When your earliest memories are all instances of physical, mental, or emotional abuse, it tends to lay a foundation for a very questionable and shaky existence. I had no idea that the life I was born into, and subsequently taught to live, was one built on sand—constantly being washed or eroded away. I had never witnessed or been shown anything different. When pieces of foundation later began washing away from underneath me, the lifelong programming had already been well establish to believe that it was the winds fault, the rains fault, a fault of anything or anyone but mine. I learned at an early age to point the finger at anything else instead of just simply learning to lay a new foundation. What was witnessed as a child was that as soon as sand began to slip away in my mother’s world, we in turn became the game pieces used to continue her narrative and find a scapegoat for her problems.
It is a few years after my experience in the church basement, and I am sitting at the table that occupies our kitchen. Above the sink is a large window where you can see a far-reaching stretch of lawn that meets the neighbors cornfield to the east of our farmhouse. In the back corner of the kitchen is a stereo with a record player, reserved for times when things are good between my parents, and we listen to Patsy Cline on Sundays while my mom makes pancakes. However, today was not one of those mornings.
My mother, with freshly washed hair stepped into the kitchen. She had on a vintage brown vest with a tan satin back, perfectly paired with a brown plaid button down shirt, and a new pair of jeans. That morning was eerily quiet and there was a heaviness in the air—its source I couldn’t pinpoint. I follow my mom out of the house and down the worn wooden steps that my dad built when we first moved there years before. The soft crunch of dirt and pea gravel echoed softly beneath my mothers cowboy boots as we walked to the large brown station wagon that sat in the drive next to our house. The fog lingered just below the tree tops as we drove in silence to a strange office building I had never seen before. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew it must be important because of the way my mom was dressed. I just couldn’t figure out why no one else was with us.
We entered a large brick building filled with chairs lining the walls and artificial potted plants that were all blanketed in a light layer of dust. Harsh florescent lighting softly hummed overhead. Immediately uncomfortable in this environment, my palms began to sweat. I hear my mom’s name called from a distant corner of this space and we are ushered into the office of a peculiar man I had never seen before. I still could not figure out where I was or what I was doing there. But something inside of me so desperately wanted to believe it was special—just me, being there with my mom, in her “nice” clothes. Something deep inside of me knew however, that this was not the case, and in that moment everything changed.
The man pulls a polaroid camera from a drawer and sets it on top of the walnut colored desk at his side. In a gentle, yet patronizing voice I’m told to stand next to my “mommy” so he can take our photo. (We do not call my mom, “mommy”.) My mom crouches down to match my height and he tells me to smile. I hold my hands together in front of my waist and do my best to look up towards the camera. I’ve always struggled to make eye contact with men.
I was a painfully shy kid. I made a point to remain as quiet as possible, be as polite as possible, and stay out of sight as much as possible. I think that’s the way my mom preferred her kids—at least her daughters anyway.
My hair was dark brown and thick, always cut into a blunt bob at my shoulders with a scraggly set of bangs just above my eyebrows. I had always hated my hair like this, but my mother was my stylist and she didn’t take requests. My smile was noticeably crooked, revealing just one dimple on my right cheek. I was always proud of the fact that I had just one dimple—something that made me slightly unique, but subtle enough to not draw too much attention. A flash bursts and the mechanical whirring of the camera fills the room as a photo is released into the strange man’s hand.
The confusion surrounding why I’m standing in this stale room with its invasive overhead lighting quickly turns to terror when I’m told I need to undress. In his condescending voice, he explains that he needs to see my bruises. I’m staring at my mom, a mixture of panic and confusion on my face…what bruises?! My eyes pleading with her, willing her to hear the words I’m so desperately trying to say. I begin to sob. This can’t be real. I don’t have bruises! I’m screaming from the top of my lungs but no one seems to hear me.
How it eventually happens (and ends) I can’t tell you—I’m no longer mentally there. I am outside of my body, only a witness now to what is occurring. My second memorable moment in life is once again a direct practice in disassociating with the psychological trauma and abuse I was experiencing.
My body, paralyzed with fear, stares blankly at whatever is front of it. Like a robot I’m told to bend and rotate until I’m once again face to face with this strange man, snapping photos of my naked body. I am 7 years old.
AND I DON’T HAVE BRUISES.
After I get dressed, he hands me the very first polaroid from the stack—the photo of me and my mom. I’m told I did a really good job. Quickly, and void of all emotion, he stretches out his hand, sweeps the remaining polaroids from the top of his large desk and into a hanging file folder. He reaches towards the bottom drawer, yanks it open, and drops the folder into its reserved space at the back of the drawer.
What purpose the polaroids would serve wasn’t exactly privy to me then, but what I am aware of now is that my mother had sold someone on the idea that I was being physically abused…by someone other than her. My dad, an alcoholic and abusive in his own right, left himself an easy target. Mind you, this all comes from the same woman who used a fishing pole to whip the backs of my thighs until they bled….all because I wore my brothers shoes to school one day. Again, thats a story for another time.
I’d like to believe that this man was innocent in what he was doing, simply another pawn in my mom’s plans that day, relying solely on the words of a very convoluted and desperate woman. But when you do not see the bruises a child is claimed to have, you do not keep taking pictures.
Whatever sand my mother felt slipping from beneath her feet that day, I’ll never know. But in her desperate attempt make herself the victim, she allowed naked photos of her daughter to be taken without any cause behind it…and by a man neither of us knew. As a mother myself now, I can guarantee that I would give my life before selling my child’s innocence for revenge.
Stay tuned for part three.