Throughout my young childhood, emotions were narrow and negative. Dread and fear of impending pain overpowered any quiet moment of non-combatant treatment. If not being hit, kicked, or beaten, my body trembled and heart pounded with dread and fear as I waited for the onslaught to begin.
Photographs from infancy through young childhood reveal my life confined to a crib, most often bruised, battered and sedated to the point of oblivion. Infrequent visits from grandparents on my father's side of the family offered a seldom and momentary reprieve from the parentally imposed abuse and solitary confinement. Fragments of memory from my first three years on earth reveal my mother tying a string or rope tightly around my private parts. The ensuing pain and damage from this atrocious abuse destroyed my ability to walk and, eventually even crawl. At this point, my mother forced me to sit in a chair for hours with an ice pack tucked between my legs.
Due to neglect and malnourishment, I was small for my age. When my siblings were present during assaults against me, Mother remained verbally silent. However, if she and I were alone, venomous words of hatred poured forth.
"I never wanted you in the first place!" she yelled as her weapon of choice slammed against my frail body. "Why were you born? I never wanted you!"
Her screams echoed through my soul as she rammed my head into walls or tossed me across the floor time after time. At times her rage against my presence on earth culminated in mashing lit cigarettes on the same area of my left hand. Even today, the scars from this repeated act remain visible and vivid.
"I never wanted you! I don't even like you!"
Unwarranted and unauthorized medications were more forthcoming than nourishing food. Shortly after ingestion of the pill given by my mother, the world slowed to a standstill as I slid into a state of immobility or unconsciousness.
"Swallow it, John! It will shut you up for a while!"
Under the care of my mother, bath time was a dreadful and pain-filled nightmare. Even my horrified screams did not prevent her from shoving me beneath scalding hot water in the tub.
Her voice sounded loud and high-pitched.
"I wish you had never been born!"
Anything at any given time could trigger her wrath against me. A disagreement with a sibling, an accidental spill, an angry word, or even a frown on my face sent her into a spasm of rage.Her fury unleashed in beating and kicking me before throwing me against the wall.
At some point, known only to my mother, the physical injuries and unwarranted drugs reached a plateau of absolute certainty of hospitalization. She would then put me in the car, seeking frantic and immediate help for her little frail boy with the unexplained injuries and mental disabilities.
Afraid to move or speak, I watched as my mother described my self-inflicted injuries to doctors and nurses. She was a master manipulator, turning each injury into a declaration of my severe mental disorder. Most times her tactics worked as we went directly from emergency rooms and into mental facilities. However, time after time, hospitals released me, stating there was nothing mentally wrong. After one hospital's release, they suggested using a point system to encourage positive behavioral patterns. "Reward John with a point each time he does something good. When he has earned ten points, reward him with a gift."
My mother would smile and say, "I will do that starting immediately. I love my little boy and want the best for him."
Upon returning home, the point system went into effect . . . for a brief time. After receiving a little bar of soap carved into the shape of Darth Vader for ten points of good behavior, beatings, food deprivation, medications, and verbal abuse again replaced the point system.
One day my mom gave me large doses of medication and sat me in the bathtub. The drugs induced immediate paralysis. She then plugged the drain, turned on the water, and left the bathroom. I sat watching the water level rising but could not move a muscle. I truly believe God held my frail body in the upright position rather than allowing me to slide beneath the surface. As the tub overflowed and began pouring across the floor into other rooms, I heard my mom yelling.
"John let the bathtub run over!"
Sitting upright, unable to move, I watched her run into the room, stop and stare at me for a second. Then she jerked me from the bathtub and started beating me.
"You let that tub run over! I'm going to whip you black and blue! You are nothing but trouble. I am sick of looking at you!"
Indeed, intermittent trips to hospital emergency rooms became an ongoing part of life. Cold, brightly lit examination rooms, the strong scent of disinfectants, and the hushed sounds of bustling doctors and nurses became an almost daily part of my life. Perhaps to some in the outside world, I was an unfortunate, sickly child nurtured by a compassionate, caring mother.
Amid numerous trips to emergency rooms, there were infrequent times of questioning the cause of my injuries. With apparent suspicion from doctors and nurses arising, my mother hurriedly bundled me up and we left . . . to try a different facility with fewer questions. The outcome was either immediate hospitalization or ample prescriptions for sedatives to quell my waking moments and seizure medicine to mask the ongoing damages wrought upon my skull. Following my release from one hospital, I was unable to move for weeks. In retrospect, I am sure this immobility was due to drugs administered to me by my mother. My waking moments seemed a nuisance, and my existence a threat. Her private lifestyle was one involving heavy consumption of alcohol and late night partying. Numerous times, I was her greatest challenge regarding her social life. My siblings had friends with whom they could spend nights during her party times. However, I did not have friends. My life was in isolation at home or in institutions, void of fun-loving playmates and bonds of friendship.
"There's a party this weekend, and I'm going in spite of having to put up with you," my mom would declare as she stuck a pill in my mouth. "All I have to do is get rid of you!"
A moment later, the medication would drain my ability to defend myself. Shortly thereafter, we would enter another emergency room, followed by admittance into a mental facility. After reciting her charges of abnormal behavior against me and signing the legal papers, she would sadly smile at the admitting staff and gently touch my cheek.
"I love you. I'll see you later."
A staff member would take me from the room as my mother turned and left the facility. During brief intervals at home, when only my mother and I were in the house, she removed my clothes and shoved me into the closet.
"Get out of my sight!" My mother's voice pierced through my being like a poison arrow. "I can't stand to look at you anymore!"
Hours passed with me sitting huddled in a corner without food or water. Tears streamed down my face when I was no longer able to hold my bodily functions. Each time, I trembled and whimpered as the door flew open and my mother jerked me out of the closet. Every fiber in my naked little body felt the sting of pain as she beat me with an extension cord, belt, or whatever was handy for soiling on the floor. Traveling in the car did not offer a reprieve from abuse. My mom always had a bottle of Palmolive dish soap on the seat beside her. Filling my mouth with the green liquid insured silence and swallowing guaranteed immediate illness. She accomplished her objective either way.
One day I was with my dad in the car, and we were going over an overpass. I must have upset him somehow, and he stopped the vehicle. A moment later, I found myself outside of the SUV, and my dad was ramming my head into the fender. Time after time, I felt the throbbing pain as my skull smashed into the metal. Finally, he jerked me upright and threw me into the back of the vehicle.
Emotional abuse was a part of normal living; anything my mom could say or do to diminish my existence. At times, while loading groceries in the car, she picked me up and threw me into the trunk like one of the sacks. The inane disrespect was so natural that I did not question nor fight it. Indeed, no one was aware of this as I jumped out as soon as she opened the trunk to unload the groceries.
However, there is a time when even a terrified, bruised, battered little child instinctively knows his life is unbalanced and unfair. With the passage of time, simmering anger began building within my soul. Eruptions of uncontrollable rage poured forth, creating additional body slams against the walls and onto the floor. My defensive anger brought more torturous pain from extension cords, brooms, or other impromptu weapons.
Fighting against the abuse increased my mother's wrath. She immediately countered with increased severity, and her parental punishment seared into my soul and tore at my flesh. During a severe beating, there was a point in time that my body no longer hurt. When this happened, my emotions erupted into unrestrained hysterical laughter. Perhaps this was my instinctive and unique method for maintaining the will to live. Although serving as a pressure release for me, the response merely intensified my mother's rage. The whipping escalated into banging my head against the floor, throwing me against the wall, and kicking me. Indeed, I stood alone in a vicious battle for survival.
Owner/Editor - Chris Chmielewski