but then, why would she? It's not like she didn't know the answer. She just preferred to play the victim and feign ignorance.
I thought that if we ran away, maybe they might care about us, or send the police to look for us, maybe they might look for themselves to show us that they do care about us. But none of those things happened.
In hindsight, I know the reason why. My stepfather did not want anyone to enter our bubble, because he knew what he was doing was wrong.
When adults keep their secrets, children suffer.
It was a summer day, I was standing on the front lawn picking grass up after we had cut and raked the lawn. Even the dazzling sun on lush green could not lift the gloom from my heart and soul. I stood there crying, on the front lawn when my mother burst open the front door and yelled loudly,
"if you think your father's going to come riding in on a white horse, you can forget it!"
Hopelessness, fear and pain. That was all I felt.
Then it occurred to me, "Who was my father?"
I never thought of it before, until she mentioned him. "Who was he and where was he?" I thought.
I didn't dare ask.
I didn't know what to do with these feelings, so I sat in the closet behind closed doors, tearing at my shirt in frustration and the powerlessness and constant betrayals from those who were supposed to protect us. But that wasn't the only reason to be in the closet.
When the man started to rampage, I could hear my sisters' screaming. I could feel their pain. How I wanted to go down and beat the snot out of him!
But I couldn't. I was too small and too weak. More guilt to add to my ever heaping plate.
School provided no solace, either. Life there was equally difficult. We were different, and everyone knew it. Our stepfather was of a different ethnicity --the only person that was true of on the entire island.
Our clothes were not what the other kids were wearing either. Even our lunches set us apart from everyone else. We were permitted one sandwich of peanut butter and jam and one apple. Every other child in school brought nutricious and wore decent clothing.
We also didn't participate in very many school functions. When Valentine's and Easter came about, it was hit and miss if our parents would allow us to join the festivities. They attended zero school events and zero parent/teacher meetings either.
For thtese reasons --and countless others-- the kids looked upon us like we were a disease or a blight upon the school. Almost daily, I had to run home as quickly as I could and use different routes to avoid getting beaten up by schoolmates, only to face the same kind of fire at home. "Fight your own battles." my parents would say when I told them what was happening.
At five years old, I wanted to die so I took a bike in the face to try and do so. At ten years old, the feeling returned. When the hard reality hits with the knowledge that nobody loved me, that nobody loved us, we acted accordingly. We chose to leave.
Our parents pitted against each other. My middle sister thought that if she reported what her siblings were doing, she could become more accepted by our mother and stepfather. My youngest sister remained silent, seemingly oblivious.
Emphasis on "seemingly". This was one of the many manipulations of our stepfather for his amusement. Another particularly cruel act was pretending to punch so that he could watch us cower while then laugh about it.
My ten-year-old body was beginning to grow, and a new torture arose. When I was near my stepfather, he would poke me in my tender, growing chest, which caused me pain and embarrassment. Another source of amusement for him.
In the darkness, I could hear the click of the door handle, the grasp of a hand gripping my arm, pushing me down the stairs to the kitchen, along with my sisters to answer for some great crime. At two A.M., half asleep, jolted into awareness by a punch to my head. I saw starsbursts and fell to the floor. This only made him madder.
Meanwhile, my mother sat at the table, watching it all happen lifting not one finger to do anything about it.
My frustration, my rage, and my sense of justice, all came bubbling to the surface at once. It took all of my courage to yell out, at the top of my lungs, as I stared directly at him, "FUCK YOU!!"
Immediately realizing the danger of what I had just done, I turned and bolted out the door. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me, because I knew if I went back there, I was to suffer greatly. I waited until I was sure he had gone to work before I went back to the house, shivering in my underwear.
This was how our days, and weeks, and months and enfolded. I thank the powers that be for giving me whatever that something was in my head that kept me from going completely crazy in the face of it all. I was given an innate knowledge that it was wrong. It's not from any example that I'd ever seen to the contrary or by anything anyone had told me, but simply by the voice in my head. So, I followed it, even when the blood flew.
And oh how it flew.
 Recognized |
A chapter in the book "Ghost".
An auto bio. A story of becoming...a mold made to set the stage of who and why.
***Picture by Pinterest***
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and 2 member cents. An auto bio. A story of becoming...a mold made to set the stage of who and why.
***Picture by Pinterest***
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