The Hand

Sometimes I move from gut wrenching sobs to complete silence within seconds.

I got good at swallowing my tears at a young age. “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about” my father would snarl as he raised his hand over me, motioning that he would strike me if I didn’t become silent.

My mother used to give me some milk or water to drink to help me calm down when I was upset.

My father would rather I choke on my own vomit.

My mother was the referee between my father and I. For who better to torment him than his own obstinate, stubborn, willful daughter? His three and then four and now thirty something year old daughter.

My mother was the barrier when I was small. No harm could befall me with her to protect me. She was fierce. From the medical records I’ve been able to pull of hers, couple’s therapy revealed deep conflict between my mother and father; particularly in regard to how I was raised. My mother thought my father too harsh and my father, the tyrant he was and is, thought my mother too permissive.

My mother dying in front of me caused a deep and lasting psychological wound. The subsequent abuse and what at times amounted to torture began in earnest after I went to live with my father and his brand new, practically teenaged wife.

My mother was right. He was too harsh.

After she died there was no longer anyone to tell me that I was good. No longer anyone to think that I was delightful. No longer someone to tell me that I was smart and pretty and clever and brave. No one to hold me. No one to comfort me.

My spirit was crushed in short order. I knew I’d been deeply broken when I was around five or so. My father and his wife would tell me that I was “bad” and I stopped arguing with them because I believed them.

Sometimes I move from gut wrenching sobs to complete silence within seconds.

I realized that it’s because of the old threat of his hand raised over me.

Too bad for him I’m no longer a small, helpless child; now I grab his arm and take him down with my pen.

S. Ziegenfuss