My father was very quiet, and if I was to assume anything about a man who never spoke to me, I would say he was the abused spouse, or rather the frightened spouse. Somehow my 95 pound mother scared my father into hurting me, which is just so weird yet still the truth as I know it.
I can't even explain it, but my father seemed to always just go along with my mother. Even when he would strip me and put me in the outfits for the men, it was because my mother told him to. While my mother prepared the room, or adjusted the camera, or entertained the men, she forced my father 'prep' me.
Even when my father would hunt me down for my mother- dragging me by my hair to her room, he didn't ever speak to me or seem like he enjoyed it. He would take me to her, and he always left immediately when he got me to her room for my punishments. He was the accomplice absolutely, but I KNOW he was never the mastermind. She was.
Talking with Mack, I’ve come to the horrible conclusion that my mother really was a creepy incestuous pedophile, or something like that. I remember the way she would prepare my body for the coming invasions with creams and lubricants. And I remember how after the events took place she would violate me again with her fingers to make sure I was still a virgin.
I remember the way she would have me taken to the downstairs washroom, draw me a bath whether I was barely conscious or not. I remember how I would always be laid on the cold floor in the billboards room to recover before I could make my way slowly, painfully, up to my own bedroom. And once I made it slowly to my bedroom there were gifts, and there was always a huge meal waiting for me.
There was food, I swear to god! After all the agony and degradation, and the pain and abuse, that was probably the part that messed with me the most. Fucking food.
As a kid, I was never allowed to eat on my own, or by choice, or because I was HUNGRY. My mother monitored each and every morsel that entered my mouth. She dictated to any employees in our house AND to my father that I was never, EVER to be given food that she was unaware of. She was fanatical about it, and yet, after each of my horrendous abuses, or rapes, as Mack would call them, my mother made sure I had a huge tray on my bed filled with amazing food, and a bedside table covered with every sweet and desert imaginable.
Obviously, I would have taken never eating again over the abuse I suffered. But honestly, as a kid there was such a comfort in eating like a pig, choosing anything I wanted from the huge tray, grabbing handfuls of cookies, and licorice, and chocolates, and the ice-cream, and anything else I had ever wanted, in that moment.
Sometimes, just for a second, I forgot how bad the abuse was. Sometimes I almost, a little bit, kind of, thought maybe it was worth all the abuse just to eat without getting into trouble or punished, or having to listen to the verbal abuse I was so used to when I ate.
And I know that was totally messed up! I KNOW it was. However, sometimes I was so grateful for the food because it comforted me. And yet other times I was scared to death the food was a trick.
I was scared the food was a test to see if I would eat it, and then I would fail and my mother would be mad and have another reason to punish me again. But I usually only cared for a minute or two, and then I dove in and ate until I could barely move.
One hour after I was placed in my room with all the food, it was ALWAYS cleared away by my mother. One hour. That’s all I had. And though that sounds like a long time it really wasn't. Usually, I would stuff my young face full immediately, then I would spend the next forty-five minutes or so staring at all the food I wished I still had room to eat while I fought the nausea of my pig-fest.
One time, I grabbed and hid a few cookies under my pillow for later but then my mother came in, counted the cookies, looked at me and seemed to know somehow what I had done. Within seconds she had forced me from my bed, found and removed the cookies, slapped me across the face but said not one word to me. The end. I never tried to hide any food again.
And the day following the abuses everything would go back to ‘normal’ as it were. My mother would monitor each and every piece of food that entered my mouth, tsking or shaking her head if I ate too fast, or chewed my food too loudly, or drank my water too slowly. If there was anything I did in any way she could disapprove of, she did. And it would all begin again for me.
Naturally, the next day, or if I was lucky 2 days later, I would have to use the washroom. With dread I would put this off until I had absolutely NO choice, but inevitably I would have to expel the food I’d eaten.
As you can imagine, having a bowel movement after the form of sexual abuse I endured was excruciating. Often I bled again. Often the stinging pain was so bad, I would sit in the bathroom crying, and bathing, going to the washroom again, crying some more, and bathing again until I was finished. It was horrible. It was almost a secondary abuse I had to endure days later without any creams to aid me or medication to numb me.
I've often thought about the food and I wonder why she gave it to me. I wonder what the point was. I wonder if it was a test, still. I wonder if it was a reward. I wonder if it was another sick punishment, geared only to mess with my head. I wonder if there was some psychological significance for her to feeding me full then, and only then. I wonder if she was apologizing FOR the abuse… though I highly doubt it.
To this day, when I eat food I always have a quick memory of the huge spread left for me after the abuses and I wish I could ask her- what was the point? It's like a continuous puzzle I will NEVER solve.
Why did she hate my body, call me fat, and countless other names but then have me abused and fed like a glutton. Strangely, this is my number one question I'm desperate to ask her, even above 'Why did you do ANY of this to me?' Which seems a little absurd, I know.
It really is shocking to remember all the things my mother did to me. She was just so disgusting and twisted, and filled with such hate for me. And though I know logically I couldn't have possibly deserved what my mother put me through, as the daughter and the victim, I can’t help but wonder often what she would have been like if I'd been different, or had looked different, or had acted differently.
There probably would have been no difference no matter what I was like, but I can’t help but question myself. I can’t help but wonder if even a little, I somehow DID deserve everything she did to me. Usually though, after confessing to Mack he helps me see the true reality of the abuse I suffered. The reality being my mother is a twisted Psycho who hurt me because she wanted to, NOT because I did anything to deserve it.
God, this whole thing still makes me sick just thinking about it, but as I said, I'm thrilled to have a lack of feeling right now, because though I know intellectually the atrocities that were done to me I can’t actually feel them, which is a total blessing. I hate the memories enough without having to actually feel the memories as well. Thank you side effect of PTA!
Anyway, Mack and I have discussed this all again, and I'm okay this time. Thanks to my lack of feeling, he and I can discuss the physical and emotional ramifications of the abuse I endured calmly. We can talk about it all because I can't feel any of it anymore. We can talk about it while I decide if I want to actually testify against my mother. I have a month to make up my mind, and I'm grateful for this time.
I hate her, but truthfully I'm still afraid of her which I know is stupid, but I can't change that. A lifetime of fear doesn't just stop because the monster goes away. I think she will be a nightmare for me until death takes me... and maybe even after that as well.
CHAPTER 25
JUNE 22
So I've been in the hospital for way too long. I know it, so I’m sure everyone else must know it. I think a normal patient would have been released by now to mend at home. I'm sure a normal person who woke from a coma nearly 7 weeks ago, even with the burns and the Physio-therapy requirements would have been sent home already. I know it, but I'm sure Mack has done this on purpose somehow so that I was mentally safe in the environment I've been accustomed to, or something like that. I'm sure Mack set this up on purpose,
but it's time now. It's time to leave the safety of this hospital for the real world again.
I have one giant step to take before I can leave the hospital for good though; I have to look at myself. I'm dreading this, but until I do, Mack is afraid that I'm not emotionally stable enough to consider leaving the hospital. I get it, but I'm totally not ready for it.
I'm sure it’s going to be brutal. I'm sure I'm going to panic when I see what I look like. I'm sure I'm going to fail this test of my emotional endurance. But today is the day we set. Today is my deadline. Today I have to keep my eyes open and look.
When Mack arrives he steps inside my door and just waits for me to speak, I think. Wow, I find I'm speechless. Huh. Who would've thought?
“Hi, Suzanne. Would you like to talk awhile, or do you want to get this over with. Rip off the band-aids, if you will?” Ha! Bad joke, but nice attempt. I can't help but smirk at him.
Turning from him, I let my legs dangle from my bed until I slowly touch the ground. Still not looking, I pull off my light, baggy pajama bottoms which his Kayla gave me, and just brace myself without looking. My boy boxer shorts are big enough to give me total coverage of my privates, but they're short enough to see all my leg, finally.
Lifting my long pajama dress over my head, I'm almost hyperventilating with the fear. I know I'm actually being strong, and I know Mack is going to say something to the effect any second now. In reality; though I look like I'm preparing myself, I'm actually scared to death of what I'm going to see.
“You're doing very well Suzanne. Would you like any help?”
And there he is- My Mack. Hanging onto the bed for dear life with my head bent, I try to absorb Mack's kindness into my bones while I continue to struggle.
Exhaling a hard breathe, I finally turn to look at Mack. Wearing only a tank top and my boxer shorts, I'm almost ready. And thankfully Mack doesn't move toward me, nor does he push me to move any faster. Waiting, we each just stare at each other for a very long pause.
Eventually, Mack walks to my side and takes my right arm to assist me. Though I'm doing really well, my left leg is still too weak to hold me up for long, and my mind is too weak to hold me up, period.
Taking my hand in his with his arm wrapped around my back, Mack starts the slow journey past the wheelchair I once used, to walk me toward the bathroom. Holding me steady, Mack places me on the little bathroom chair and just waits. Keeping his hand on my shoulder, Mack seems content to just wait. It's like we have all day, and he wants me to know that I can take my time with this. God, he is just so unbelievably comforting.
Ugh, I'm ready to see this, I think.
“Um, would you help me to the mirror, Mack?”
“Absolutely.”
Lifting from the chair, I begin walking with Mack's help the 2 or 3 steps to my reality. Holding my breath, I'm nervous and shaking, and so scared of what I'm going to find, I can't even open my eyes yet.
“It's going to be alright Suzanne, I promise. Would you like a little hand mirror first?”
“No. No hand mirror. I want to see it all.”
“Okay. Take your time,” he reassures me.
Holding my breath, Mack squeezes my shoulder tightly until I exhale and open my eyes.
Pause. Blink. Inhale.
Look. Blink. Exhale.
More pause. Blink. Inhale.
Looking harder. Blink. Exhale.
Longer pause. Blink. Inhale.
What. The. FUCK?!
Exhaling a burst of laughter, I keel over bending at the waist. Holy SHIT! I'm laughing hysterically, but when Mack tries pulling at me I fight him with my weak strength. I'm still laughing and I can't look at myself again as my hysteria continues. Dammit, my breathing is becoming difficult again.
“Breathe slowly, Suzanne.”
Landing on my ass suddenly, Mack immediately pushes my head between my knees. I'm still breathing, and I'm still struggling, and I'm still laughing, and still breathing, and still laughing, and struggling, and laughing, and breathing and struggling... more.
But eventually, my laughter turns to infrequent bouts of giggles and I start breathing relatively well again considering the fucked up situation I’m in. Ooops, giggle again.
Another long pause follows and I find I just CAN'T raise my head as the shaking continues.
“You don't have to do this now. You can wait if you’d like. We can go back to your room and regroup if you need. It's up to you, Suzanne. Today was just the first attempt, but we can always wait a little longer if you need. We can set another deadline. We can delay this if you need to.”
Breathing and pausing and shaking, I'm trying to fight through the leftover giggles. I need to get through this near insanity.
“Um, I remember once comparing myself to a Tim Burton character. Wow, I was so wrong then. Now I'm a Tim Burton character for sure. Now, I'm a monster.” Giggle.
Mack waits for more, but doesn't speak as he slides his legs around me so they're circling my body. Leaning into him, I'm engulfed in a huge hug. Burying my face into his chest, he smells so good and comforting. He smells like my Mack.
Inhaling him over and over while I fight a growing nausea, I just try to breathe. Throughout forever on the bathroom floor Mack doesn't move at all. He just waits for me to resurface. God, I love him and his strength.
“I love you, Mack.”
“I love you too, Suzanne, and it’s going to be okay. You're going to be okay, I promise.”
Slowly my shocked eyes begin crying as tears drip down my cheeks onto his shirt. Christ! I'm so ugly now. Well, at least my left side is. Giggle. More tears. Shit.
During this little sanity break of mine Mack sits quietly holding me tightly. I'm crying endless tears, but I have no hysteria left. This is like a complete submission to this ugly that is me. It's all over.
“Who will love me now?” I whisper.
“All of us. Everyone who meets you. The Kaylas, Z, me, even Marcus. We all still love you.”
Looking up at Mack, he is just so beautiful to me and he always has the right words, whether I believe them or not. I think I really truly love him.
“Do you honestly love me, Mack?”
“Of course, Suzanne.”
Lifting my head, I suddenly place me lips on his, but there's no reaction. In desperation, I try kissing him harder. Opening my mouth, I try to engage a passionate kiss from him with my tongue but there’s still nothing. Turning into him and pulling his shoulders toward me, I try so hard to make him kiss me back, but Mack stays deathly still against me. There is just nothing for me anymore. So turning away, I begin to cry harder.
“Suzanne, we don't love each other like that. We don't and you know it. You are someone else's, and I'm someone else's, but we're together as dear friends,” he whispers.
Suddenly desperate, I try to pull away from him when everything is just too quiet and still between us. But he holds me tight with his legs wrapped around me still. God, I feel so alone. He's still with me I know, just not like that.
Gasping, reality finally resurfaces and I moan, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I'm not making sense right now. I think I'm just really scared of not being loved or something. I'm just so lonely... And now I’m ugly, too,” I sob.
Hugging me tighter, Mack begins rocking me in his arms and kisses the top of my head. He doesn't let go, and I CANT let go.
“I'm really sorry. Please don't tell Kayla 'cause she'll hate me. I didn't mean to kiss you like that. I'm just so scared, and freaked out, and lonely, and, and, ugly. I thought you would kiss me back and maybe I'd be better. I thought you could kiss it all better, or like, kiss me so I felt there was more to me or something. I just wanted you to make me not ugly and lonely anymore.”
“You're not ugly. You're a beautiful, strong woman-”
“I know what you’re going to say, and I get it. I'm beautiful on the inside and all that crap, but nobody cares about that. No one sees that. All anyone is going to see is this- my left sid
e as an ugly gross mess. I can't even look at it. I can't even see myself, it's so gross. I don't want to ever look at myself again.”
“Suzanne, this is just the surface.”
“I know that. But it's ugly and now I'm damaged on the inside AND the outside.”
“You're not damaged, you have scarring, but you're healing every day.”
“No, I'm not. I'm not healing. I thought I was healing before, but I wasn't. I was just changing. All the ugly is still inside me, but now it's on my outside too.”
“Changing IS healing, Suzanne.”
“No, it's not the same thing. I don't want this baby, and I don't want this body, and I don't want these memories, and I don't want this reality. I don't want this life, not like this. There is still too much to live with and too much to live through. There's too much to recover from and I can't be all ugly too. It's too much.”
“It's not too much. And you CAN do this. You WILL do this. For no one else, not even yourself if you don't want to, but you will do this for me. I'm still holding you to your promise- your lifelong contract, Suzanne. You owe me, and I'm collecting. Suzanne, you are going to learn to live with this, and you're going to learn to enjoy this life again.”
“I don't think I can.”
“You will. In a few days, you'll get over this shock and you'll stop feeling sorry for yourself, and you'll learn to appreciate what you do have- Who you have. You will deal with this, just like you've dealt with everything before it.”
“I don't think I can,” I moan.
“I KNOW you can. You'll get better again, just like you did before, and you'll learn how to live with this new challenge-”
“Challenge? Christ, Mack- I'm hideous! What the hell?! Are you blind or something? Maybe if I enter a room with my right side forward and leave as I entered, I'll learn to live with this, but otherwise, this is just another example of ‘What the Fuck?!' in my life. Who lives like this? Nobody! The Kaylas have never had anything bad. You've never had anything bad. Nobody has! But me? I get the fucking ShitStorm of life. One fucking thing after another. Nonstop! It's like I was Eva Braun in a past life or something- like totally evil, and so I must suffer the greatest of karmic retribution or something in THIS life! What the hell did I do to deserve all this?! Tell me! Please!” Sniffling and pausing, I turn to stare at his face as I beg, “Christ! Answer me. What did I do to deserve all this?!”
This Is Me... Page 16
