3 – Bad Boy
My relationship with Mom drastically changed from
discipline that developed into a kind of lifestyle that grew out of
control. It became so bad at times, I had no strength to crawl
away – even if it meant saving my life.
As a small child, I probably had a voice that carried farther
than others. I also had the unfortunate luck of getting caught at
mischief, even though my brothers and I were often committing
the same “crime”. In the beginning, I was put in a corner of our
bedroom. By this time, I had become afraid of Mom. Very
afraid. I never asked her to let me come out. I would sit and wait
for one of my brothers to come into our bedroom, and have him
ask if David could come out now and play.
About this time, Mom’s behavior began to change radically.
At times while Father was away at work, she would spend the
entire day lying on the couch, dressed only in her bathrobe,
watching television. Mom got up only to go to the bathroom, get
another drink or heat leftover food.
When she yelled at us, her voice changed from the nurturing
mother to the wicked witch. Soon, the sound of Mother’s voice
began to send tremors down my spine. Even when she barked at
one of my brothers, I’d run to hide in our room, hoping she
would soon return to the couch, her drink and her TV show.
After a while, I could determine what kind of day I was going to
have by the way she dressed. I would breathe a sigh of relief
whenever I saw Mom come out of her room in a nice dress with
her face made up. On these days she always came out with a
smile.
When Mother decided that the “corner treatment” was no
longer effective, I graduated to the “mirror treatment”. In the
beginning, it was a nonotice form of punishment. Mother would
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simply grab me and smash my face against the mirror, smearing
my tearstreaked face on the slick, reflective glass. Then she
would order me to say over and over again, “I’m a bad boy! I’m
a bad boy! I’m a bad boy!” I was then forced to stand, staring
into the mirror. I would stand there with my hands locked to my
sides, weaving back and forth, dreading the moment when the
second set of television commercials aired. I knew Mother
would soon be stomping down the hall to see if my face was still
against the mirror, and to tell me what a sickening child I was.
Whenever my brothers came into the room while I was at the
mirror, they would look at me, shrug their shoulders and
continue to play – as if I were not there. At first I was jealous,
but soon I learned that they were only trying to save their own
skins.
While Father was at work, Mother would often yell and
scream while forcing my brothers and I to search the entire
house for something she had lost. The quest usually started in
the morning and lasted for hours. After a while, I was usually
sent to search in the garage which was under part of the house –
like a basement. Even there, I trembled upon hearing Mother
scream at one of my brothers.
The searches continued for months, and finally, I was the only
one singled out to look for her things. Once, I forgot what I was
looking for. When I timidly asked her what it was that I was to
find, Mother smacked me in the face. She was lying on the
couch at the time, and she didn’t even stop watching her
television show. Blood gushed from my nose and I began to cry.
Mother snatched a napkin from her table, tore a piece and
rammed it up my nose. “You know damn well what you’re
looking for!” she screamed. “Now go find it!” I scurried back
down to the basement, making sure I made enough noise to
convince Mother I was feverishly obeying her command. As
Mother’s “find the thing” became more common, I began to
fantasize that I had found her missing item. I imagined myself
marching upstairs with my prize and Mom greeting me with
hugs and kisses. My fantasy included the family living happily
ever after. But, I never found any of Mother’s lost things, and
she never let me forget that I was an incompetent loser.
As a small child, I realized Mom was as different as night and
day when Father was home from work. When Mom. fixed her
hair and put on nice clothes, she seemed more relaxed. I loved it
when Dad was home. It meant no beatings, mirror treatments or
long searches for her missing things. Father became my
protector. Whenever he went to the garage to work on a project,
I followed him. If he sat in his favorite chair to read the
newspaper, I parked myself at his feet. In the evenings, after the
dinner dishes were cleared from the table, Father would wash
them, and I would dry. I knew that as long as I stayed by his
side, no harm would come to me.
One day before he left for work, I received a dreadful shock.
After he said goodbye to Ron and Stan, he knelt down, held my
shoulders tightly and told me to be a “good boy”. Mother stood
behind him with her arms folded across her chest, and a grim
smile on her face. I looked into my father’s eyes and knew right
then that I was a “bad boy”. An icecold chill rushed through my
body. I wanted to hold on to him and never let go, but before I
could give Father a hug, he stood up, turned and walked out the
door, without saying another word.
For a short time after Father’s warning, things seemed to calm
down between Mother and I. When Dad was home, my brothers
and I played in our room or outside, until about 3:00 P.M.
Mother would then turn on the television so we could watch
cartoons. For my parents, 3:00 P.M. meant “Happy Hour”.
Father would cover the kitchen counter top with bottles of
alcohol and tall fancy glasses. He cut up lemons and limes,
placing them in small bowls beside a small jar of cherries. They
often drank from midafternoon, until my brothers and I climbed
into bed. I remember watching them dance around the kitchen to
music from the radio. They held each other close, and they
looked so happy. I thought I could bury the bad times. I was
wrong. The bad times were only beginning.
A month or two later, on a Sunday, while Father was at work,
my brothers and I were playing in our room when we heard
Mother rush down the hall, ye lling at us. Ron and Stan ran for
cover in the living room. I instantly sat down in my chair. With
both arms stretched out and raised, Mother came at me. As she
came closer and closer, I backed my chair towards the wall.
Soon, my head touched the wall. Mother’s eyes were glazed and
red, and her breath smelled of booze. I closed my eyes as the
oncoming blows began to rock me from side to side. I tried to
protect my face with my hands, but Mother would only knock
them away. Her punches seemed to last forever. Finally, I
snaked my left arm up to cover my face. As Mother grabbed my
arm, she lost her balance and staggered back a step. As she
jerked violently to regain her stability, I heard something pop,
and felt an intense pain in my shoulder and arm. The startled
look on Mother’s face told me that she had heard the sound too,
but she released her grip on my arm, and turned and walked
away as if nothing had happened. I cradled my arm as it began
to throb with pain. Before I could actually inspect my arm,
Mother summoned me to dinner.
I plopped down at a T.V. tray to try to eat. As I reached for a
glass of milk, my left arm did not respond. My fingers twitched
upon command, but my arm tingled and had become lifeless. I
looked at Mother, trying to plead with my eyes. She ignored me.
I knew something was very wrong, but I was too afraid to utter a
word. I simply sat there, staring at my tray of food. Mother
finally excused me and sent me to bed early, telling me to sleep
in the top bunk. This was unusual because I had always slept on
the bottom. Sometime near morning I finally fell asleep, with
my left arm carefully cradled in the other.
I hadn’t slept long when Mother awakened me, explaining
that I had rolled out of the top bunk during the night. She
seemed to be deeply concerned about my condition, as she drove
me to the hospital. When she told the doctor about my fall from
the top bunk bed, I could tell by the look he gave me that he
knew my injury was no accident. Again, I was too afraid to
speak up. At home, Mother made up an even more dramatic
story for Father. In the new version, Mother included her efforts
to catch me before I hit the floor. As I sat in Mother’s lap,
listening to her lie to Father, I knew my mom was sick. But my
fear kept the accident our secret. I knew if I ever told anyone,
the next “accident” would be worse.
School was a haven for me. I was thrilled to be away from
Mother. At recess I was a wild man. I blitzed through the
barkcovered playground, Looking for new, adventurous things
to do. I made friends easily and felt so happy to be at school.
One day in late spring, when I returned home from school,
Mother threw me into her bedroom. She then yelled at me,
stating I was to be held back from the first grade because I was a
bad boy. I did not understand. I knew I had more “happy face”
papers than anybody in the class. I obeyed my teacher and I felt
she liked me. But Mother continued to roar that I had shamed
the family and would be severely punished. She decided that I
was banned from watching television, forever. I was to go
without dinner and accomplish whatever chores Mother could
dream up. After another thrashing, I was sent to the garage to
stand until Mother called me to go to bed.
That summer, without warning, I was dropped off at my Aunt
Jose’s house on the way to the campsite. No one told me about
this and I could not understand why. I felt like an outcast as the
station wagon drove away, leaving me behind. I felt so sad and
hollow. I tried to run away from my aunt’s house. I wanted to
find my family, and for some strange reason, I wanted to be with
Mother. I didn’t get far, and my aunt later informed my mother
of my attempt. The next time Father worked the 24hour shift, I
paid for my sin. Mother smacked, punched and kicked me until I
crumpled to the floor. I tried to tell Mother that I had run away
because I wanted to be with her and the family. I tried to tell her
that I had missed her, but Mother refused to let me speak. I tried
once more and Mother dashed to the bathroom, snatched a bar
of soap and crammed it down my throat. After that, I was no
longer allowed to speak unless I was instructed to do so.
Returning to the first grade was really a joy. I knew the basic
lessons and was instantly dubbed the class genius. Since I was
held back, Stan and I were in the same grade. During recess, I
would go over to Stan’s firstgrade class to play. At school we
were the best of friends; however, at home, we both knew I was
not to be acknowledged.
One day I rushed home to show off a school paper. Mother
threw me into her bedroom, yelling about a letter she had
received from the North Pole. She claimed the letter said that I
was a “bad boy” and Santa would not bring me any gifts for
Christmas. Mother raged on and on, saying that I had
embarrassed the family again. I stood in a daze, as Mother
badgered me relentlessly. I felt I was living in a nightmare that
Mother had created, and I prayed she would somehow wake up.
Before Christmas that year, there were only a couple of gifts for
me under the tree, and those came from relatives outside the
immediate family. On Christmas morning, Stan dared to ask
Mother why Santa had brought me only two paintbynumber
pictures. She lectured him saying, “Santa only brings toys to
good boys and girls.” I stole a glance from Stan. There was
sorrow in his eyes, and I could tell that he understood Mother’s
freakish games. Since I was still under punishment, on
Christmas Day I had to change into my work clothes and
perform my chores. While I was cleaning the bathroom, I
overheard an argument between Mother and Father. She was
angry with him for “going behind her back” to buy me the
paintings. Mother told Father that she was in charge of
disciplining “the boy” and that he had undermined her authority
by buying the gifts. The longer Father argued his case, the
angrier she became. I could tell he had lost, and that I was
becoming more and more isolated.
A few months later, Mother became a den mother for the Cub
Scouts. Whenever the other kids came to our home, she treated
them like kings. Some of the other kids told me how they
wished their mothers would be like mine. I never responded, but
I wondered to myself what they would think if they knew the
real truth. Mother only kept the den mother job for a few
months. When she gave it up I was so relieved because it meant
I could go to other kids’ homes for the Wednesday meetings.
One Wednesday, I came home from school to change into my
blue and gold Cub Scout uniform. Mother and I were the only
ones in the house, and I could tell by the look on her face that
she was after blood. After smashing my face against the
bedroom mirror, she snatched my arm and dragged me to the
car. During the drive to my den mother’s house, Mother told me
what she was going to do with me when we got home. I scooted
to the far side of the front seat of the car, but it didn’t work. She
reached across the seat and seized my chin, lifting my head
towards hers. Mother’s eyes were bloodshot and her voice
sounded as if she were possessed. When we arrived at the den
mother’s house, I ran to the door crying. I whined to her that I
had been a bad boy and could not attend the meeting. The den
mother smiled politely, saying that she would like me to come to
the next meeting. That was the last time I saw her.
Once home, Mother ordered me to strip off my clothes and
stand by the kitchen stove. I shook from a combination of fear
and embarrassment. She then revealed my hideous crime.
Mother told me that she had often driven to school to watch my
brothers and I play during our lunch period recess. Mother
claimed that she had seen me that very day playing on the grass,
which was absolutely forbidden by her rules. I quickly answered
that I never played on the grass. I knew Mother had somehow
made a mistake. My reward for observing Mother’s rules and
telling the truth was a hard punch in the face.
Mother then reached over and turned on the gas burners to the
kitchen stove. Mother told me that she had read an article about
a mother who had her son lie on top of a hot stove. I instantly
became terrified. My brain became numb, and my legs wobbled.
I wanted to disappear. I closed my eyes, wishing her away. My
brain locked up when I felt Mother’s hand clamp my arm as if it
were in a vice grip.
“You’ve made my life a living hell!” she sneered. “Now it’s
time I showed you what hell is like!” Gripping my arm, Mother
held it in the orangeblue flame. My skin seemed to explode from
the heat. I could smell the scorched hairs from my burnt arm. As
hard as I fought, I could not force Mother to let go of my arm.
Finally I fell to the floor, on my hands and knees, and tried to
blow cool air on my arm. “It’s too bad your drunken father’s not
here to save you,” she hissed. Mother then ordered me to climb
up onto the stove and lie on the flames so she could watch me
burn. I refused, crying and pleading. I felt so scared I stomped
my feet in protest. But Mother continued to force me on top of
the stove. I watched the flames, praying the gas might run out.
Suddenly I began to realize the longer I could keep myself off
the top of the stove, the better my chances were for staying
alive. I knew my brother Ron would soon be coming home from
his scout meeting, and I knew Mother never acted this bizarre
when anyone else was in the house. In order to survive, I had to
buy time. I stole a glance at the kitchen clock behind me. The
second hand seemed to creep ever so slowly. To keep Mother
off balance, I began to ask whining questions. This infuriated
her even more, and Mother began to rain blows around my head
and chest. The more Mother slugged me, the more I began to
realize I had won! Anything was better than burning on the
stove.
Finally, I heard the front door fly open. It was Ron. My heart
surged with relief. The blood from Mother’s face drained. She
knew she had lost. For a moment in time, Mother froze. I seized
that instant to grab my clothes and race to the garage, where I
quickly dressed. I stood against the wall and began to whimper
until I realized that I had beaten her. I had bought a few precious
minutes. I used my head to survive. For the first time, I had
won!
Standing alone in that damp, dark garage, I knew, for the first
time, that I could survive. I decided that I would use any tactic I
could think of to defeat Mother or to delay her from her grizzly
obsession. I knew if I wanted to live, I would have to think
ahead. I could no longer cry like a helpless baby. In order to
survive, I could never give in to her. That day I vowed to myself
that I would never, ever again give that bitch the satisfaction of
hearing me beg her to stop beating me.
In the coldness of the garage, my entire body trembled from
both the cold anger and intense fear. I used my tongue to lick the
burn and soothe my throbbing arm. I wanted to scream, but I
refused to give Mother the pleasure of hearing me cry. I stood
tall. I could hear Mother talking to Ron upstairs, telling him how
proud she was of him, and how she didn’t have to worry about
Ron becoming like David – a bad boy.
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