Warning: This post has controversial and potentially disturbing content surrounding suicide, psychic trauma, and child abuse. Reader’s discretion is strongly advised.
It started as a whimpering, jaw tight with a lip curled over. Soft, pattering, high pitched little noises, not much to even notice over the ambient noise. The realities of what played out in front of these oceanic colored eyes, glistening with anticipating tears, struck hard, and relentlessly roared inward and outward. The sheer force gusted forth a sharp wail, the same violently held hostage in the same dusty box of voices moments earlier.
Thoughts, voices, dialogues, monologues, scenes, words, swamped and overwhelmed this consciousness. Bits swarming together and fashioning a patchwork quilt for the minds eye to finally behold. Nowhere to turn, the newly formed blanket enveloped every last portion. Inescapable, imprisoned in truths, half-truths, past, present, and future. Sobs and tears erupted like a furious geyser, spattered with guttural words.
I can’t make you happy.
Please, stop crying.
Mommy cries too.
The tiny voice murmured indistinguishable speech, only heard through the hitches. His presence shifted, but only once removing himself to procure a gift. Eyes squeezed shut, tears slithering though hands to fall where they may. Again, he joined the wailing, wolves howling in the night. He fashioned himself as a koala, and held tight.
– – –
Curled on the bed in sullen agony, with lead curling in tendrils up and down each limb. The tiny voice said, “Juice?” A raw, numb voice replied, “Go get your cup.” “My cup, my cup,” he repeated for a scant few moments.
A frustrated cry, and a strike on the back. Another. Laying there, absorbing the blows in hopes they would soon cease for good. Another, then a few in succession. A pause. A warm circle in the direct center of the back, a scrape of teeth.
A memory flashed, and I shot right up. Without thought, I slapped him on his right cheek, but in a nanosecond held back, but couldn’t entirely stop the motion. His face pucked, tears welled and spilled from his eyes, and he screamed. I pounced.
“We do not bite! We do not bite! We do not bite! We do not bite! No bite! No biting! No! We do not bite!” I belted until I ran out of air.
Stop! Before you hit the X in the corner, and do your mandated reporting, read this. This is an isolated incident. I has never occurred before. I had no malice or ill intention for my child. This was a snap reaction that I am now extremely cognizant of. So please, at least read the rest of it before you contact authorities.
We both were there, staring at one another, gasping for breath. He threw himself into my arms. I enbraced him for a second, only a second, and put him on his bed. I stood and sighed, “We both need a time out.”
I started for the door, and his screams grew wilder. I turned to look, and he was now curled in the bed, hysterical. Poisonous daggers jammed deep into my heart. His pain was mine, but the urgency for me to abandon him was too great. Stay and harm him, or leave and harm him?
I sat down at my desk, and lit a cigarette. As I exhaled, I choked back more tears. Sinking, cigarette smoke swirling around me, all of the menacing thoughts rose to prey on my guilt to intensify my pain.
I am a bad mother.
I am. Another monster in a history of monsters. What was the flash in my mind that drove me to these horrific actions?
He was enraged, tearing through the house, screeching. I became smaller than small, for I already was small. I clutched my plastic cup, hoping I could disappear. I was in the basement, and the elephants trumpeted and stampeded back and forth, trampling throughout the house.
When his feet hit the cement floor, his eyes fixed on me. He made a run for me, and I dashed for the stairs, for the safety of my parents, a room with a lock, anything. And in that stairwell, he lunged on me. He sunk his teeth hard into the center of my back and I let out a blood curdling scream.
I screamed and screamed, tears pouring out. It had been the worst pain I had ever experienced up until that point. My parents were removing him from my back before even addressing me or my wound.
My father helped me to my feet and my mother was nowhere to be found. The pain intensified anytime I moved.
And all he could say was: “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
I made a painful realization. I cannot remember a childhood before eleven for a reason: My parents let my autistic brother brutalize me.
It’s no excuse. None. This is no feasible And as I furiously dragged on that cigarette, I determined that my son, my family, would be better off without me.
It could be done with ease. I would call into work and tell my boss I couldn’t make it in. I’d neglect to tell my parents, and my son could be safe with them. And, I’d empty the Vicodin bottle with the Wellbutrin bottle into my mouth, and wash it down in one big gulp.
Then, I’d prepare my note. I would not want to leave this world without at least a few words to as a testament to my own failures, not anyone else’s.
My sister called, before that train of thought could steam along into action. Sometimes, there is a such thing as divine intervention. She rarely calls that late in the morning. While idly listening, I mustered the courage to face my son. I nervously peeked into his room.
My little boy was sleeping, with the angelic, peaceful look all children have while slumbering. Eased for a moment, but then sinking again. I knew I would not be able to apologize before I left for work.
He may never know how incredibly ashamed, guilty, monstrous, and sorry I feel. He may never know how much I hate myself for seemingly not loving him enough to stop myself. I won’t try to justify it. The only thing I can see is the traumatized look on his face, the tears glistening as they poured down. And all I want to do is to walk to a bridge, any bridge in Pittsburgh will do, and leap from that great height to plunge into water that would guarantee near instantaneous death if the fall didn’t do it first.
This is not a testament. I am miserably, but safely at work. This is my aching, broken heart pouring out. This is my confession.
Note: There was a lot of hesitation about posting this once it was written. If you have harsh reprimands, please keep them to yourself. I’m in a very fragile state right now.
We just passed Halloween, the day where we essentially celebrate ghosts and demons by pretending to be someone else. I love Halloween. But, I have experienced real demons. It’s not something I care to revisit at any time, not even annually.
The subject of Judge William Adams shook me like an earthquake. The tremor was so intense that a number of bottles on my shelf plunged to the floor. This has conjured up very old, very dangerous demons.
Repression is a defense mechanism I had to cultivate. Prior to that, I carried the burden of the emotions that those memories conjured up from their brimming cauldrons. Then, a cycle is perpetuated from those. The circular motion of violence is born, doling out vicious events with dire consequences. Repression is amazing in it’s function. Get over it.
I do not attempt to invoke pity. In fact, I’d rather be despised than pitied.
Get over it has to be emblazoned on my family crest in centuries past along with Suck it up. I learned my lesson by developing pneumonia and somatopsychic symptoms over the summer. It should have inspired me to do some “fall cleaning”. I failed to check under my bed for the boogeyman. Funny, I didn’t see him – I spent most of my summer under there attempting to locate my black leggings.
I need a sounding board. But, I have to divulge some more sordid details of my past before I can get to that.
Yeah, we’ve covered the child abuse in my life. Unfortunately, that paved the way.
I’ve covered my tumultuous relationship with my high school sweetheart. What I didn’t mention was how he violated me. Ugh. I can’t even bear to use the appropriate word: rape.
I trusted him. I consented and then changed my mind. It was physically painful. He pinned me, and smothered my screams in a pillow. “Why didn’t you stop?!”
He lit a cigarette and smiled. “Oh, shut up. You liked it.”
I was determined never to be a victim again. That inspired my mutually abusive relationship following. “Love The Way You Lie” on Youtube can give a visual representation. It was the first and last time I ever intentionally harmed someone. I just wanted to hurt him as badly as he hurt me on the inside. I wanted him to wear those battle wounds and carry them with him for the rest of his life. Because I knew I would.
I’m ashamed as much as I’m hurt.
I accidentally opened this Pandora’s box. These memories flooded in with all of the emotions that have infected my brain and stirred my disease. It has colored my world. I am angry, bitter, paranoid, and sullen all at once. Now that the box is opened, what do I do now?
What can ward off demons? Because I know holy water in a super-soaker won’t do it.
Warning: The following footage may be disturbing in nature. Viewer discretion is advised.
This was so disturbing to me that I started shaking and crying. The abuse, both physical, verbal, and emotional, was so graphic that I couldn’t get it out of my head. I know what it feels like to have a parent hit me and tell me that I’m bad. But, I’ve never been brutilized to that extreme in that fashion.
I could only imagine it. The horror, the pain. Both parents were ganging up on her, hitting her with full force in the front and back of her legs, thighs, and buttocks with this belt. I know there were excrutiating welts. He probably hit her so much and so hard that she bled. There was nowhere to run to, and nowhere to hide. And seemingly, no one to confide in, since this video was taken in 2004 and has only recently emerged at the end of 2011.
In the video, the father is standing over his daughter screaming about how she used to be a nice little girl and now she’s disobedient, lying, and stealing. He screamed about how she would be grounded for six months. And even worse, they wouldn’t even let her sleep in her own bed. The bedroom is a child’s sanctuary. He violated her in more ways than one. All of that struck a nerve with me.
I grew up feeling unloved because of abusive situations. I have had problems as an adult with self-worth, self-esteem, and self-love. It helped create a hole inside of me and gave me a faulty foundation to build my life on. It took a lot of years to undo that damage. I’m not claiming my parents were vicious and intent on harming me. I don’t think they even really knew the damage that they were doing until it was too late.
This is not about me. This is about justice. Worse, an article on Seattlepi.com announces that the these were regular attacks and the mother claims to have been brainwashed by her husband, William Adams, who she claims had a secret addition.
Bull@#$*! The most horrifying part of the video was the fact that the mother was in on it. I’m calling you out, Hallie Adams! Brainwashed is the lamest excuse I have ever heard for abusing your child. Shame on you!
I am a mother. I would put myself between that child and that belt any day of the week. And likely, I’d find the heaviest thing in that room to crack him over the head with. If you are any kind of decent mother in the entire world, you would lay your life down for you child. I have bipolar disorder, and even on my most vicious day, I never hit my child.
Nor would I ever allow anyone to harm my child. That wasn’t just a spanking. That was violent, malicious, merciless beating. In the article, it states that the police are investigating whether there was a crime or not. EXCUSE ME?! This is video evidence of severe child abuse! She was 16-years-old! They will lock mothers up whose children are above or below a certain percentile in weight calling it “neglect”, but they won’t punish parents who are videotaped brutilizing their child?!
Judge William Adams should be stripped of his authority and at least do a little time. Then maybe, he’ll know what it felt like when he made his own daughter sleep on a hard sofa in a public room. And as for Hallie Adams, for shame. I don’t know whether she should even face punishment. I think being publically humiliated as the second worst mother in the country, next to Casey Anthony, might be appropriate enough. At least we don’t actually know if Casey Anthony did it or not. Hallie Adams is immortalized on Youtube. (For now, anyway).
There is a special place in Hell for parents who intentionally harm their own children.