Broken

by Oliver T Spedding

  Although my father no longer had the opportunity to sexually abuse me, the physical and psychological abuse continued. It was as if he wanted to punish me for no longer being able to have his way with me sexually. He beat me for the slightest infringement of his rules, many of which, I believe, he made up simply so that he could assault me or belittle me. No matter how hard I tried to please him and my mother they always managed to find some reason to demean me. I desperately wanted some kind of positive recognition that I was someone of value.

  In my final year at primary school I decided that I had to talk to my mother. I had to clarify my position in the family. I desperately wanted to be part of it. I felt that if I told her about my loneliness, if I told her about my wanting to be recognised as a human being with feelings and if I told her that I wanted to be loved and to give love in return she would understand and our relationship would change.

  One evening when I had finished my homework and my father was drinking at his pub, I went into the lounge where my mother was sitting in her favourite chair knitting and listening to the radio. I sat down in the chair opposite her, avoiding the couch and its horrible memories.

  “Mom.” I said. “I want to talk to you about something that’s very important to me."

  My mother glanced at me and then continued with her knitting.

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” she asked. “I’ve had a really busy day and I’m tired.”

  “No, mom.” I said, determined to say what I desperately had to. “I have to talk to you now.”

  My mother shrugged her shoulders and continued to knit.

  “Mom.” I said, even though I already knew that I wouldn’t get the response that I so wanted. “I so want us to be a family and for me to be a part of it. I want so much for us to recognise each other as real people with feelings. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I don’t understand.” my mother said, still concentrating on her knitting. “We are a family.”

  “We’re not a real family, mom.” I said. “When have we ever done anything together, apart from living in this house? When have we ever laughed and joked together? When have we ever sat down together and just talked about anything and everything? When has anyone in this house ever complimented another for what they are or for something that they’ve done?”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” my mother said.

  “Well, when I look at my friends and their families, they all seem to recognise each other as part of their families, they talk and laugh together and when they talk about their parents they do so with pride and love in their voices.”

  I waited for my mother to respond but she remained silent. I felt depressed as I realised that what I was saying to her meant nothing. She really didn’t want to understand.

  “I know that I shouldn’t compare us to other families.” I said. “But I can’t help it. Our family is so different. I don’t know what happens in other families in the privacy of their homes but I can’t believe that their lives are filled with anger, criticism and violence like ours are.”

  “Exactly.” my mother said. “You don’t know what happens in their houses so you have no right to compare us to them.”

  “Okay, I’ll accept that.” I said. “But why can’t we be friendlier towards each other? Why can’t we laugh and joke together? Why can’t we recognise each other as human beings with feelings?”

  “I think that you’d better speak to your father because I don’t know what you’re talking about.” my mother said. “We are a family and that’s all there is to it. Now please, Cindy. I’m tired and I don’t want to discuss something that's just in your imagination.”

  I sat and stared at my mother. I could see that what I had said to her had meant something, but at the same time I could see that she was determined not to react. It was almost as if she was too scared to say something that would confirm what I had said. But why? What could she be so scared of?

  I stood up, touched my mother on her shoulder, and left the room.

  My mother must have told my father about the one-sided conversation that I’d had with her. He came home late the following evening, having spent several hours in the pub drinking with his friends. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework and my mother stood at the stove preparing our evening meal. My father stood in the doorway and glared at me.

  “How dare you compare us to the families of your friends?” he shouted at me. “If there’s any unhappiness in this family it’s the result of your bad behaviour. You’re constantly defying your mother and me and making life as difficult as possible for us!”

  I stared at the open textbook on the table in front of me. I knew that if I so much as looked at my father he would hit me.

  “Your mother and I have broken our backs to give you the things that you have.” my father said. “And you still have the audacity to complain! You’re nothing but an ungrateful little bitch!”

  I knew that for my own good I shouldn't say anything in reply but I wasn’t prepared to accept the unjust accusations that my father was levelling at me. I looked up at him defiantly.

  “What about love?” I asked. “Have you and mom ever given me any love?”

  “Love!” my father exclaimed. “What the hell do you know about love? All the things that we’ve given you during your miserable life have been given to you because of our love for you!”

  “Those are all material things.” I said. “What about words of encouragement? What about compliments for my attempts to better myself? Have you ever taken the time to help me with the things I’m trying to learn and do? No. All you do is shout at me, belittle me and beat me whenever I do anything that’s not to your liking. Have you or mom ever sat down with me and talked about the things that other families talk about? Have we ever sat together laughing and joking and having fun?”

  I watched my father go red in the face.

  “You arrogant little bitch!” he shouted. “The only times I’ve beaten you are the times when you’ve disobeyed me or your mother or done something stupid and inconsiderate! You’re a vindictive little bitch!”

  “Perhaps if you’d taken the trouble to explain to me what and why I was doing the wrong thing there wouldn’t have been the need to beat me.” I said.

  “That’s enough!” my father shouted. “Get out of the kitchen! Go to your room! You’ll get no supper tonight, you ungrateful little slut!”

  I got up from the table and walked towards the doorway. As I passed my father he raised his right hand and punched me hard on the side of my head. I lost my balance and fell sideways, hitting the side of my forehead against the door jamb and opening a small cut. I felt the warm blood trickle down the side of my face. I staggered to the bathroom, grabbed my facecloth and tried to staunch the flow of blood.

  “What’s for supper tonight, Alice?” I heard my father say.

  After I’d stopped the bleeding, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and went to my bedroom.

  I climbed into my bed and lay staring up at the ceiling. I could hear the clinking of knives and forks on plates as my parents ate their supper. My head ached and I felt terribly depressed. My attempt to get closer to my parents, to become part of the family had failed miserably, and once again my mother had let me down. Could she really have so little feeling for me or was she too scared of my father to back me up? The relationship between me and my parents was now even worse than it had ever been. I felt so helpless. I so wanted to be part of my family but I had no idea of how to achieve this. I had tried to contribute to the happiness of the family but each time I had been rejected. Deep within me though, I knew that what I was trying to achieve was impossible. The realisation that my parents were incapable of expressing love, hit me like a physical blow. My hatred and anger towards myself and the world erupted within me and I began to cry quietly.

  For two days following my father’s assault on me I was forbidden to go to school so that the swelling on the side of
my face where he’d punched me could subside. The cut on my temple was too small to attract attention but my mother insisted that I cover it with a small piece of plaster.

  When I got back to school the news of the deaths of Garth Gilmore’s parents had just become known and, as very little was known about what had actually happened, speculation was rife and gossip abounded. There were even suggestions that Garth had killed his parents. Although I had never even seen Mister and Misses Gilmore I felt a strange empathy for the big quiet boy who appeared to have no close friends and who now also had no family.

  The funeral was held on a rainy Tuesday morning and several children at the school applied to attend. I hesitated to apply but eventually my conscience prevailed and I left the school with the other children to go to the church service. I was quite shocked though when, instead of going to the church, the other pupils said that they were going to the movies.

  “Come with us, Cindy.” they said. “Surely you’re not really going to go the funeral service.”

  “Yes, I am.” I replied. “I think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “You’re crazy.” one girl said. “Are you in love with Garth? You must be if you’d rather go to the funeral service than to the movies!”

  “No, I’m not in love with Garth.” I said emphatically. “He’s just lost his parents and I believe that he needs our support. He needs to see his friends supporting him.”

  “We’re not really his friends.” another girl said. “He never talks to us. He’s so aloof. I get the impression that he thinks he’s too good for us.”

  Giggling and chattering the girls hurried away.

  There was only a small congregation at the church consisting mainly of Mister Gilmore’s fellow workers and a few of Misses Gilmore’s friends. The school principal and Garth’s class teacher were also there. I sat at the back of the church trying not to attract attention to myself.

  After the service I approached Garth to offer my sympathies.

  “Hello Garth.” I said. “I’m really saddened about your loss. Please accept my sympathies.”

  Garth stared at me in surprise.

  “Thanks, Cindy.” he said. “I didn’t expect anyone from the school to be here.”

  I didn’t know what to say so I touched his arm and walked away.

  The following day at school I was subjected to a stream of ridicule by the other pupils.

  “Cindy’s in love with Garth!” they chorused.

  I felt my anger rise but I fought it away. I knew that reacting to their taunts was exactly what the girls wanted me to do. I smiled at them and remained silent. I could see that disappointment in their faces as I refused to react.

  “Come on, Cindy. Admit it. You’ve got a crush on Garth.” Janet said. “You must have, if you preferred to go to the church service instead of to the movies!”

  I continued to smile at the girls.

  “Well, she hasn’t denied it so it must be true.” one girls said as they walked away.

  A week later it was established that the Child Welfare Department had placed Garth with his aunt Rosemary Cooper, Misses Gilmore’s only sibling, who lived three houses away from our house. A week after that Garth returned to school.

  During the morning break from classes on the day that Garth returned to school I was sitting on one of the benches eating my sandwiches when I noticed Garth walking towards me. I glanced around at the other pupils and saw that they were all watching me intently. Garth sat down on the bench beside me. I watched him as he glared at the other pupils.

  “Look at all the silly little girls staring at me.” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “You’d swear they’d never seen an orphan before. Or maybe they’re staring at me because I’m talking to you. Damned little bitches!”

  I continued to eat my food.

  “Thank you for coming to the funeral service, Cindy.” Garth said. “I didn’t expect anyone from the school to be there. I really didn’t expect you to be there, after all, we hardly know each other. I don’t think that we’ve ever spoken to each other before then.”

  “I just thought that it was the right thing to do.” I said. “I understand you’re living with your aunt Rosemary. What’s she like?”

  “So far she’s okay.” Garth replied as he stood up and walked away.

  I didn’t understand Garth’s abruptness or his anger but I ignored them. I had gone to the funeral service because I believed that it was the right thing to do. There was no other reason. The fact that Garth had taken the trouble to thank me personally didn’t change anything. I dismissed the vague feeling of camaraderie that I felt towards him. He was obviously just being polite. Any relationship with him was ridiculous. In fact, a relationship with anyone was ridiculous. Relationships required trust and this was something that I simply couldn’t bring myself to do.

  By the time I graduated from primary school to high school my anger and hatred towards myself and the world had taken a firm grip on my personality. I was still able to block out the memories of the abuse that I’d been subjected to though, mainly because I didn’t understand it, and the pain that I experienced whenever the memories did appear was unbearable.

  Another noticeable consequence of my anger and hatred was the drastic reduction in the number of people that I could describe as friends. Although I tried to curb my emotions it was as if I was sending out some mysterious signal to others to avoid getting close to me. No matter how hard I tried people shunned me. But I was also not prepared to be subservient. If people didn’t want to befriend me then I would live without them.

  I continually warned myself though, that I was going against my vow not to let my past affect my future but mostly I just didn’t have the knowledge or the ability to cope with the challenge. People’s behaviour would anger me and I would react in kind, only to realise later that my anger had been aimed at myself and not at them. Mostly, by the time I realised this, it was too late to make amendments.

  I also became belligerent, arguing with my fellow pupils and with my teachers and this often led to me being expelled from the classroom until I repented. Along with my belligerence came vindictiveness and I often shocked myself with the destructive thoughts that I felt towards others. The need to hurt others became compulsive but fortunately it was confined to psychological means and not physical.

  ***

  “Thank you, Cindy.” my attorney said. “I’m going to interrupt you again as I want to recall Doctor Thomas. You may step down from the witness stand.”

  I walked back to my seat next to Garth and sat down as Doctor Thomas began his testimony.

  “Doctor Thomas,” my attorney said, “we spoke earlier about the abused child’s anger and hatred turning inwards and this has been clearly demonstrated by both Cindy’s and Grant’s testimonies so far. It’s obviously a very difficult condition to counteract.”

  “Yes, it is.” Doctor Thomas replied. “Because the abused child doesn’t understand what is transpiring, a strong guilt feeling usually develops. The child may feel guilty about disclosing the abuse, guilty of any family disruptions and even guilty about the actual abuse. Usually the abused child doesn’t understand that he or she is not responsible for the initiation of the abuse because the abuser often goes to great lengths to convince the victim that he or she is responsible for what is happening. Changing this perception is an important, if not vital, ingredient in the abused child’s healing.”

  “What other symptoms can develop?”

  “Chronic depression is often associated with post-sexual trauma.” the psychiatrist replied. “There is also the very real possibility of low self-esteem. It’s vital in any child’s upbringing that they believe that they are lovable and worthwhile. Then there is the bottling up of anger and hatred which can be extremely destructive and can easily lead to the child withdrawing from contact with society. If this is not attended to, vindictiveness and even self-abuse can result.”

  “Self-abuse?” James Foster asked.
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br />   “Self-destructive behaviour is a serious problem and is evident in at least five percent of abused children.” Doctor Thomas said. “The reasons include believing that an injury would somehow cause the abuse to stop, a feeling that the abused’s body is responsible for the abuse and self-blame. Abused children also experience feelings of betrayal. Firstly by the father from whom there is no escape, secondly by the mother for failure to act and protect the child and thirdly by helping institutions that punish instead of protecting. Learning to trust is perhaps the most important factor in any abused child’s rehabilitation.”

  “And what about the abuse itself?” James Foster asked. “How does an abused child cope with this?”

  “Some children are able to totally repress the memories of the event.” Doctor Thomas said. “Surface emotions such as guilt and shame are not easily hidden and these can result in distrust and the avoidance of human contact. Until the abused child can be brought to a point of understanding the actions that they have endured, the blocks that they have built up cannot be broken down. But, of course, for this to happen, someone has to become aware of the child’s trauma.”

  “So, would it be fair to say that unless an abused child receives intensive early treatment for the trauma that he or she has experienced, the future of that child is likely to be severely jeopardised?”

  “Most definitely.” the psychiatrist replied.

  “Thank you, doctor.” James Foster said. “You may step down.”

  “Your Honour.” my attorney said, addressing the judge. “I’d now like to recall Cindy Bedford to continue with her testimony.”

  Judge Warren Bester nodded.

  I stood up and walked back to the witness stand.

  “Cindy.” James Foster said. “You were telling us about your attempts to overcome your hatred and anger. Please continue.”