I’ve alluded to this story before in Secretlife’s post, Skeletons in the Closet, but I feel a need to get the whole story out. First, a little background on me and my family. I grew up in a working class family with a mother who was rarely at home because of her evening work schedule. That left my two sisters and I alone with our overbearing, rage-addicted father after school until our mother came home after 9 p.m. Usually, while my father was in the kitchen, reading his mail and preparing dinner, my sisters and I were in the living room watching TV. Sometimes, I’d be shut up in my room reading a book or rarely, doing homework. Mostly, I just tried to maintain a low profile so as not to incur my father’s wrath, something that was easier to invoke than one could reasonably imagine.
When I was in the fourth grade, I was doing a project for school. It was a clay sculpture of an otter, based on a book that I was reading at the time. For the model, I used a photo from the book called “Migbil asleep.” (Migbil was the name of the otter… funny how these things stick with you… I have no idea what the title of the book was nor what it was about).
One afternoon, after school, I was working on this sculpture in the bedroom that I shared with my younger sister, S, who was in first grade at the time, so I guess she would have been about 6 years old. The sculpture was turning out very well, and I was quite pleased with my progress. S was hanging around and bothering me, and when she reached out to touch my sculpture, I panicked at the idea that she might wreck it, and I instinctively slapped her, leaving a red welt in the shape of my hand on her belly. Immediately, she started hollering and crying and ran down to tell my father. I knew I was in trouble, because I had left evidence of my transgression. Within seconds, my father was bellowing for me to come downstairs.
I went down with my stomach cramping. My father’s face was twisted in rage, and although this was a familiar sight, it never ceased to terrify me.
“Did you hit her?” he demanded.
“She wrecked my school project,” I said, not really expecting the defense to save me.
“Go get it,” he snarled. I can’t even begin to describe what his voice sounded like. Those of you who watch horror films may have some idea. The voice of a possessed Linda Blair in The Exorcist had nothing on my father.
Feeling somewhat relieved now that I was going to be able to justify my actions, I ran upstairs to get “Migbil.” But when I got there, I was horrified to realize that no harm had been done to the sculpture. I knew that I was really going to be in trouble if I presented it in perfect condition. So, I did something which I now find unconscionable, but at the time, seemed like the only alternative. I pressed my thumb into the top of the sculpture, leaving a deep indentation in the animal’s side. Then I brought it downstairs to show my father.
He took one look at the sculpture and hauled his arm back, picking up momentum, and swung so hard at my sister that she literally flew across the room… about 8 or 10 feet. I don’t know what happened after that. I remember her crying hysterically, and I don’t remember anything else other than just trying to make myself very small and trying not to throw up.
For more than thirty years after that, I carried the guilt of this incident around with me. I didn’t hit her, but I took the action that led to her being hit, and I didn’t fess up… ever. It was many years later when this memory began to resurface. At the time, I was doing all kinds of therapy, and anytime I told this story, I couldn’t get through the last part, the part about her flying through the air, without sobbing and hyperventilating. My therapists told me that it was reasonable that I had this reaction… that even though I hadn’t been hit myself, that witnessing that happen to my sister had the same effect as if it had happened to me. They didn’t blame me for my part in it. They said that it was a normal, self defensive reaction, given the environment in which I grew up. But I couldn’t forgive myself so easily, and I continued to be haunted by my guilt.
Then, about seven years ago, my parents, who had been living out of state for about ten years, decided to move back near our hometown, where my older sister still lived and a few hours drive away from where S lives. The reason for their move was “to be near the grandchildren.”
I felt a deep sense of responsibility when I learned of their plans, because the thought of my father being alone with any children made me sick. I felt that I had to play the role of truthsayer in my family and warn my sisters of the danger to their children. The danger I am talking about is one that I didn’t think they were aware of. You see, although I didn’t suffer the kind of violence at my father’s hands that S did, I was the victim of his sexual abuse, and I felt a responsibility to let my sisters know so that they could keep their children safe from him. I wrote letters to each of them, telling them about my abuse without going into any detail, and begging them not to let their children alone with him.
I didn’t hear anything from my older sister, but S called me shortly after that, probably for the first time since I left my parents’ home, and wanted to talk about the letter. She said that she had called our older sister, L, to ask if she had gotten my letter. L had told her that it was a “closed case” and that was that. She didn’t want to discuss it any further. S said that she didn’t doubt my story for an instant, although she had never experienced the same thing with our father. She then shared with me that he had often beaten her black and blue with the buckle end of the belt, for transgressions that were often instigated by L who was her rival and liked to get her in trouble. When the gym teachers called home to ask what had happened to S, my father was the one who was home to answer the phone, and he just told them that he didn’t know. Social Services were not what they are today.
My father had told S that she wasn’t to tell our mother or anyone about the beatings. So when my mother would ask her why she was black and blue all over her body, S would just say that she fell down the stairs. My mother must have really wanted to believe that, because she never bothered to look any further.
I was actually surprised to hear my sister’s story. Where was I during these beatings? I remembered, on many occasions, hiding out upstairs while she was being punished… hearing her screaming. I always thought she was overreacting and hysterical. I wasn’t experiencing the same thing. Maybe I didn’t want to know… just like my mother.
But after listening to S’s story, I had to come clean. So, it was with much trepidation that I told S the story of Migbil, reliving all the emotions that I had suppressed for so long, and asking for her forgiveness. She told me that she didn’t remember that particular incident… there were so many. But she forgave me. And that forgiveness means more to me than anything.
There are still occasions when I tell this story, like now. But it doesn’t hold the same power over me that it used to. Sometimes it can still make me misty eyed, but it doesn’t cause the same spasms and torment that it used to. I’ve been able to let go… thanks to S’s forgiveness.
