Worse

More child abuse memories are coming back very clearly. Just writing them down to get them out of my brainspace.

My mom always hated that I bit my nails. From what I know, I started when I was four years old after an incident where my mom accidentally cut my nails too short and it hurt. Anyway, looking back I realized this incident had nothing to do with me biting my nails. I had not a clue and still don't know what my mom was actually upset about that day, but she decided she was going to make her anger about the fact that I was biting my nails. We were at church a lot, often after hours. I remember this was at the new building we had built for the church. I don't remember who I was with, but we were in the sanctuary and the lights were off. The only source of light came from the setting sun through the windows way up overhead. We were messing around on the piano. It seemed like she burst in out of nowhere. I think she screamed at me. I think the other kids scattered. I was paralyzed. She took my hand and bit my fingers, hard. I was bleeding from my fingers. I screamed and cried and begged her to stop. She snapped and told me to shut up. I don't know what made her stop. I remember she dragged me to the bathroom and made me wash my bloody fingers in the sink. She threatened me to stop crying or things were going to get worse.

Sorry, this is really upsetting, I know. It doesn't seem real, but I know this happened. I know I didn't make this up.

The most upsetting part is I distinctly remember someone saw. There was at least one adult who walked in on this. They did nothing. They didn't stop it. They didn't speak up for me. They did nothing. Maybe that's why my mom stopped and made me get cleaned up, though. I'll never know why that adult didn't help me. Maybe this is why I always play the protector now that I'm an adult. Someone should stand up for the helpless.

Here's another thing I remember. I was in Kindergarten. I was practicing my letters with Mrs. Pesce (I think that's how you spelled her name). She came by and marked my paper with a "C" for correct. When I got home and my mom saw this, she thought I had gotten a "C" letter grade. God, that's so absurd. First of all, who even gives Kindergartners letter grades? Second of all, who in their right mind would think a teacher would give a Kindergartner a "C" for their letters? Yet again I have to assume this had nothing to do with my "C" and I don't know what my mom was really upset about. Anyway, she beat me for this. The next day, we were practicing our letters again, and yet again Mrs. Pesce casually marked my paper with a "C." I burst into tears. Mrs. Pesce was a legendary Kindergarten teacher. I will fight anyone with my fists who tries to argue with me on this point. Anyway, she took me aside in the middle of class and asked me what was wrong. I didn't tell her my mom was hitting me. I never told other adults that. I think I knew it was wrong and my mom would get in trouble for it. I told her I'd be in trouble and I was sobbing in the hallway. Mrs. Pesce knew what was up. She informed the school counselor right away. I don't know how soon after that the meeting was called. I felt so small in that big, yellow-lit room surrounded by adults around the table who grilled me, with my mom present, about what had happened. I knew how to play this. I lied. I told them I was lying and nothing was going on. Sometimes I feel angry that adults didn't protect me when they had the chance, and then I look at this situation and realize that sometimes they really didn't have a chance. They had nothing to go off of. This is what abused children do. This is part of how the cycle continues.

On the ride home my mom screamed at me and threatened me. She asked me if I wanted to get taken away and put in a foster home and taken away from my little brother. Of course, I didn't. I learned my lesson at 5 years old. You never, ever tell other people your mom is beating you because if you do then worse things will happen.