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Shattered By The Silence

_______________ Shattered By The Silence________________

Book Series #1

DEDICATED TO MY GRANDPARENTS--JOSEPH AND MARGARET TOHT

PROLOGUE: Lifes Horrific Memories Of Abuse, In A Very Dysfunctional Family That Was Filled With Lies, Manipulations, Child Abuse And Scary Secrets, Sibling Rivalry, Proposed By All Those Who Had Sinister Intentions.

* QUERY LETTER : My Book Is An Accurate Autobiography Of My Life Story, Though I Have Changed Some Names : Side Note: The Photos In This Book Show Well Dressed Children. The Photos Were Taken When My Parents Expected A Visit From Our Grandparents. It Was The Only Time We Were Really (Put Together) So To Speak. Photos Of Me When I Was Young Were Taken At My Grandparents, By My Grandparents, In Bellbrook, Ohio...Exceptions: The Photos Taken In Dayton, Ohio. The Parkside Home Photos And California Photos. All Of The Photos Are @Copy Righted...same as my artwork photos.

Some Events Are Collaborations With My Grandparents, Great Grandparents, My Aunts And Great Uncle. This Is A hurttwor`x Novel Based On Facts And Some Opinions.

...Chapters Are Only Excerpts From My Book, The First Book In A Series Of Six...

This: ~Indicates a poem, written by me~

~ I Remember All The Days,

Eight Times, 

The Cradle, 

Rocked Away,

All The Nights,

We Slept On,

Cold Floors,

Eight Pairs,

Of Bare Feet,

Good Morning,

Dirty Dishes,

We Had Nothing,

To Eat,

Flipped A Switch,

No Lights,

Were There,

One Brush, 

For Tangled Hair,

Baths Were Scarce,

Three At One Time,

Water For The Tub, 

In Winter,

From Shoveled Snow,

I Fell On The Ice, 

Retrieving My Cleanliness,

On Both Knees,

Leaving,

An Ugly Scar, 

Of Eternal Remembrance,

Discipline, 

Came From Trees,

Switching Little Legs,

As Father's Words, 

He Spit With Rages,

Fists,
 
Making Their Way,

Always Finding,

My Mothers,

Already Bruised Face,

She Became, 
 
An Expert,

At Making,

Fudge On A Plate,

To Appease,

Father's Sweet Tooth,

He Ate And Ate,

As Eight Mouths, 

Drooled,

For Just A Taste,

Thank God,

I Was Rescued,

On A Fall Day,

By My Grandparents,

Who Turned, 

My Fairy Tale Page,

The Warmest Bed,

My Full Belly,

A Grandmother, 

Who Smelled, 
 
So Sweet,

Her Lap Warmed With Love,

Soft Words, 

That Lulled Me To Sleep,

As My Cradle Rocked, 

The Other Way,

I Did Not, 

Utter A Peep,

Forever, 

In Thankfulness,

With Everlasting Joy,

I Shall Reap ~   


I FORGAVE MY PARENTS A LONG TIME AGO, NOT NECESSARILY BECAUSE THEY DESERVE IT, BUT BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT GOING TO HAVE THAT KIND OF POWER OVER MY LIFE.

1. (Chapter 1)

LIKE IT OR NOT SHE'S HERE

I will begin with a poem that I wrote while in the throws of a horrible depression (at the tender age of only thirteen). I would continue to write poetry my entire life but I always hid my poems, the same way I hid my pain. I never told anyone about the words I found hidden behind my shattered heart dripping onto paper with a purpose. My crimson pen, a soothing stroke of solace and revenge. The pain that was planted in my heart by those with words that kill a soul and the blows to my flesh, wounded for all to see. They would never see the words that I held as a weapon, my words that soothed my fears and pacified me.

~ If I could tell you how I felt, When the monster whipped me with his belt, Welts upon my flesh he left, They're not the only scars you'll see, Pain sleeps deep inside of me, With words she knocked me to my knees, The Mother whom forsook me.~

~Vickie Thayer~

A child should never feel pain inflicted upon them by their parents (physical or emotional). I grew up in an era when child abuse was mostly overlooked, ignored and justified by what some called "discipline."

I was born, their first child, but seven pairs of feet would soon follow my birth. Eight mouths to feed in a very dysfunctional and abusive world that was created by my parents.

My mother and father went to the same high school, she played the trumpet in her band class, my father was a football jock. My mother was the daughter of upstanding parents, my grandparents, my wonderful grandparents, they raised my mother well, she was obviously just a bad seed.

My father was the son of a widowed and remarried woman that had lost her third child to a drowning (while in her third trimester of pregnancy with my father). Some would say when this happened it was the reason that (my father) became such an abusive monster as an adult, because his mother was so traumatized while carrying him, that the event had marked him for life.

When my father was just two years old his Mother married a man who was a porter at the hotel she worked at (as a cook). She had become a single Mother with three boys to raise, (my father and his two older brothers). My father was not his new stepfathers choice for a son, but there they were, an instant family of five. His stepfather ruled the roost with a heavy fist and belt ( just as my father would do so in kind, many years later with us).

**Later in life, just before my father passed away, there were accusations that he had made to his psychiatrist, pertaining to his own childhood abuse. His alledged abuse by his parents, was documented. I read the transcripts that were written from some of his psychiatric sessions (after his death). Some other revelations that he had made later in his life to (his psychiatrist) were about his fears pertaining to one of my siblings and her husband, as well.
Somehow, while reading about his own abuse, I suddenly felt a (little sorry) for this man, the one I could never connect with, the one I called, "father."

~One hand rocks my cradle, Two hands dig my grave, One words not a fable, Two words, I forgave.~

~Vickie Thayer~

I was told by my grandparents and by my uncle that my mother had a nervous breakdown when I came into this world. My mother sat in her hospital room with the curtains drawn tightly shut, in total darkness and wanted nothing to do with me. I would later in life, feel the same emotional disconnection from her. My mother's Mother (my wonderful grandmother Margaret) took me home with her, while my mother was admitted for psychiatric evaluation (for several weeks) after my birth. I bonded with both of my grandparents during this impressionable time, and they in kind.

Daddy dearest was no where around when I was born and I was told that when he found out a girl was the outcome of his romp with my mother that he cried, but not from tears of joy, he wanted a boy (evidently I was already a huge disappointment for both of them). I was not even able to hold my head up yet and I was already written down as a mistake and burden.

My grandparents took care of me while my mother stayed behind in the hospital to get well...I don't believe she ever did, as life would eventually reveal the dark side of her narcissistic personality.

~Hush my baby…Wake up now…The moons shining brightly…On the misty bough. The man in the moon….Has tripped the fatted cow…And now my child…We shall all fall down.~

~Vickie Thayer~

2. (Chapter 2)

ELEVEN MONTHS LATER

One of my most vivid memories as a baby (yes, I have an excellent memory, being abused does that to you) was the way my father hung me on a hook or nail on the wall whenever I would not stop crying. I was wearing corduroy baby pants that had snaps up the legs and straps over the shoulders that buttoned across the chest. The straps were used to hang me on the wall, I remember looking down at him as he laughed at me, whilst I cried in terror. My grandmother also told me these accounts were true and that she had visited them un-announced and caught this incident happening on several occasions.

Little did I know that the same type of terror would be felt by me again, many years later.

It was exactly eleven months later and baby number two was brought home. From the beginning, even at a very young age I felt something was wrong in our little family of horrors, even at a tender age, I felt it, and I saw it.

When my grandmother would stop by for visits and hold me, I just wanted her to take me with her, to save me.., in due time that would happen, but for now, I cried for my grandma and the warmth and security I felt in her arms. I never felt the warmth of love that I should have by eithe of my parents, unless it was the warmth of a slap that left a burning sting upon my flesh.

3. (Chapter 3)

THREE GIRLS

It was only two years later and Mother brought home baby number three. A beautiful blond haired, blue eyed baby girl. I remember her arrival, even though I was a toddler of only two years in age. I wanted to hold her, she was so cute. Poor little girl, she didn't know what she was in for. I was soon to become a little maid of sorts, always fetching diapers, placing pacifiers in mouths and comforting babies that cried, while I cried, too. I loved the fresh smell of a new baby, but it never lasted for very long, especially when diapers aren't changed often enough and soiled clothing smelt of spoiled milk and the lack of love.

(ME, TWO YEARS OF AGE)

We were now living in a low income housing project in Dayton, Ohio. It had concrete floors, a ball park and cockroaches. I remember vividly the toxic smell of insectisides being sprayed to rid our humble abode of those filthy bugs (the name "Park Side Homes" was not the glamorous title that suited its dwellers).

Sometimes we spent time outside lying on blankets while napping under the sky in the middle of the apartment yard. I could hear the airplanes flying over from Wright- Patterson's Air Force Base. Our Mother napped with us, I remember looking up at white puffy clouds, she would point out different shapes of animals that the clouds would make as they floated by, while the fading sounds of planes lolled me to sleep (these are few and far between very good memories, for me).

~I Kept The Good Memories, But Principles Of Truth, Bestowed Horrors Upon Me.~ ~Vickie Thayer~

It was around the time that I had turned three years of age that I clearly remember seeing my Mother's belly swelling, her eye as well. I can remember hearing my parents yelling,cussing and my father hitting her in the head with his fist, like a prize fighter. He would always leave after an event like that, she would always cry. I remember the tears rolling down onto her black eye, it scared me, as I was too young to understand how her eye got that way. Father would stay gone for several days, when he would return home-it would all start over, again and again. It caused so many sad butterflies to fly around in my belly, to this day I call them (sad caged butterflies) looking for their freedom.

My Grandmother came to our apartment, as she often did, I remember one time when she found my baby sister playing on top of the gas stove (the memory vivid in my thoughts). On that particular day my grandfather came along with Grandmother. Grandfather yelled at my mother about my little blue eyed sister, who was playing on the gas stove. I guess he was also going to confront my father for what he did to my mother (her black eye still showing, despite her efforts to hide it) but now Grandfather was taking all of his frustations out on her, I guess with plenty of good reason, the apartment was filthy and so were we.

I somehow ended up going with my grandparents to spend a few days, once again comfort shook me to my senses, I was going to a clean, nourishing and comforting home, held in the arms of gentle love. I always felt my Mother was glad to see me go, but so was I.

I WAS A SERIOUS CHILD, ALWAYS THINKING, SMILES WERE HARD FOR ME.

4. ( Chapter 4 )

HIS FIRST SON

I saw my baby brother for the very first time, while my mother was feeding him (by natural means, the way God intended). He had lots of dark hair and looked bigger than the other babies. I wanted to hold him, but daddy dearest was coming home soon and Mother was ordering us to pick up, clean up and shut up. I rebelled and got smacked right across the mouth and ordered to do what I was told. I did what I was told and soon this would be a regular means of discipline for me, by my mother. I'm asking, why? but nobody gives an answer, only my first taste of blood from a busted mouth (I was only three years old).

Everyone was cooing at my little brother and my mother's swollen belly and black eye had disappeared! I was excited for these current events. I remember seeing Father for the first time ever, crying. He was holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft blue blanket. If daddy dearest was the Lion King, I don't think he would have been any prouder! I remember feeling a twinge of jealousy. Why did he hit my mother, yell at me, spank me with belts, hang me by hooks up on the wall, yet he never "cried" while doing these hurtful things to me. I was confused, because I only cried while hurting from physical or emotional pain. This type of crying while holding a baby boy wrapped in a blue blanket, fresh from the hospital's nursery, I did not understand.

~ My lips are swollen, formed words are hushed,

Hair pulled and tangled, no longer lush,

My mother's cold hand, it does, for me, so much.~

~Vickie Thayer~

5. (Chapter 5)

COLD HANDS WARM HEART

There is an old saying that goes "cold hands, warm heart." I can attest that there is no truth in this statement. My mother's hands were always cold and now frequently placed upon my mouth and across my backside. Her heart was as cold as winter's death. I never felt the warmth from her heart, I can honestly say I have no memories of her ever telling me (even once) that she loved me. I was able at this young age to know the difference between right and wrong and this I knew, felt very wrong.

I quickly learned that if Mother or Father demanded me to do something, I'd better jump! and if I refused I would get a beating, a hair pulling, a switching on my little legs or my mouth smacked.

On the day I was to turn three years of age, my father's parents and my mother's parents were coming to our already cramped (Park Side Home) to wish me a happy birthday. That's the day I learned monsters are real and that they can be present among really good and unsuspecting people (like my grandparents) while the motherly monster tortured you, behind the scenes.

It was a really cold day in February and my little brother was two months away from being born, I was going to my grandparents home, for my third birthday.

Before my grandparents arrived, I can remember my father filling old milk jugs with water, he also filled the bath tub nearly to the top with water. I remember my mother yelling at me, she was telling me that I had better not tell Grandma or Grandpa about all the water in the tub and refrigerator (evidently our water was shut off...again, for lack of timely payments). Now, I knew better than to tell my grandparents about this, in front of my parents. My mother was throwing dagger looks at me to ensure that I kept quiet. I actually have a photograph my grandmother gave to me, it is of me and my two sisters on that very day. You can see the actual fear in my eyes and while studying the photo I actually could remember that day, very well. I was scared to death of my parents.

I happily went home with my grandparents, for my birthday. During my stay I had divulged to them what any normal three year old would do. I said something along the lines of..."the water man took away the water." Grandmother asked me what I meant...(you remember events surrounding a beating, even at three years of age). I told grandmother that we had water in our bathtub and the fridge. I don't believe she fully understood, but later when I was much older and she and I talked, she said that she had a pretty good idea as to what I was referring to, as Mother had asked her for money, again (they also saw it when they returned me to my parents) all the water in the tub and fridge.

(My grandparents were always trying their best to help my mother and her ever growing brood of four mouths to feed. Little did they know they were only half way finished with their family. The severe beatings given to Mother by our father were always followed by a make-up session and then nine months later another child was added to our family).

Grandmother and Grandfather were concerned with my revealation about the water, while dropping me off from my weekend visit for my birthday, they questioned my parents. Grandfather never liked my father, so he yelled and threatened him for being a poor excuse of a Father and husband. (Little did he know, they were never married they had claimed-common law marriage).

Mother glared at me behind my grandparents backs. I remember her look, it was used often towards me, she had a real disgusting and threatening look for me, just for me.

6. (Chapter 6)

IF LOOKS COULD KILL

After my Grandparents left, my father retrieved his belt (while my Mother interrogated me) "did you tell Grandma?... tell me the truth, you little brat, I will beat it out of you!." She was yelling at me with her same disgusting and threatening look. I already knew what was coming....I particularly remember this beating...I could not catch my breath. Mother had pulled me by my hair to the bed, she held me down by my head and hair while my father (the monster with the belt) hit me so hard, I think I passed out or died...yes, I think I wanted to actually die...at just three years of age, I was a child of abuse and no one knew.

~Vickie Thayer~

A beautiful little Angel was born six months after my fourth birthday, her black hair and tiny features. She was my third sister and the fourth sibling, five children for my parents in a four year and six month (time frame). Father came home from the hospital and told all of us that she was born without fingers and toes (this was a lie) but we all were horrified at the prospect. I remember checking her out when she arrived home, she was perfect and had all her fingers and toes. Our father always played cruel, sick and twisted jokes on us.

Whatever would pocess a father to say something like that, I will never understand. The same as not understanding why he would place pillows over our faces until we almost passed out. He took great delight in our fears and would laugh at our fears and pain. He laughed like an unstable hyena. I swear to you, he sounded just like a hyena when he laughed.

It was about this time that my sister closest in age to me started displaying a jealousy towards me and my relationship with my grandparents. My parents encouraging her and my other siblings to join in on verbal abuse towards me, Mother even gave me a nickname..."Queenie." They would later nickname all of their brood, but for now I was called "Queenie." (enunciated with jealousy and intonations formed on the lips of innocent children that were only imulating their parents). I also saw the jealousy in their little faces and eyes.

I believe my Mother's narcissistic personality started to reveal its ugly head during this time. The name "Queenie" was referring to the special treatment I received from our Grandparents. I also believe that the abuse caused several of my siblings to become bed wetters. One sibling my mother gave the nickname..."Piss-a-maw." Who does that? a narcissist...thats who). I remember waking up next to her in bed, soaking wet, from her accidents, she would blame me, but I never had that problem. Little did I know I would get blamed a lot by her later on and throughout life, always saying, "Queenie did it."

~The wolves...they come...like dogs...obeying their master...she pets their heads...and feeds their bellies...the little witches and master.~

~Vickie Thayer ~

It's a harsh reality for a child that a parent would call them the "B" words. I grew up thinking it was normal, not until I was left behind for several years in my grandparents stable and loving care would I know the difference, a difference that would mold my personality and character for the remainder of my days.

7. (Chapter 7)

I ALWAYS WANTED A BICYCLE

My baby sister who was born in August (just six months after my fourth birthday) was sleeping in a dresser drawer made into a bed (from the dresser's drawer). I remember my mother instructing me to watch her, my sibling picked her up and dropped her back into the wooden drawer, hitting the little ones head. My baby sister wailed in pain, Mother was informed by my sibling that "Queenie did it" (that I hit my baby sister). My mother whipped me, hard, for something I did not do. My sibling laughed about my whipping (I can remember her little girl grin of evilness). After that incident how delighted she was in calling me "Queenie," especially when I got a whipping for something she claimed that I did. I always felt an evilness stirred up by her jealousies. Darkness was hiding behind her eyes with purposeful intentions (even well into adulthood).

It was approximately six months later and I was nearing school age, my parents were fighting all the time. I was often left to babysit my siblings while my parents went out for an evening together. There is one time in particular that I remember vividly. We were living in an older apartment that had large closets that locked from the outside. Father put all of us in the closet with a light bulb hanging above (operated by a pull chain). Father instructed me to keep my siblings occupied and quiet, we were often subjected to submission by fear tactics..."or the demons will get you" he'd say. Little did I know, he, was the only "real" demon, at that moment. His words were enough to scare me into submission.

A baby bottle was left for my little sister. Three siblings close to my age crying and as scared as me (I was a child growing up way too fast). The light bulb made the closet seem really hot, the sweat sticking to my hair and neck, the fear of not being able to quiet my siblings, a locked door that kept my anxiety festering (to this very day I suffer from GAD, PTSD and CLAUSTROPHOBIA). I remember feeling sick, scared and confined.

My father and mother would later return home with a bicycle, a childs bicycle with a banana seat. I always remember wanting to ride it, but the bike stayed in our home hidden for awhile (father even painted it a different color). I figured out many years later, daddy dearest was also a thief (this would only be one of the many times that I would recall his troubles with the law). It was about a month after the bicycle incident that law enforcement knocked on our door, I saw our father climb up into the attic of our apartment. The law man had a warrant for his arrest for burglarizing a pawn shop (this incident confirmed when I was an adult by my mother and grandparents). I remember all the yelling by the police officers directed towards my mother..."where is he?...where is he?" they asked. I looked up at the attic (the officer catching my eye as I did this) they pulled him down and arrested him. "aah"... I felt justified. They took the bike, the monster and some other things as well. I always wanted a bicycle, but I wanted love and security more. Mother beat me for giving her husband away. I still felt (despite my beating) that I did the right thing. My father upon returning from jail, made me drink a mixture of baking soda and water until I vomited. I remember him first whipping my bare bottom and then sitting me on the toilet and forcing the "badness out of me" he called it, for telling the policemen where he was hiding.

Father's brother had been staying with us during this time and he was in on the thefts with our father, his brother skipped town after those events and later in life while discussing this with my father's Mother she told me that my uncle (her son) committed suicide years later, over the things he had done. (I also remembered seeing him doing bad things to several of my little sisters, they say monsters run together, I guess it is true).

~worn away... tattered along... the edges...she was frayed...like termites...holding up...bridges~ ~Vickie Thayer~

8. (Chapter 8)

LEFT BEHIND

I believe my parents wanted to break away from Ohio and or my father was running from the law and my grandfather. Irregardless of his intentions; it was on a cold February day and my mother was once again carrying a child; her sixth. She was in her ninth month of pregnancy when my parents decided to leave me behind with my grandparents as they ventured off to the state of California.

We were all staying at my grandparents home in Bellbrook, Ohio (down in their basement). Mother had been assaulted by my father and she had asked for my grandparents help (as she often had). We all converged in the basement, it was dark, dreary and scary but clean and safe (I felt safe...yes, I felt safe).

I remember my father sneaking into the basement with my mothers help. They decided to kiss and make up (she always took him back). I heard my father tell my mother to leave me behind with the Grandparents, I was listening and my heart skipped a beat at the scenario before me "oh please leave me!" I thought to myself. They left me behind along with a note from Mother. I remember the morning my Grandmother found me and the note, I was barely six years old, I was not crying, I was happy and I wanted to stay, forever!

(JUST BEFORE MY PARENTS LEFT ME BEHIND IN BELLBROOK, OHIO)

Grandmother received a phone call, a collect call. The operator said " I have a collect call from a Jean Hurtt, will you accept the charges?" Grandmother must have said "yes" (because she spoke to her). The call was to inform Grandmother that they were delayed in the state of Illinois on their way to California. Mother had gone into labor and gave birth to another baby girl. They would continue on to California once she got out of the hospital. This put my grandfather into a tail spin, he grabbed the phone and told my mother they were disowning her and she better not call or come around ever again. I was thinking "oh yes, please never come around again" (my poor Grandmother just cried).

I cried, too. I never cried again for almost four years.

9. (Chapter 9)

SUNDAY SCHOOL, JESUS AND NATURE

I started school at a little country school in the town my grandparents called home and a home it was (in the town of Bellbrook).

My teacher (Mrs. Bagford) was a kindly yet stern woman. I wanted to use my left hand while writing, coloring and pasting (I loved the smell of paste) and no (I never ate paste).

Using scissors while being left handed was the hardest thing for me. Mrs. Bagford encouraged me to use my right hand, encouragement came in the form of tying a string around two fingers on my left hand (that's the way they did things in those days).
I remember the early days living with my Grandparents, I always did well in school and soon began to use my right hand for everything (I still use my left hand as well as my right hand to this very day, I'm ambidextrous).
My Grandmother taught Sunday School at a little baptist church in Bellbrook. I started attending the Sunday school activities for children, it was the first time I had even learned about Jesus or God. We had little coloring books and crayons, all religiously adorned.
I remember coloring pictures of Jesus, lambs, lions and stars. I remember singing songs about God. Grandmother prayed with me every night and soon she had me reciting the prayer to myself... "NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP, I PRAY THEE LORD MY SOUL TO KEEP, IF I SHOULD DIE BEFORE I WAKE, I PRAY THEE LORD MY SOUL TO TAKE...GOD BLESS GRANDMA, GRANDPA, MY PETS, MY BROTHER AND SISTERS." I never blessed my parents (I think Grandmother picked up on that).

I can remember how awe struck I was at the whole process of learning about God but why hadn't God saved me from my parents? I remember feeling let down in some way but I was safe for now and I was blessed!
My parents and siblings were now in California and living in Los Angeles. I was clear across the united states and living an entirely different life style and upbringing than my siblings (later in life I felt sorry for them, pertaining to this).
I had nice clean clothing, nourishing food, education, religion and love bent unconditionally with discipline that left life lessons for me, I also had several pets for the first time in my life and learned responsibilities that came with that privilege.

My first pet; he was a rooster that I named "Pepper," I also had two little green turtles named "Heckle and Jeckle" (named after the cartoon show from my era). I learned the love I felt came easy for me, towards these little animals. I wanted to be a Mother to every little creature I saw! The joy I felt catching little toads that hung around the cool concrete patio in the warmth of summer, I'd put them in an old shoe box that Grandmother had given to me (she punched holes in the top of the box, so they could breathe). I fed them bugs that I caught, but despite my good intentions they always died. That is how I learned about death. It always made me sad and I felt guilty that I could not keep them alive. Grandmother explained to me that they needed their Mother to survive, I did not understand, because I surely did not need or want mine.
My grandfather raised beagles and there were always puppies to cuddle and smother with kisses.I always rode on my grandfather's shoulders into the woods as one of his beagle dogs trailed a rabbit or a new puppy was being trained to do so. I learned all about nature and its beauty this way. To this day I would live entirely off of the bounty of mother nature surrounded by her gift of animals if I could and someday I shall.
I remember picking blackberries with Grandfather and taking them home to Grandmother (she always baked a delicious pie from our stash). I ate many berries along the way home, they left a blue stain about my teeth and tongue. I remember being asked by Grandmother if I had eaten any of the berries, I replied "NO". That was the day I learned what lying was and that blackberries always left evidence and that lying was not good. To this day I'm an avid animal lover, a great pie baker and a really bad liar.

~the path God has painted for me...is beautiful and deep...powerful and strong...to receive his directions...doth make me weep~
~Vickie Thayer~

10. (Chapter 10)
CHRISTMAs AND SANTa

The earliest memory I have of Christmas was during the time I lived with my grandparents. It was a magical time for me. The house was always decorated with beautiful lights and ornaments, there was a display on the roof top of santa being pulled by his reindeer, it lit up and santa was waving. The tree was silver with blue and purple bulbs (Grandmothers favorite colors) and a rotating light wheel. My grandmother was an elaborate decorator and she was also an artist, she painted with oil paints and did so her entire life. She was a truly talented woman. Her home in Bellbrook was beautifully decorated and yet very homey. I would watch her paint on Saturday mornings while watching cartoons, as she painted away. I have many of her paintings and the very first one that she finished hangs in my home to this very day (it is signed and dated on the back, she finished it on my birthday).

The suspicions I felt surrounding santas existence were finally put to rest once I saw the tv movie: Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer (one of many shows and stories I discovered while sitting with my grandfather in his favorite recliner). Grandfather convinced me santa was real, because he had his own movie (a great memory for me).

Grandfather always read the story "Heidi" to me and shared just a sip of his "Black Label" beer. The thirst I felt for a father's love was quinched by him, my grandfather. He taught me so much and never wavered from discipline that was constructive with a loving touch.
I learned from the story of "Heidi" that their was always some good in everyone, but I also learned that really bad people can put on a good front to convince others that they are good to manipulate them and to get what they want and that those people were evil (I guessed that my parents fell under this category, a few of my siblings as well).

( Me...Just Before Going Back To My Parents...Healthy, Happy and A Little Lady). I Painted This Self Portrait-using a Photo That Was Taken Of Me, Just Before I Left For California.

It was around this time that my parents were contacting my grandmother with letters (the content of these letters-were upsetting my grandmother). At the time I did not know why, but later in life Grandmother told me that my parents wanted me back and she showed me those letters that were written many years prior. The words written sickened me, the threats they had made towards my grandparents, my loving grandparents.
The letters came three years after they had left me, I would get one more Christmas and one more chance at life before my grandparents had to let me go back to my parents, in California.

Grandmother told me (when I was in my twenties) that she always regretted not trying to get legal custody of me back then. She always suspected abuse, I always regretted not telling her about the abuse, until I was fourteen years old, then I would tell her.
I was soon to be put on a TWA airplane bound for California. The day I left my safe, loving and secure home I looked at myself in the mirror in my little bedroom and cried and felt severe anxiety taking over my soul. I hid my two little turtles into a basket that had a lid on it (the basket looked like a small wicker purse that grandmother gave to me) the turtles somehow escaped on the airplane, a stewardess placed them somewhere else, until we landed in California. I remember passengers laughing and yelling..."turtles!"
I was soon to be reunited with my father, I was now nine years old and a different child, I was no longer his child, no longer willing to be beat or molested by this monster and I felt God was now holding my hand, but I would soon be thrown back into the horror of life as I knew it (before living with my grandparents). "Little did I know...little did I know."

11. (Chapter 11)

THE NIGHTMARE IN LOS ANGELES

The moment the plane touched down and after the "unfasten seatbelt" sign was lit up I was escorted from the plane by a stewardess to a waiting area in the terminal. The stewardess gave me my little purse with my turtles. She then asked me if I saw my parents, I did not see anyone right away, then I saw my father walking towards us. I can remember how anxiety took my gut and twisted it into a knot. The first words from his mouth and I remember it clearly, "you got fat!" not something like "I love you", I missed you or welcome back," but you got fat? Maybe what he really meant to say was "you no longer look sickly wow you look healthy." The stewardess handed him my little suitcase and a carry on bag I had above my seat, they were things Grandmother packed for me, then we walked side by side to a taxi cab, the monster and me.

We arrived at a low income housing project in Los Angeles, California. I remember walking in the door onto dirty, grey, concrete floors. The smell of my grandmother's perfume permeating from my new, clean clothing (I wanted to cry). My mothers response upon seeing me was and I quote... "Well look the little Queenie has arrived." I can remember her stripping me of my nice clothing and telling my siblings that they had some new outfits to wear. She ransacked the suitcase and the bag in my pocession and told me I was no longer the "Queenie." My siblings all just stared at me, I also stared back...at their dirty feet, their tangled hair and the surroundings of filth.

When Mother got to my little wicker purse the turtles were still inside, she handed them to my father, he said they were going to cook them for supper (I suddenly felt a severe panic in my soul). I felt a horror never known to man... "Oh no, please!" I cried as everyone laughed. He then made me and I draw a tear for this part (throw them into the toilet) he then flushed them away. He flushed away my little babies, that I had taken care of for several years, turtle babies I named, my little babies that let me pet their little heads. They were gone, just like that, just like the love he flushed from his heart for me, gone, with a mean abusive flush. When he laughed at my pain, I swear I wanted him to die, too. That night I could not understand why I had to be there with these people that I did not like. I cried all night while lying in a urine soaked, smelly mattress, in a room crawling with roaches with sirens blaring under a grey sky, hiding the stars and the moon under the guise of a loving home.

I could not sleep and when I said my prayers to myself that first night, I did not bless anyone, except my grandparents and I cursed God, "Amen."

12. (Chapter 12)

GOD IS WHOM?

Within a few days of returning to my parents I was introduced to my new sister that I had not met since returning to them in California and a new little brother. I don't know where they were when I first arrived but there were now seven children.

My new little brother was only a few months over a year old. I can remember carrying him around all the time on my hip, it bacame a constant in my life then and partly due to my mother always telling me to keep an eye on him. My father's Aunt Helen always said I was going to become deformed carrying him around in this manner, that my hip would get harmed.

I did not know it yet but our mother was now carrying her eighth child, maybe that was the reason I always remember her throwing up in the mornings. She was always lying around the house in darkness. I was always ordered to pick up, clean up, do dishes and feed babies. She was always so unloving in her demands towards me, never a thank you and always calling me "Queenie." The first thing she demanded from me upon my arrival to California was to wash a sink and counter top full of dirty dishes. I did as I was told and hoped for some recognition from her, nope, just a "now, get up to bed, Queenie!" (maybe the nickname "Cinderella" would have suited me better).

One evening (soon after I returned to them in California) Mother took me with her for a stroll thru the neighborhood that we lived in. Our destination (I believe) was already planned out by her because we quickly came upon a place of worship that had a huge statue (that I thought to be Jesus). There he was, adorning the front entrance to the the Church. My mother stopped and asked me "do you know what that is?" not (who) that is (what) that is- as she pointed towards the statue of Jesus. Mother was holding my hand and I remember when I said (excitedly) "Jesus!" she jerked my arm really hard and said "no, that is a pagan statue and God Jehovah does not like them."

So much for the hand holding because she loved me, "well, Grandmother told me his name is Jesus and that he is God," I said quickly with a rising and falling intonation as I already saw that scary and disgusting look in her face that she always had for me. Mother immediately jerked my arm again and said, "Grandmother is wrong and I'm your mother! God's name is Jehovah and that is a statue that is called a pagan." I never felt so confused, I was at the age that I was starting to have my own opinions (secretly of course) and you my dear mother are crazy.

I just wanted so much to see my grandparents, it seemed my wish would soon come true as we were soon to trek back to Ohio, but first I was to have some Jehovah's witness religion shoved down my throat.

Apparently my parents were now becoming religious. My mother was having regular bible studies with a woman by the name of Fhilomena. My father sat in on a few of the sessions, but that was short lived. The jehovah's witnesses had stopped by one day during a vulnerable moment (after a beating my mother got, by my father) and Mother agreed to study with them. After a few times my father decided he didn't want her to study any longer and they fought about it so he beat her up, again. Father had always claimed his own mother's Catholicism religion and he did not like this new religion my mother was converting to (his fist and rages were the only way he dealt with conflict and he used them often).

I was forced to sit in on the bible studies with my mother, somehow she felt I needeed a mental flossing to all the incorrect information I was evidently taught by the little baptist church and my grandmother, back in Ohio. I listened to Fhilomena and kept my opinions to my self because soon we were to leave for Ohio and I could not wait to see my beloved grandparents.

13. (Chapter Thirteen)

OUR NEW GOD SAVED US

Before we left California we moved into a small house, for only a few months. It was in my opinion the most decent home we ever lived in. It was located in San Bernadino, California (I went to school at Lincoln elementary).

I remember being harassed every morning walking to school by a group of hispanic children, older than myself. Unfortunately this has left a bad taste in my mind for hispanics but I'm working on that bad taste. I believe prejudices are formed by experiences or pounded into a young mind by their parents, I was no different. I got hit with sticks and yelled at and my pink shoes (Grandmother gave to me for my birthday) were stolen right off of my feet with threats of harm and stick lashings.

My parents were informed by my teacher of the incident, their solution for me was to fight back! I never fought back, I just devised a new route to school. This was the beginning of my ability to think through problems on my own. I even be-friended one of the girls who was in the group of children that harassed me. She told them to let me be and they did. That was my solution. I figured it all out, on my own and no violence was needed. Why couldn't my parents figure this out, too.

I remember standing on the neighbors fence next door and knocking plums from her tree to the ground, we would all scavenge the plums, seemed we were always hungry. We also ate figs from a tree in our yard. Soon after these memories we were on our way to Ohio.

A notice for lack of rent and utility bills followed us.

Our father cut three holes in the back deck of the car, below the rear window. I saw him and Mother placing blankets in the trunk, it was in the summer and hot. There were seven children and two adults. The family vehicle was designed to hold two adults and four others in the back seat (my father had a plan, that could have killed me and my two sisters).

The three of us were placed in the trunk to travel from California to Ohio. I remember as soon as we left California, I felt sick and could smell fumes coming into the car. I covered my mouth and nose with the blanket and held my ears from the constant grinding noise. I was genuinely scared and thrown back to the time I was locked in the closet to watch my siblings, I had a panic attack. My parents stopped at a rest stop, my mother smacked me for making noises and yelling. I remember crying and telling her I couldn't breathe (I don't know if the lack of oxygen was from the panic attack because I felt closed in or from carbon monoxide fumes). My father now told us we were soon pulling into a place and that we had to be very quiet and that if we made noises we would be beat (I remember this next scenario vividly).

I heard men talking, strange voices I never heard before. I had sweat sticking to my body like a sauna bath had enveloped my pores and had no where to go except to my stomach, I felt sick and vomited (I think part of it got on my sister because we were all crying now). The trunk lid flew up and several hispanic men in uniforms were looking in at us, with amazement on their faces. I heard them say "aye yi yi!"....there was a commotion then all of us were in an air conditioned office drinking water from paper cups. My mother was glaring at us, same threatening look (I guessed we were allowed to die). The hispanic man was so nice to us, I started swaying my opinion about hispanic people at that moment.

I remember him telling my parents that we could have died, yes, we could have died! (little did he know, they could have caused our deaths many times before). I then thought: maybe our new God Jehovah had saved us, yes, I would blame it on him and the nice hispanic man in a uniform. (Later I learned the men were border and immigration patrol agents).

I remember we continued our journey to Ohio, on a train. We were sent to the salvation army for a few days, then boarded a train. Jehovah God was not so bad after all, maybe he could make my parents better, too... (I prayed that he would do so).

I remember the salvation army. They had bunk beds, grey flannel blankets for warmth at night and a hot bowl of soup with a sandwhich (it tasted like life). The time spent there was for just a few days then we boarded a train. We stopped in the state of Illinois, my father's brother Don lived there, we stayed with him for about a week. It was in the summer and a storm came that produced a tornado. We all ("hit the basement") as my father called it. The basement was a root cellar accessed by an outside flip up door. My siblings and I went in first followed by my parents and Uncle. I remember the sounds, my ears popping and the dirt walls and spider webs. There was an old wood shelf lined with glass jars. I remember the tornado took the roof off of my Uncle's home. I was hoping like Dorothy in The Wizard Of Oz we would come out of that hole in the ground some how different and in awe but instead it was just another tragedy that traumatized all of us children, my father thought it was cool and often used the phrase "hit the basement" during future storms, even when we didn't have a basement.

From then on every time it stormed we were afraid. I was scared to death of thunder storms for years after that event. After counciling I no longer fear them, I embrace their beauty but with caution. I also embraced life the same way.

Maybe, just maybe, our new God "jehovah" saved us once again. I was starting to like this new God my mother said was the only (true) God.

14. (Chapter Fourteen)

OUIJA BOARDS AND GRANDMA'S BASEMENT

We soon made it back to Ohio, straight to my father's boyhood home in Dayton, Ohio. He was not really welcomed (with his brood of seven and one more on the way) into his Mother and Stepfather's home of only a few hundred square feet with a small basement but with a promise of only a few days we were once again given refuge in a basement. I started thinking basements had some significant meaning in my life as I grew older.

My parents were still fighting all the time and my father now felt obliged to leave my mother and all his children (after his violent outbursts) with his parents. Father would go out with old school chums from in his day. One of his friends named "Butch", introduced him to a board game called the the ouija board. Even though my mother believed the teachings of the Jehovah's Wittnesses she decided to start dabbling in this game with them (despite the condemnation of such acts by the religion that she was now proclaiming her life to, she was delighting in the mystery surrounding this game).

I can remember several incidences where my father had turned off all the lights in the basement, he lit a candle on the table they were all sitting around. The candle's flicker casted a shadow across the blankets that were hung on ropes to seperate several beds we slept on (like little sardines in cans, three to a bed). We were all spooked, Father always set the tone for demons to be aroused during their game nights or whenever he just wanted to frighten us into submission. They all hummed then they would ask questions to the board, oh there was alcohol involved as well and as the night rolled on the spirits supposedly were directing them into the right direction, so was their alcoholic beverages.I believe their liquor was agreeing with them.

I remember my father's mother finding out what they were doing in her basement and then telling my father he needed to get out and find a job and a home for all of us. She threw a hissy fit about the ouija board being in her home. I believe at this time my mother felt guilty about her betrayal to her new found religious beliefs and she flipped her attitude telling my father she no longer wanted anything to do with the ouija board. She also told him that her mother (who was the only one talking to her) had a friend who had an old farm house in West Milton, Ohio and that he was willing to rent to us, dirt cheap. To get us out of their hair and home my father's parents fronted them the first months rent (I saw Grandma Eva give him the money and tell him he had better not gamble with it).

My grandmother Margaret was working at a printing company in Dayton,Ohio. She ran a collator machine, she was always giving our mother money to help our family (I guess it was the other grandparents turn for a change). I believe over the years Grandmother supplemented our wages with half of her take home pay from her job in Dayton, Ohio.

Grandmother had a horrible accident and almost lost her hand on the machine she operated at work. I can remember that it was on the day we were to move to West Milton and Grandfather called to let my mother know about her mothers accident. He had promised to never have anything to do with her again but here he was calling his daughter. He promised to bring her by to visit soon, after she got better. I thought today, right now would be nice as we had not seen or heard from them in the three months since we had returned to Ohio. I prayed for her to jehovah God.

One memory I ponder on often, Grandmother would always bring us stacks of paper and little yellow pencils dicarded from her place of employment. This left several of my siblings and I with the ability to use our imagination drawing and writing. I actually have several drawings from one of my siblings at just two years of age, she could draw way past the ability of a two year old. My mother had sent it to Grandmother in a letter, it is amazing.

My mother's belly was growing in size with her final child. We had moved into the farm house in West Miltron and started school. I thought things were looking up but soon things would get ugly, again.

15. (Chapter Fifteen)

THE HILLBILLY HICK HURTTS

The house had an old oil heater, a barn and a stream that led to a small pond. The upstairs had several bedrooms. There was only one bathroom. I can remember coming home from school and hearing the pressure cooker hissing on the stove, it sounded like it was mad at my mother for its continued use of suppers, for our family of nine.

It was not long until my father was not paying utilities and rent, again. To avoid paying rent on the home and to be able to stay there without doing so, he devised a plan. It was winter and he busted the water pipes leading to the house with a wrench. He informed the owners that they froze and busted. We no longer had running water to the house, his idealogy was that the stream had running water and that he could flush the toilet with buckets of water retrieved from said stream. He theoroized that baths could be met with heated stream water from the stove and we could borrow drinking water from unsuspecting neighbors, the man should have been an engineer! The owners of the home were retired out West, so in his mind, what could they do?

Our neighbors were elderly on one side of us and we frequented sympathy from them to quench our constant thirst. We often visited Mr. and Mrs. Wertz with empty jugs in tow pleading for water. Mrs. Wertz, a kind woman, often gave the ones who showed up a piece of candy. Her husband was in a wheel chair and often would ask if we would like some pickled pigs feet, to this day I balk at the notion of ever trying pigs feet. They sat in jars on their kitchen counter and their home reeked of vinegar (for pickling, I supposed).

The kids at school could be so cruel, today they call it bullying. We all donned the name "The Hillbilly Hick Hurtts." I guess they got wind of our paltry living conditions and wanted us to know that they knew.

Who wouldn't know, we were only taking baths a few times a week and one of my sisters got a horrible dried scalp condition. I remember pulling dried pieces of her scalp in huge hunks out of her hair, it was awful. Maybe it was caused from sleeping next to the registers for warmth as we often had inadequate bedding and quite frequently slept on the floors, huddled together under blankets next to the dirty floor's registers. The floors were so filthy, we had a beagle that our Grandfather gave to us we named him "Ceaser," his feces and urine was all over the upstairs bedrooms, as well as piles of dirty clothing. Our feet displayed the floors dirty remnents as we often went barefooted (even in the winter). My grandparents would make a huge commotion about our mother allowing us to go shoeless, so on those occasions (when Mother had been made aware that they were going to visit us) she made us put on shoes, even if they did not fit. I remember surprise visits where we scrambled around looking for shoes and trying to hide filthy messes before they knocked on our door. To this day I feel the anxiety that encompassed me waiting for that knock on the door.

After awhile my father disappeared from home. It was just our mother and her pregnant belly and the seven of her children making bad memories in that farm house. My grandparents came by for the first time in awhile. I missed my grandmother so much, I finally got to go with them for a visit at the same little house that I had left several years prior. I told Grandmother everything I could, during that visit. I felt like I could finally breathe life again. I did not tell her about the abuse yet. I told her how we had to take five gallon buckets to the stream and fill them with water, that we used them to flush the toilet and took baths in the water as well. I told her about the beatings Father gave to Mother and how the kids at school said we stunk, I think I cried.

At one point the toilet quit working and backed up, so we were now using one of the buckets to releave ourselves into. We had to carry the nasty filled buckets to the back yard area and dump them, during one of these escapades I fell onto an ice covered rock by the stream and busted my knee wide open. I was not cared for properly, no doctor visit, Mother washed it and pulled it together and taped it shut. My knee got infected, it eventually healed but left a nasty scar for me to always be reminded that my mother did not care, enough.

My mother had me run to the Wertz's house next door to call my grandfather, we didn't have a phone then and she was in labor.

It was in the middle of the night and I was afraid of the dark (I'm no longer afraid of the dark, I embrace it). Both of my grandparents came to our home. Grandfather took her to the hospital and Grandmother stayed behind with all of my siblings and I. My father evidently was traveling back and forth to Michigan, as he had secured some job there and a woman (according to my mother) and without a phone we never knew when he would show up. That was fine by me, when he was not around it was quieter and my mother did not get beat up all the time, I believe my anxiety was even subsiding. My father missed the birth of his new baby boy, his third son, eight children now, all born within ten years. His brood was complete with my mother.

My mother's body would never be the same and neither would my childhood. It was around this time for me that I started feeling really sad all the time and crying in secret. I did not know why I always felt so sad, today they call this depression, back then you were just an insufferable child (at least that is what my parents called me-insufferable). They coined my crying spells as wanting attention, I really just wanted death to overtake my suffering.

16. (Chapter Sixteen)

WHEN GRANDPARENTS STEP IN

Margaret my beloved grandmother, stayed at our home for several days after my mother went to the hospital. My father's mother (named Eva) also stayed and helped out for a few days, they took turns.

The embarrassment I felt at the tender age of ten, our home was not clean. The waste in the bathroom smelled really bad. My grandparents were unaware of how bad our living arrangements really were.

I remember my grandmother (named Margaret) cleaning our filth for an entire day. We had no garbage pick up service (with nine people living in a house that was a lot of trash to be dumped somewhere). There was a place out back that I remember hauling trash too. I remember some of it getting burned in huge piles that made the entire area smell like a dump.

I can remember my poor grandmother trying to make some semblance out of our paltry living conditions. The day she had to fill our tub with water from the creek (so we could take baths) that was the last straw for her. Grandmother contacted my father's mother Eva and they collabarated on what to do. I heard them talking and arguing as well. I think each of them were blaming the others son and daughter but it was really both Mother and Father that were to blame, they constantly fed off of each other.

There was a great deal of difference between my two Grandmother's personalities. Margaret was a classy, soft spoken, career woman with a job that demanded detail.

Eva was a talkative, get to the point and take no prisoners type of personality. She was louder and had a truck driver's vocabulary (when need be). She was a neat freak just like my grandmother (named Margaret) but both of them were in agreement - colluding with one another (something needed to be done about the entire situation).

I can remember my grandmother Eva yelling and cussing like a sailor when she found a diaper pail in the bathroom with maggots in the diapers (this had put her into a tail spin). There is no way one could possibly envision the filth that was in that bathroom. It had wooden floors holding urine smells from little boys who missed the bucket, it had mildew growing on the tub and around the toilet (that room held filth and disease). I really don't know how any of us were spared from getting a serious illness other than God was watching over us, again.

I remember the day my new baby brother came home. I returned home from school on the bus. I ran inside and heard the familiar "hissing" sound of the pressure cooker. My mother was sitting at the table in a robe with a pan of freshly cut potato peelings. I was excited to see our new brother. There he was all layed out, clean and brand new. Mother let me hold him, he smelled like fresh baby lotion, his little mouth puckered into a soft smile. I kissed him but really wanted to cry, not for me but for him (it was going to be a hard way to go for all of us).

My grandfather got involved (as our father had not returned from Michigan). He stepped in with a great deal of concern. Grandfather had a foreman at his place of employment (at NCR in Dayton, Ohio) who had an old house that was just sitting empty in Centerville,Ohio.

Acres of land (behind this old farm house) had just been sold to the "Black Oak Estates" subdivision and they were embarking on building high class housing on the land.

My grandfather's foreman had not decided to sell off the farm house to the developers, just yet. Mr. Richter agreed to let my mother and all of us children take up (temporary) residency in the old house. Mother had been put on a waiting list for a new low income housing development in east Dayton, Ohio. Mother was now studying the bible on a regular basis with the jehovah's wittnesses and had decided to break away from our father for good.

My grandparents helped all of us move into the old (but decent) farm house. I remember the days going by watching the equipment and workers building houses behind us. I never saw such beautiful homes, I often day dreamed about being in a different family with loving parents and having a nice home that we lived in forever, just like the homes being built.

It was around this time my mother started taking all of us with her to the Jehovah's Wittnesses "Kingdom Hall," where they worshipped their God "Jehovah" and held weekly bible study sessions. I remember feeling out of place because everyone there seemed to be dressed really nice, sort of like my grandmother Margaret when I lived with her (several years prior). Here we were a family of nine taking up an entire row of seats and everyone staring at us. I remember that it did give me a sense of belonging, to a place that seemed routine, permanent, safe and holy. I started liking this place and God jehovah, too.

My mother's situation was considered to be of extreme importance within the confines of the witnesses religion. Her particular case was a priority of utmost relevance. Mother had divulged to the elders within the organization about all of the beatings and abuse by her husband and our father. She told them she was in constant fear for her and her childrens lives. (I believe she relished her new found protectors who were guiding her into the divorce courts). However, Mother failed to tell them the whole truth. She excluded the beatings she gave to me for no reason, using belts, hair pulling and switches. The nasty nose bleeds I suffered through, caused by her back handed discipline. The torturous emotional abuse she constantly spit at me, telling me I was worthless and would never amount to anything. My constant baby sitting of my siblings and taking me out of school to do so (causing my grades to fall). She failed to tell them that she did nothing when I told her some of the really nasty things that my father did to me under her care (yes, she failed me, once again).

17. (Chapter Seventeen)

BANG YOUR FIRST

Our father moved back into our lives at the temporary house we now called home. One day he showed up and my mother buckled, she allowed him to stay, mostly out of fear. They were never discreet about their romps together and it wasn't long until I figured out how we all came to be. However this time it sounded scary and I heard Mother crying. I heard my father telling her to shut up, too.

My mother was preparing to be baptized as one of jehovah's wittnesses. I really believe for a short period of time she tried really hard to be a mother to me, guided by Gods hand. I felt her desire to have someone to help her and I did. I helped around the house, with my brothers and sisters and baby sitting. I comforted my siblings when my father went on one of his rampages. I often hurried them up the stairs to the attic in the farm house to take solace until he was through punching walls and our mother's body. I would also help her in court (but that will be revealed later).

I was growing older and started showing my age. (I remember my father making comments that were inappropriate, about my growth spurts). I told my mother about his comments and things he did in front of me (especially when I bathed). She confronted him for the first time in my life pertaining to my allegations. He lied and said I was being untruthful (Father, you are crazy and a liar, may jehovah God strike you dead).

My mother came home one Sunday afternoon from a meeting a the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses. My father had stayed home with all of us children. One of my siblings said to him "mommy is vorcing you" (enunciating the word divorce incorrectly). My father figured out what he was trying to say. Father started drilling me for answers. He wanted to know if our mother was divorcing him. I told him I did not know and acted like I didn't know what divorce was. Suddenly he became restless and kept watching the time on a clock hanging above a mantel in the living room. The same mantel that also had a rifle lying on it as well as bullets for the rifle. He knew what time that meeting was over and he was lying in wait (like a lion waiting for its prey).

I remember feeling scared, I remember him saying everything was my fault, I remember the moment my mother walked in the back door. Father ambushed her and grabbed her by her hair. He yelled and cussed and threatened, the word divorce coming out of his fist into Mother's face. I remember him threatening to kill all of us. I remember him picking up a rocking chair (that Grandmother gave to us) he smashed it into the wall then threw it down the dark basement steps. I remember Mother running from him out the door to go get help. I remember him locking the door behind her as she left. I remember me and all of my siblings crying, scared and huddled together in the living room as he spit past his teeth with rage and hatred targeting me and my mother. I remember that he was yelling to her out the window, that he was going to kill all of us. I remember him yelling at her to get back in the house or we were all dead. (I remember, that is the problem).

I was older and started siding with my mother, I felt compelled to help her, I had seen too many beatings in my short twelve years on this earth and I forgave her at this point for all she had done to me (well) almost all, but that part will come later. I think this was the first time I prayed using jehovah God's name..."Please! jehovah! help us!" I recited in my thoughts, over and over.

The next sequence of events is what has partly (in theory) left me with PTSD, as an adult.

My father went for the rifle placing bullets into it. I can still hear the racking noise as the bullets went in, the metal sound that the rifle made. I can still see the sweat on his brow, his red face, hearing his words "Line up all of you!...Vickie, your first and the oldest and I never did like you, anyway!" He raised the rifle to my face. I froze in total fear, his finger was on the trigger and I saw his teeth as he closed one eye to focus all of his hate into my soul down the barrel of that rifle. I was looking into the darkness of my life as I waited to die. I got dizzy, it was at this moment I releaved my self all over the floor. My pain, suffering and fear left me, just like that, into a huge wet spot beneath my soul. Father lowered the rifle and he started half crying and laughing (at the same time). He sounded like a hyena (to this day, even though I'm an avid animal lover, I dislike the hyena. Its laugh and cry reminds me of him and that life can be cut short and that evilness can hide behind that laughter, as it devours you).

My father then instructed me to clean up my mess. I stood there feeling surreal, was I alive or was this death? My fear spread out below me in a puddle on the floor and stuck in my pants and he wanted me to clean it up? I was in complete shock for a few minutes. He then screamed at me I better clean up my filthy mess or he really would shoot me. "I must be alive!" I thought to myself. Jehovah God, he saved us again! I cleaned my mess with a mop, but the rest stayed in my pants as a stinking reminder.

My mother had called law enforcement at a neighbor's house (she was unaware of the events that had just taken place inside our home). Some of my evidence had been mopped and cleaned away. The threats made by our father were (that we had better not tell anyone about what had just happened) oh they were revealed, but only in my thoughts. He scared me too much to utter a word, my entire life would be affected by that one act of hatred by him.

Father left before the officers arrived (a complete coward he was). I wanted to tell them what he did to me, I wanted to tell them everything, but my fear took over and I almost wet myself again (this my therapist and I believe) was the beginning of my anxiety, depressin and PTSD, that has never left my side

My mother talked to me after the officers left. I cried hysterically and told her what had happened. I told her my under pants were soiled. My mother then smacked me because I did not tell the police officer, I just wanted to run away. "Why didn't you tell the policeman what he did?" she yelled at me. I thought to myself, I should have told him what you both have done. I was devestated but felt strong within myself, I felt God was protecting me.

18. (Chapter Eighteen)

IN CHAMBERS AND JUDGED

~a weariness followed me, I could not see light, darkness held my hand, I feared the wolves, their fangs always sharp and white, whether happy or mad, It shall be so, that hunger, always, over takes the wolf, I shall devise a plan~

My father had a huge sugar craving that my mother always appeased. She did this by making fudge for my father (the recipe was on the back of the Hershey's Cocoa box). I remember watching her boiling the sugary confection on the stove, then smearing it onto a blue melmac plate. The plate had become scarred over the years from the knife cuttting into the fudge with earnest. The pan was then scavenged by all of her children, we scraped the hardened fudge from the sides of the pan with spoons. Father would eat almost the entire plate of fudge and we rarely got a true helping for ourselves. For some reason he would always fall asleep after he consumed a huge helping (later it was found out he had diabetes). I became a fill in fudge maker, when my mother was unable to do so and there is reason for revealing this that will come later in my story.

My mother had contacted a detective at the local police department. Our father did not return after his violent escapade. The detective asked her to bring me in to talk to them. I was scared to death, as if some how it was all my fault (as I was often told everything was my fault, by both of my parents).

I told the detective what Father did to me. I also remember accompanying my mother to a courtroom to talk to a Judge in his chambers. I told the Judge what Father did to me, including the nasty things he did in front of me when I bathed. I did not tell him that my mother was abusing me, as well. I probably should have, but as I said earlier I felt compelled to help my mother and here I was doing just that.

I remember my mother talking to someone about devising a plan to get him back to our home (evidently he had gone back to Michigan and the authorities wanted him).

My grandparents paid to have a telephone connected to our home (after the violent incident they needed to feel reassured that we could call for help, if need be. I remember the Judge signed an order to have him picked up and he was to be committed to the Dayton State Hospital for psychiatric evaluation, but getting him was another story.

My grandmother (named Eva) my father's mother was conversing with my mother over the telephone (evidently Father was in town visiting her) Mother asked to speak to him. I then heard only my mothers side of the conversation. She was wooing him to come home (he had no idea that she was setting a trap for him in concert with the authorities and the state hospital. I remember her telling him everything sounded good and that she loved him. After Mother hung up the telephone she started crying ( I believe she really still loved him and that she was scared at this point) but she picked up the phone again and called the detective despite her fear. I heard her tell the detective that Father was coming over the following evening for supper and to have a talk with her. I once again was scared for all of us. How could I look this monster in the face and pretend that I loved him? after all, that is what Mother wanted (for me to pretend that I loved him and that I was not afraid of him). Dear Mother, you are wrong on both accounts, but to snare a wolf (you need to first entice his hunger) and she did. He was coming for a visit.

I was only twelve years old and already felt fifty and then some.

19. (Chapter Nineteen)

STRAIGHT JACKETS AND ONE SIZE FITS ALL

My mother had informed me and told me not to tell anyone (including my siblings) that a sheriffs deputy was coming to our house as soon as my father arrived at our home. Mother was to call them when he got there. He was being arrested for the things he had done. Mother asked me ahead of time to help her. I was to keep him occupied while she made the call to the sheriff's department from the kitchen telephone, he would be unaware with her making the call while the telivision was blaring and his catatonic state after a full meal. I agreed to her plan and felt prompted to do the best I could. The way it all came about is a disgusting thing but it would work, I was sure.

(When I went through much needed counciling a few years back, my therapist Joyce Lewis encouraged me to tell my story. She was actually an internist at the State Hospital in Dayton,Ohio and remembered my father. She helped me tremendously and the next sequence of events (she claimed) caused the birth of my PTSD).

My father arrived at our home on a hot summer evening. I could tell he was paranoid, I was scared but played the part, for Mother. He willingly ate dinner and wanted all of us at the table together. I remember thinking to myself as he lovingly sat with us that this was a snapshot in time, a moment that I wished for my entire life (a family gathered around a table for dinner) we even prayed while holding hands. But it was just a sudo moment (for who does not make merry unless to stake a claim in their own mind, that they did no wrong). After dinner Father went to the living room with just our mother, I ushered my siblings up the stairs to the attic bedroom, they protested and I could not tell them why they needed to go, for they (I believed) had a sliver of hope after the quiet and delicious dinner we all shared. The hope for a better family life, but that was to be short lived. I told them mother asked me to make them stay up in the attic until she had a private talk with our father and me, they did what they were asked, for awhile anyway.

I remember my father yelling for me to come to the living room, I instantly had a panic attack. (There was a certain thing that he religiously had us do for him, it was disgusting but we learned to take on the dirty deed. He would lie on the floor (shirtless) and make us pop his blackheads and pimples on his back (he often was only wearing his boxer shorts). We would straddle his back and he'd just lie there, sometimes falling asleep while we did this disgusting thing for him.

When I arrived to the living room he first talked to me about what had happened involving the rifle, he apologized to me (I felt it was insincere). So I then thought to myself, if you want to play daddy dearest so can I.

I asked him if he wanted me to give him a back massage (I balked at the idea, but I knew I had to keep him occupied and out of a birds eye view of our drive way) he then said "yep and while your at it get my zits." He layed down on the floor facing the front door.

I saw my mother peek around the corner, she banged dishes around in the kitchen as if she was really busy. Oh how my head spun with fear, every pimple I popped soon became ones that were not there (to buy more time). I started having flash backs about what this man had done to me for the first twelve years of my life and I got more determined to see him go to jail.

The living room had a front porch, it was large, as old farm house porches often were back then. It also had a back door that led to a screened in-porch. The driveway was gravel and a fair way from the road. The front door was open and (from where I was strattled on my father's back) I could see the driveway. I remember seeing the sheriff's deputies car pulling into our front yard..."oh they are smart" I thought to myself, for he would surely have heard the gravel cracking under their wheels in the driveway. Then another sheriff's car followed into the yard, plus an ambulance. My gut twisted into knots. My siblings saw this from the upstairs windows and descended just in time to see our father as he was read his rights and placed into a straight jacket. The deputies just walked right up to the unlocked door and walked right in. Father was ambushed and his only words were " I hate you." Well guess what father, the feeling is mutual. He also screamed my mother's name over and over and making threats towards everyone (this was all traumatizing for all of us). From summer thru fall times were quieter but come winter that would change.

20. (Chapter Twenty)

I BELIEVE IN GOD BECAUSE OF THE DEVIL

It was some time during the winter (a few months after our father had been hauled away) and it had snowed. The snow was beautiful and I remember my mother telling all of us to stay inside the house. I dont know many children who would not want to go out and play in the snow, building snowmen and having snow ball fights or sledding, but despite the temptation that beckoned our youth, we were told to stay inside. Maybe it was a Mother's intuition that prompted her insistence.

I heard Mother talking to someone on the telephone about moving into our low income apartment in Dayton, Ohio. The apartment was nearly ready and it was not too soon, because we were going to be asked to leave the house we were staying in. I remember Mother making us pack some things into boxes, we did not have much and what we did have was really not worth saving (in my opinion).

(To this very day material things don't mean anything to me. I feel people put too much of their time and energy into collecting things, instead of making memories. I know quite a few people who are like that. They hide behind their pocessions, almost like they are trying to hide who they (really) are, and where they (really) began in life.

(The next sequence of events is like something out of a net flix horror movie).

The telephone rang, Mother was in the bathroom, she yelled for me to answer the call (none of us were ever allowed to use the phone or answer it unless we were told we could do so). I answered the telephone and the woman on the other end asked for Mother, I told her she was busy (the woman said it was an "emergency" and that she was calling from the Dayton State Hospital). I yelled for Mother, she came right away. I remember my mothers reaction talking to the woman (Mother had a nervous habit where she would wince her eye over and over, when she got nervous) and her eye at the moment was maddening. When Mother hung up the phone she started to call my grandparents, I remember looking up and seeing a mans face at the back screen door. He had a full beard, a dark coat and a stocking hat on. Our eyes met and I instantly knew it was my father, I screamed at mother and she dropped the telephone, he busted thru the door and pulled the phone out of the wall. The woman from the State Hospital had been trying to get ahold of Mother to tell her our father had escaped the hospital grounds during an outside excercise, they saw him drive off with someone who picked him up. I was about to faint from utter fear, but kept my sanity, so I could survive. I saw the devil in my father's eyes. I also knew God was stronger and smarter than the devil and God was on my side.

My father immediately started after my mother chasing her down into the living room. Out of utter fear (I hurried my siblings up the stairs). I remember trying to figure a way out of the upstairs attic window, but it was covered with snow and had a very steep pitch. I could hear our father hitting our mother and screaming at her, at the top of his lungs. His screams and rage barely drowned out Mothers own screams and pleas. "Please stop!" she begged over and over, then I heard the words "I'm going to kill you." I was breathing so hard I could hear my breath telling my heart to calm down, but the the devil had returned, to attempt death upon us (I prayed to Jehovah God).

There were no weapons in the house, the police had confiscated Father's rifle when they arrested him back in the late summer. I heard father looking thru the silverware drawer in the kitchen, he found a butcher knife (the same knife he had thrown at us, as we ran from him during a prior incident (it had almost hit my little sister). I could hear him rummaging thru that drawer and knew he had found it, because Mother kept begging "dear Jehovah, please no."

I was at the bottom of the stairs standing behind a locked door that led directly into the kitchen. The lock was accessed by a skeleton key that locked several interior doors. Father had confiscated those keys when he broke into the house, they hung on a hook by the back door (the same skeleton key also locked the back door that led to the screened in porch). He had locked all of us chidren upstairs, after we all scrambled there for safety. I was listening to everything thru the kitchen door (my siblings were hiding in the attic bedroom, scared out of their minds). I heard him telling my mother that before the night was over he was going to "kill" all of us, including himself. I started trying to think of ways to escape the devil.

21. (Chapter Twenty One)

SWEEPER CORDS AND SUGAR FIXES

I knew I could not go for help from the window and Father would hear me if I yelled for help and besides the neighbors were too far away to hear me. I devised a plan of getting sick to use the only bathroom in the house right off of the kitchen. It had to work, I thought to myself. I no longer heard my mother or father and this scared me to death. I gently knocked on the door and asked If I could go to the toilet. I said that I was very sick to my stomach and that I had diarrhea. At first I heard no reply. I said "please" about three times and then I heard the key go into the door. My father was standing there, his beard was gone (he must have been donning a fake beard, when he rushed in the back door). He was sweating really bad, his hair was slicked back and his hands looked red. "Hurry up, you little witch, I'm keeeping an eye on you," he said. I quickly assessed my surroundings, as I scampered to the bathroom (I didn't notice the sweeper that was sitting next to the boxes we had packed earlier). I turned on the faucet to the bathroom sink and ever so gently slurpped up a mouth full of water. I then groaned and forcefully spat the water into the toilet, making it sound like I just vomited. I then rubbed my face really hard to make it red and put some water on my hair. When I exited the bathroom father looked at me and said "you look really sick, good, maybe you'll be one less brat I'll need to off tonite." I did not know what that meant at the time, off was a word to me that meant the opposite of on. I then asked him if I could lie on the bed in the living room (there was a mattress on the living room floor) he said "no" but, that I could lie on the floor next to my Mother, he said it with an intonation of arrogancy. I genuinely thought she was already dead. He shoved me to the living room, my mother was lying on the floor in a fetal position, her arms and legs were tightly bound with our electric sweeper's black cord. She had a swollen cheek and blood was dried on her ear. I was panic stricken. I laid down next to her, I cried and felt helpless. Our father layed down on the mattress next to me and mother. His arm was lifted up over his forehead and he was staring up at the ceiling (a position that I had seen him take to, many times, over the years and I knew it meant he was getting tired. He was half crying, half laughing, like a hyena (again). The same way he laughed during the prior incident (when he had held the rifle to my head).

He kept mumbling that it was all our fault and that we had him put in that cage (The State Hospital). He kept saying he didn't want to live anymore and that we were a family and that we were all going with him, to hell. He then kept saying over and over, "look what you made me do, you witches." I asked him after he calmed down if I could have some water, he really believed I was sick. At this point he didn't think I was going anywhere (I couldn't anyway, he had the keys lying next to him on the mattress, under his guard) and the only way out was the back door thru the kitchen. The front door was barricaded with packed boxes and he had pushed the mattress up against them.

I knew I had to do something, my mother whispered to me several times while I was lying next to her (for the first time in my life I felt so very sorry for her). She was asking for help and said she was dizzy. My father said I could go get a glass of water, he told me to bring him a glass as well.

Mother had made some fudge the night before, there was not much left, just crumbs. Grandmother had stopped by earlier in the day with a huge box of chocolate covered turtle candies. It was close to the holidays and she always bought us sweets for Christmas (usually our father would hoard them and not let us have any) but since he was not there this time, Mother had stashed the big box of turtles in the cupboard. I had a plan.

"Would you like some candy turtles as well, Father?" I asked. He yelled back at me saying "bring the whole box!" That disgusting man laid on the mattress while gorging himself with chocolate candy, while my mother winced in pain on the floor next to me, tied up like an animal. He claimed it was his (last meal) before his suicide (I hoped he would just choke to death on the candy, instead).

22. (Chapter 22)

NO INJECTION NO PROBLEMS

My father soon went into a deep sleep...he was snoring. The sugar from the fudge made him go into a diabetic coma. He had been diagnosed with diabetes when he was evaluated at the state hospital. He was now unable (if I was really careful) to hear me as I retrieved the key to the back door. I remember shaking, sweating and holding my breath as I shimmied my body across the wood floors to where he was lying on the mattress (that was on the floor). I reached up between each breath that resembled a snore. I finally retrieved the key. I quickly but quietly went to the kitchen and quickly placed the key into the lock on the doorknob. I then went back into the living room crawling on my hands and knees, he woke up! "What are you doing?" he asked with a half awake grumbling sound. "I need to go to the bathroom, I feel sick again", I replied. "Hurry up!" he griped. I then went back to the kitchen to the bathroom, I pretended to use the facilities but actually put my mother's shoes by the back door and turned the key to unlock the door. I then went back to the living room and layed down next to her. After a few minutes Father started snoring again. I then found a way to loosen Mother's bound arms and legs. We were scared to death but I helped her during another one of my fake stints to use the toilet, she literally scooted on her stomach, below my legs, to the kitchen. There were no lights in the living room and the only light visible was the porch light that illuminated the kitchen thru the back door. Mother put her shoes on cockeyed and grabbed a coat, we were out that door so fast, (I thought I heard a starting pistol used for races we ran so fast).

It had snowed and it was really cold. I remember seeing beneath the moon lit sky (my mother's busted up face). We ran to a neighbors and screamed for help. Someone finally came to our aid and called the authorities. The monster ran again, back to Michigan. We were united (once again) with our grandparents. We stayed with my grandparents for several days, as well as with friends (of Mothers) from the Kingdom Hall Of Jehovah's Witnesses. One of Mother's sisterly friends kindness was felt during that time as well as at a later date (when something really bad happened) to me, but that will come later in my story.

23. (Chapter Twenty Three)

HOPES SHATTERED AND SECRETS REVEALED

We finally moved into our low income apartment in Dayton, Ohio. It seemed really nice at first. It was brand new and had four bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. There was a small kitchen and a half bathroom downstairs, as well as a small living room. There was also a small basement, big enough for a washer and a dryer and a small area for storage (not much else).

Our apartment was in a courtyard, so it got its name (Mount Crest Court Apartments). It would not take long before it filled up with new residents, human and otherwise. I was familiar with the kind of despicable vermin that were taking up residence behind our walls and furniture. There is nothing worse than opening a cupboard or door and having a cockroach jump at you or slither away to its hiding place - behind your food or dishes. Or a mouse leaving it's daily droppings scattered across your counter tops and floors.

But I was thankful that we were (in my mind's eye) far away from our father. So we settled in with Grandmother's help. She gave us a new couch, curtains, dishes, lamps, beds and the works. We even had a telephone. I'm sure all the pests were lying in wait to take up residency in our new furnishings. Grandmother even used her sears credit card to order a new washer and dryer for us (she did this in secret behind Grandfather's back) and told mother she was not to let him know.

We also started going to a new Kingdom Hall Of Jehovah's Witneses in Dayton. It was a little over (one and a half miles) from our apartment to the kingdom hall and because we did'nt have a car (at first) we hoofed it to every meeting. We also had to walk to school everyday (it was two miles to school). I guess you could say we got our daily exercise whether we wanted to or not. During those days, hunger festered in my belly.

I remember the first day at Orville Wright Middle School. There were several kids that went to the same school from our circle of religious friends (brothers and sisters) was the correct calling, according to the witness religion. I hated going to school, we had no routine at home. We were never under a structured atmosphere for advancement in education. Mother never encouraged us to do our home work.

After we settled into our apartment, I started noticing our Mother was always asleep on the living room couch (this was during the late afternoons when we arrived home from school). The drapes were always drawn shut and the only light was from the front door when it opened. "Shut the **** door and get upstairs" she would yell. We spent a good bit (of our existence) upstairs, in that stinking apartment.

Eight children in a small space was bound to cause conflicts, but I was not prepared for the things that were taking place (upstairs and eventually in the basement). I was the oldest and always watching over everyone. I started noticing some abusive actions between several of my siblings. There was hitting, cussing and the unthinkable being performed by a sister. I saw things that were actually against the law, both mans and Gods law. I told my Mother what was going on and she did nothing! I told my Grandmother as well. This is where the saying "Grandma Knows" came from, in our family.

SIDE NOTE: ((There is no excuse, like a good excuse, that an adult person would tell a relative that the acts of sibling abuse was all done because, "they were just little kids." "Hog wash!" I say. A person who is nearly fourteen years old and does things like that to their siblings is not within the mind or scope of a little kid and there are kids that are fourteen years old that are doing time in juvenile detention for the same things)). Because my sister knew I had told on her, she started hiding her dirty deeds. She denied what she did, but God and I saw it (to this very day, several of my siblings have talked to me about what had happened to them and how it has profoundly affected them as adults, me as well). After some time she started despising me for coming forward. I was thirteen and at (or near) this age, one is at a culpable age to know right from wrong. If she had been found out, I'm sure she would have been punished by the law. But our little family of horror and secrets continued on, under the guise of our (Jehovah Witness Mother).

I can truly say I felt lost and totally different than my siblings. Several of my sisters got caught shoplifting at a store downtown. They and the two girls that lived across from us (that had befriended them) skipped school together, caught the RTA bus and got busted. My mother, once again did nothing. It was a constant pattern with her, she seemed to have favorites among her brood of children (I never was one of them). She also had nicknames for all of us. She hardly called us by our names, I can hear her now: "Queenie, Boogerface, Byler Pig, Pisamaw, Ann"O" and Ding A Ling, Buzzard and Petunia." I can't understand a Mother giving her children such degrading nicknames. She also had a violent temper, she would snap at a moments notice (I always thought my father was the only one who was violent). Looking back, I now believe there was a collaboration between my parents amongst their many outbursts and fights, especially after witnessing my mothers emotional and physical abuse towards me. I recall the time she took a belt to my brother's bare back. The belt's strap was not good enough, she turned to the buckle instead. It left bruises all over him, he was just a little boy.

I also recall the time she and a couple of my sisters went with her and my grandmother to our monthly grocery store event, spending her monthy allotment of food stamps. (Grandmother always took her on these exasperating and embarrasing food runs).

On one particular grocery run Mother left me in charge of my siblings so we could clean the fridge, the bathrooms and the kitchen, while she was gone. My mother always put on airs surrounding her motherly abilities, while in my grandmother's presence. So when Grandmother arrived to pick her and a few of my siblings up, they immediately ran out the door straight to Grandmother's waiting car.The apartment was a disaster and Mother wanted it in "ship shape" she said," by the time they arrived back home with the groceries" (which often took several hours). It seemed she didn't want Grandmother to see our filthy apartment.

I remember my little sister Angela assuming the task of cleaning the living room (tile) floors, straightening up and dusting, etc. We usually used a bucket with clorox water and a mop to clean the tile floors. It seemed everyone in our complex relied on the power of clorox to clean with. There was always a fog and aroma surrounding each apartment of clorox or pine-sol. To this day I hate the smell they both promise to deliver.

Angela seemed proud of herself as she pulled back a throw rug to clean under it with her clorox soaked mop. She had found a dead mouse, it had met its demise under our blue rug that Grandmother gave to us. She was about ten years old and screamed about it. I can remember it like it was yesterday. I was cleaning out the fridge and ran to the living room. She put it in a plastic bag to show it to our mother, like a prized catch. She then proceeded to clean everything in the room and did a great job.

24. (Chapter Twenty Four)

STANDING UP TO THE MONSTER

When my grandmother and Mother arrived home with all the groceries, Mother entered the apartment first, she scoped it out, with her critical eye. When Grandmother entered behind her she saw the dead mouse in the bag, it was lying on a table by the front door. The over powering smell of clorox hovered in the air when the door opened (I'm certain the neighbors could smell that it was cleaning day, for us).

Grandmother gave a startled little yell and asked, "what in the world is that?" Angela started to explain how she had cleaned the floors and found it smashed under the rug, she didn't get to finish because my mother raised her hand and smacked her so hard across the face that from where I was standing, I could feel her pain. Angela immediately cried, I approached my mother and told her she had better not ever hit her again. The welt on her face left a hand imprint. My grandmother was horrified at this action and for the first time I believe she was aware of the abuse. She scolded my mother's actions and after carrying in the rest of our groceries, she left upset.

My grandmother was a God fearing woman, but at that moment I believe she feared my mother, even more.

Mother immediately confronted me and Angela, she pulled Angela's hair so hard that the roots could be heard popping under her scalp. "How dare you embarrass me like that you little brat!" I then confronted Mother and told her I was going to call the elders and tell them what she had done. She lunged towards me and told me..."If you can get to the phone Queenie." My heart hurt for my sister and for my brother's as well, I relented out of fear.

25. (Chapter 25)

FORCED INTO HER RELIGION

I can truly say that I started feeling very depressed around this time. My mother insisted that I study with a brother from the kingdom hall and become baptized. I felt in my mind's eye that she only wanted notoriety from her brothers and sisters at the kingdom hall, if at least one of her children were to become baptized, she must be a good Mother. If they only knew what horrors happened in our home, but I was afraid to tell.

I began believing that if I got baptized (somehow she would love me). So I studied really hard and eventually passed the series of questions that is required of one to become baptized. The young brother who studied with me weekly (what the witnesses call a bible study) formed a crush on me. He was five years older than me and we became friends. He would sometimes stop by our apartment and take my mother on errands, as she didn't have a car (many times I would ride along). Eventually, I started confiding in him about certain things. I talked to him as we walked door to door with the watchtower and awake magazines. Brother Mark took some of my concerns to the elders, I believe our mother was counciled about the things I told him she had done to me.

I remember the day I got baptized, I felt proud of myself, but of course my mother made it all about her. It was she that insisted I become a good christian, It was she that groomed me into sainthood, It was she that caused my blooming beauty, It was she that.., you get the picture, right? While all along at home she was an abusive monster. She had a certain jealousy towards me. She would pit my brothers and sisters against me. She would make me sit next to her and then ask one of them to tell her who had the longest eye lashes, the longest hair, etc.., It made me feel humiliated to say the least. I guess becoming baptized in her religion was just another way to cover her abuse towards me. At this point in time I hated her and God for allowing her to continue to hurt me.

26. (Chapter Twenty Six)

IT'S TIME FOR SILENCE TO BE HEARD

(I remember the day I sat in my room after being baptized and wondered if God knew all the things that had happened and were continuing to take place in our home. I started reflecting on the moments that would cause me to have PTSD, depression and anxiety. The day my father wanted to kill me and my siblings with his rifle, the times he placed pillows over our faces until we begged for a breath. The time his crazy idea of covering our faces with a fresh batch of plaster (with straws in our noses for breathing and vaseline on our face so the plaster wouldn't stick). The casts of our features that alledgedly would make him rich. The times he made inappropriate comments and gestures towards me. The times I saw him beat our mother to a pulp. The times my mother emotionally abused me. The times she displayed abuse through her words and actions towards my siblings and I felt helpless to help. The time I saved her life and she turned around and continued to knock me to the ground. The time she pulled me out of school permanently. The times she cut my long hair off and pulled my clothing off in front of my brothers. All the inappropriate conduct between several of my siblings that she allowed to continue. The time she whipped me with a broom handle across my back, because I went to the elders about her jehovah witness boyfriend and all the other times in-between, but it was not over just yet).

I begged God to help me, I was baptized now, so he had to, right?

(To find out what happened that caused my being beat with a broom handle you can read my book...JEHOVAH WITNESSED ALL MY SUFFERING... here, on poetry soup.

THIS MEMOIR TO BE CONTINUED....SOON.

~~Falling Down The Rabbit Hole~~

she tricked him,
she baited her,
her soft steps,
leaving no trail,

when she ran off,
the only thing they saw,
was her,
bunny tail,

her intentions were hidden,
a clever disguise,
masked beneath,
her evil human eyes,

she was determined,
to take them all,
the big ones,
but especially the small,

after all, who could argue,
when the bunny wiggled her nose,
a carrot for them,
hidden beneath her clothes,

mesmerized and unaware,
sisters and brothers,
she didn't care,
all caught in her bunny lair,

her cute disguise,
surrounded her designs,
spoiling them,
she hid maggots and flies,

hopping away,
claiming no such tale,
the bunny thinks,
she covered her trail,

but children grow up,
no longer believing,
in fairy tales so ugly,
or a sister so deceiving~~~

~ Children Begin By Loving Their Parents; After A Time They Judge Them; Rarely, If Ever, Do They Forgive Them...Oscar Wilde.

"And I haven't written the worst parts yet." Vickie Thayer

..........................................to be cont.

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