Theresa
02-02-2007, 10:52 AM
I was born the fifth child and first daughter of seven children. My parents tell me how much they had wanted a girl and how thrilled they were when I was finally born. I think the novelty wore off pretty quickly.
My mother was a very angry woman. (Pissed off is actually a better word for her.) She was overwhelmed with children, had a husband who, when home, acted like just another child, and when away ran after other women.
There’s so much to tell about the family dynamics. Dad was a womanizer, Mom, a prude. (God, I hate to say that, but it’s so true!) I feel as if it takes so much energy to describe what it was like. Does it even matter? I tell myself that writing this, telling people about it is a waste of time and energy. It won’t change anything.
Let me skip the introductions and stop trying to “set the scene.”
I just wanted attention when I was five. The night one of my older brothers offered to read a story to me, I jumped at the chance. We asked my mother if we could go into the living room, so as not to be bothered. (We had one of those off-limit rooms when I was young.) Mom consented and off we went.
I settled into the big, red loveseat and waited.
“Give me a kiss first,” my brother said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Do it anyway. If you don’t, I won’t read to you.”
I quickly pecked him on the cheek.
“Not like that!” he said, “Do it like they do on TV.”
I sat quietly, a pain in my stomach. Oh, how I wanted that story…
I don’t remember much of the kiss or any of the story. I only remember him telling me that if I told I’d get a whipping. (My mother kept a leather belt hanging in the kitchen by the telephone.)
That night began a series of encounters with my brother that lasted for 8 years.
At this point I think I’m ready to take a break.
My mother was a very angry woman. (Pissed off is actually a better word for her.) She was overwhelmed with children, had a husband who, when home, acted like just another child, and when away ran after other women.
There’s so much to tell about the family dynamics. Dad was a womanizer, Mom, a prude. (God, I hate to say that, but it’s so true!) I feel as if it takes so much energy to describe what it was like. Does it even matter? I tell myself that writing this, telling people about it is a waste of time and energy. It won’t change anything.
Let me skip the introductions and stop trying to “set the scene.”
I just wanted attention when I was five. The night one of my older brothers offered to read a story to me, I jumped at the chance. We asked my mother if we could go into the living room, so as not to be bothered. (We had one of those off-limit rooms when I was young.) Mom consented and off we went.
I settled into the big, red loveseat and waited.
“Give me a kiss first,” my brother said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Do it anyway. If you don’t, I won’t read to you.”
I quickly pecked him on the cheek.
“Not like that!” he said, “Do it like they do on TV.”
I sat quietly, a pain in my stomach. Oh, how I wanted that story…
I don’t remember much of the kiss or any of the story. I only remember him telling me that if I told I’d get a whipping. (My mother kept a leather belt hanging in the kitchen by the telephone.)
That night began a series of encounters with my brother that lasted for 8 years.
At this point I think I’m ready to take a break.