As a child my mother demeaned me if I couldn't scrape every drop of food from a pan or bowl during food preparation. She said it was like stabbing her in the heart and twisting the dagger to see the tiniest crumb or drop of food wasted. She said it's because she grew up during tight times in a big mormon family and they were careful about not wasting anything.

So if as a child of eight or ten, she caught me wasting she would grab me and jerk me around the room and slap me a few times.

Did anyone else have a family dynamic like that? My older sister was very busy socially and didn't have as much time to help with the cooking. My mother said that she never wasted, however. I think that's because she was old enough to hold up heavy pots and pans with one hand and scrape with the other and I was too weak to do it as well.

Someone on this board said that growing up in the depression meant that I should allow a woman in a care facility to paw over and steal my food because she was probably reliving a deprived childhood. I think those who grew up in a heavily devout mormon home were all somewhat deprived in their way.

I'm sure the poster imagined I was blaming her own dear mother for my plight in the facility. But no, I'm sure the lady taking my banana and can of soda was just resident who needed better supervision than she was receiving while I needed the banana for potassium and the soda to calm my stomach infection.

Anyone who grew up being beaten is hard put to feel sorry for those who use such flimsy excuses for abusing children.

My parents both grew up during the Depression. They didn't throw money around, but neither were they obsessive about things. I do remember a few peculiarities such as saving string and rubber bands. But they behaved in a sensible way about food. Of course it helped that my dad earned a good income. My mother did state that dad would have been upset about her having to pay a library fine. She got our books back on time! But he gave my mom a generous amount of money each month to spend on the household.

They both agreed with each other that they would not beat their children, and I am grateful for that. I remember them both as being kind but firm, exactly what you would want in a parent.

It sounds like you had good and kind parents, Summer.

I used to daydream about being adopted as a kid. My real father? Was Tony Curtis lol. He was already claimed however, by Jaimie.

He was kind of a crazy bird. After I was grown and understood more of what life was like growing up as his child, I didn't feel badly anymore that I wasn't his kid. He was kind of a cuckoo bird. In a nice, nutty way, but still.

I find the older I get the more I take after my parents. Be it heredity, environment, whatever. I may have spent my youth defining myself on what made me 'different' from them. Age closes that gap quite a bit I find even though I'm still my own person after all and can take pride in my own accomplishments.

We had a pretty dysfunctional home life. But I'm pretty sure my parents loved us. They just had poor coping skills. And a lousy marriage. They said they stayed married for the sake of their children. Maybe so. But I believe they may have done more damage staying married because of the fighting they did over the years that they might've avoided had they divorced sooner than they did.

Cheryl Wrote:
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> Anyone who grew up being beaten is hard put to
> feel sorry for those who use such flimsy excuses
> for abusing children.

I was a physically abused child (often for things I did RIGHT, but which threatened either of my parent's worldviews, or either of their fragile egos).

Physical abuse of children, at least in my experience, is most often the result of the inner conflicts of the adult, or the adult's inability to function as that adult "ought" to, but they can't.

If my father was unfaithful to my mother (as he often was), then *I* was to blame, and I knew when the shouting and screaming broke out that *I* had a rough time immediately ahead.

If I succeeded in anything other than something which would bring some kind of reflected glory to my parents (and often if it DID bring them reflected glory), I knew that a physical beating (mostly: being thrown down to the floor and kicked--as hard as my Mom could kick--repeatedly). If it was anything related to math and science (my father's specialties), *I* was physically punished for doing the unacceptable and unthinkable: making my father feel inferior (I NOW realize: inferior to his brother, who was my biological father).

When I got my first period, and I told my Mom, the result was being thrown down to the floor....

I am totally with you, Cheryl.

I'm so sorry, Tevai. You didn't deserve that.

I was lucky in that my parents were very pleased with the successes of both my brother and myself.

The "cycle of abuse" is hard for me to comprehend, too.

I was beaten for little toddler and childhood stuff, like being awkward and spilling things and knocking things over; forgetting things, for talking in class, looking disheveled, getting in the dirt, etc. Most kids do something like that almost every day, and that's how often I was beaten.

Later, I had more "formal spanking". In my teen years, it was usually something I said. My TBM parents did not like questions. They exploded whenever I suggested that maybe there were other ways to do things. Mother always said, "There are two ways to do things: a right way, and a wrong way. My parents blew up if I challenged their authority in any way. If I was late coming home, my mother would make up stories about what me and my group of girlfriends were probably doing--things we would never be stupid enough to do, that we wouldn't even want to do, illegal drinking and driving, drugs, going up to the University and picking up boys at fraternity houses.

My much-older-and-bigger brother would beat me whenever he felt like it, whether there was a reason, or not. Maybe he was bored, or jealous, or just mad at the world. Even when I was little, my parents would tell me to "stay away from him." It took many years before I could finally out-run him, climb a tree or fence to escape. My parents said they couldn't control my brother, either, and could not help me.

I got beaten for defending myself--standing up against my mother's lying accusations against me, or defending myself by kicking my brother in the shins. I needed to make him stop hurting me--but he never stopped, his whole life.

I think "wasting" was just an excuse for your mother to vent her anger, frustration, hatred, or whatever the heck it is that makes one person abuse another person. Perhaps you were the "family scapegoat", like I was. The siblings escape much of the abuse, but the scapegoat is usually littler, meeker, and won't fight back. I was the youngest in the family, and the only female, and an easier victim than my brothers.

I've learned the hard way, that most abuse is not about the victim at all. (Except for the convenience and availability of the victim.) Being kind and understanding does not help. Being perfect does not help.

Even if you had been able to scrape those pots as clean as your sister did--I'll bet you 100 dollars, that your mother would have found another reason to thrash you, anyway.

Oh--sorry to ramble, but here's my point.

As a former victim of abuse, I have done everything possible to make sure that my children and grandchildren are not victimized. I would NEVER hurt them physically, or beat or slap them. I would never degrade them, humiliate them, call them names, treat them like dirt, or make them feel like they are nothing. I read many books on how to raise well-adjusted children, and help them be confident and happy and loving. I should think other parents abused in childhood would make a quest to be kind to their own children. Evidently, not.

I will forever be ashamed for raising my children in an abusive cult--a cult that does not believe in unconditional LOVE! Honestly, I didn't know that, until the kids were around baptism age. The second I found out, I took them out of the cult, and we resigned together.

I'm so sorry, Cheryl. My heart cries for you as a little girl. I'm glad you are happy now. You're one of my favorite posters!

Planning to read your book, on Easter Sunday night! Looking forward to it! Happy Easter!

Oh, Tevai, I'm so sorry! Horrible!

A child should be able to trust their parents to provide them with love, comfort, encouragement, and safety! Even animals keep their young safe!

And there was nothing you could do to stop this from happening.

Tevai, you have a story to tell! There must have been some good teachers and/or mentors in your life. Your own intelligence probably helped you find the courage to survive your childhood. Ironic, your intelligence is what they resented the most; yet, it is what saved you, in the end.

(((hugs to all of you abuse survivors)))

>>I've learned the hard way, that most abuse is not about the victim at all. (Except for the convenience and availability of the victim.) Being kind and understanding does not help. Being perfect does not help.

Very true, Exminion. At least you can take comfort in the fact that you raised your own children with kindness.

Stealing food can be a complex thing.

A young girl on my caseload was caught stealing food. When we told the vendor that she was diabetic, he was understanding.

You blamed me because a woman on a walker was allowed to paw over my food tray and hide items in her pocket and under her clothing. Saying something is "complicated" doesn't mean it should be allowed or that other patients need to suffer for "complications" an institution won't tackle.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 04/18/2019 08:14AM by kathleen.

Any person's right to behave dysfunctionally as a result of early life trauma extends only until it collides with another person's rights. You had a right to the diet your care provider or dietician prescribed. Someone else was not doing his or her job in supervising this person, as you certainly know.

Kathleen,

Were you a social worker? You mentioned case worker, and young girl ...

was that what you did for a living ?

My parents didn't physically assault us for not eating our food. They wouldn't let us leave the table until we cleaned our plates however. At times, that was just as cruel. There were some foods I couldn't stand. And when dad killed Lil Abner, our Hereford steer, that was really more like a pet to us children, it was torture to have to finish what was on our plates before we could leave the table.

Amyjo Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> My parents didn't physically assault us for not
> eating our food. They wouldn't let us leave the
> table until we cleaned our plates however. At
> times, that was just as cruel. There were some
> foods I couldn't stand. And when dad killed Lil
> Abner, our Hereford steer, that was really more
> like a pet to us children, it was torture to have
> to finish what was on our plates before we could
> leave the table.

I totally empathize with this situation.

I am sorry for the "growing up you," Amyjo.

That kind of situation is really hard to get through.

I was punished when my cat ate dad's singing canary one day when the door was open at our farmhouse and she let herself in. I'd had her since she was a kitten. She was my first cat. She had kittens when the canary disappeared. Dad maybe leaped to the wrong conclusion that it was her, because there was another cat on the farm that wandered around. But he chose mine to pay the penalty when singing canary's cage was found on the floor from where it was hanging on the ceiling with just a feather or two sticking out from its wire cage when he came home that day.

He packed up my mixed Siamese breed cat (she looked more Siamese than not,) with her half-grown kittens into a box. He sat that box on my lap with me in the car, and drove into the mountains near our home to turn her loose with her kittens. I begged and pleaded with him not to. He wasn't only punishing her for eating his prized canary. He was punishing me too because she was my pet.

What if she had eaten his canary? Did she deserve that? I think not. Up in the mountains near our home were mountain lions and bobcats, and probably coyotes, etc. She never came down from that mountain and I never saw her again. My dad broke my little girl heart that day.

The last time I saw him before he died he did ask me forgiveness for anything he'd done to hurt me growing up. Of course I forgave him for all those things. But the damage was already done. You never get over something like that, not ever.

My mother was unpredictable as she dealt with depression and anxiety, but people didn't talk about it back then. She made life difficult when we were adults, too. BUT my mother had a lot on her plate. She was the first born of 2 deaf parents and she was their voice including interpreting for her parents to her younger siblings as for a long time, she was the only child who knew sign language. My mother signed before she spoke. She watched out for them and took care of them until they died. My father helped. And my father learned sign language.

My mother was more passive-aggressive. Her way of getting to us was to go lie on the bed for a few days and we'd tiptoe around doing everything we could to please her and hope she'd get back up again. I don't remember my mother ever spanking any of us. She may have. She never limited how much food we could have and we definitely wasted food, although my parents did grew up during the depression and they had reactions to it in terms of never throwing things away you might need tomorrow.

My dad was mean, but more so to the boys than the girls. He did abuse 2 of my brothers. The other one, who is handicapped, he did not abuse, but he seemed to take it out on the youngest brother (I'm closest to him) for being normal when my other brother was handicapped. It was horrible for my parents to deal with what happened to their child. He had a stroke when born, drank paint thinner at age 18 months, got hit by a truck on his bike at age 5. My dad went over and picked up my brother after he was hit and he thought he was dead, but the neighbor said he was breathing, and he rushed him to the hospital. He was in the hospital for a while, in a coma for a week??? So long ago, I can't remember. My dad did have a temper and he was abusive, BUT he was and always will be the greatest man I've ever known, the strongest man I've ever known. My brothers have to deal with the abuse they suffered and that I know is difficult for me, but my dad also had a soft side and I saw it when my brother was hit by that pickup. I saw it when his father died. His father was his best friend and my mother's mother was her best friend.

They did not have an easy life, especially my mother. She was born an adult. I believe I treated her well, but I know I could have done better. I miss them both EVERY DAY.

My father was mean...and at meal time required us kids to be members of the clean plate club. He told us tbere were many starving people in China....

The first time i heard that line, I saw it as a God-given opportunity to solve two problems at once.

I got up from the table, ran to the drawer where we kept stamps and stationery, grabbed an envelope and a pencil, and said, "Great! What's their address?"

I actually believed that I could mail these poor, starving kids the spinach I so desperately loathed, and it would do them some good. Get rid of the wretched spinach and help hungry kids! Talk about a win/win situation!

My mother got up from the table, grabbed the pencil and envelope from my hands, and fetched me a clout across the face that I totally didn't see coming (I was too caught up with the dazzling solution I had just come up with) and bodily dragged me down the hallway to my bedroom. I was ordered to get ready for bed immediately and not to come out until it was time to get ready for school the next day.

We still had many fights about food again after that, but I never got the line about those poor starving kids in China any more.

I do not have fond memories of the family clustered around the table at suppertime. Too often, it turned into a war zone.

My mom was a method actress who studied in NYC for a year after high school and a year at Westminster College in SLC.

After I was grown up and working in Idaho Falls prior to starting college in my early 20's, I worked at a local junior high school as a custodian for a couple of years. I had lunch in the school cafeteria frequently because I got a staff discount. (It was great!)

By then my parents had been divorced, remarried, and dad was living nearby where I was. Mom was in Utah with her husband near her mom in Ogden. Mom had taken back to her acting and was doing bit parts around Utah county, Provo, and Weber.

I was totally blown away one day in the school cafeteria when I saw my mom featured on a lunchroom poster in her standard french bun she used to wear, with apron, standing over a school garbage can while staring into the camera with an expression and a dialogue bubble next to her face exclaiming "It's a shame to waste good food!"

That was so my mother. I saved that school cafeteria poster when I left my job there. But I'll be darned if I didn't lose it between moves.. :(

My mom got dementia in the last years of her life, and didn't remember doing that bit job. But I knew it was her. There was only one her.. When I'd walk down the hallway to the school cafeteria it was like seeing mom in there every single day.

My dad grew up during the depression but his dad had a job so he didn't suffer too much; still, he didn't like waste and made us eat everything on our plate. Thank God for our dog who was often under the table. We would sneak food to the dog so we wouldn't have to eat it.

I'll never forget the night my mom made something really awful for dinner. None of us would eat it. The dog wouldn't eat it. My dad gave us a choice: either we ate our dinner or had ten spankings. He liked the number 10 for a punishment. If we slammed a door we had to open and close it 10 times quietly. My brother, who was at least 10 years old, opted for the 10 spankings. My dad, with his enormous hands, spanked him at the dinner table.

I feel for you, Cheryl. The word beating was tossed around a lot in my childhood. And I caught quite a few beatings. One doesn't forget the fear and the hurt. The trauma sticks around.

Wow. I could go on for hours detailing the “Greatest Hits” of my childhood.

My mother was a frustrated TBM wife married to my controlling TBM father raising us kids in the 1960’s. She took her frustrations out on us, particularly on me, the only boy.

I was raised in a house of fear. When I would come home from school each day, I would hesitate opening my front door. I didn’t know which monster was waiting on the other side. Aren’t you supposed to feel safe at home? I wasn’t beaten for being wasteful…I was beaten because I breathed.

I remember being real small and my mother throwing us kids in the car, driving to a nasty neighborhood, pulling over to the curb and screaming at us to get out of the car because she was going to leave us there. I remember another time running from her and then being beaten for running. I remember jumping out of a moving car while she was slugging me. After she picked me up off of the asphalt I was beaten for jumping out. Once I ran away from home. Two days later after she tracked me down (my friends were afraid of her and gave me up), I was beaten. I remember once being beaten so hard and so long that I had some weird “out of body” experience where I no longer felt any pain and I stopped crying. That didn’t stop her though. I remember being beaten after a church Mother’s Day program because I couldn’t bring myself to sing “Mother dear i love you so…”.

Once I kept track of being hit, smacked, spanked, beaten in some fashion for 33 consecutive days. The most confusing thing of all…I was a good kid. I was too scared to be otherwise.

Later in life she told me that I turned out to be such a good person BECAUSE of the beatings she gave me. Sick. I broke the chain though. I told my kids they were lucky because often times kids of abuse turn out to be abusers themselves. Not me…at an early age I realized that was wrong. I also told my mother that if she EVER laid ONE HAND on my kids…I would kill her.

Eventually I cut her off completely for the last four years of her life. It brings me comfort hoping that she is somewhere watching my life. Not looking down on me…looking up at me.

I'm sorry, Jaxson. I don't think anyone would have blamed you if you had cut her off years earlier.

I empathize with all you who endured senseless beatings as babies and children. My mother was an evil person who hated me, her little girl. She was emotionally and physically abusive.When my children were born, I was even more appalled at her behavior. I raised my babies with nothing but love and also appreciation of having them. Now I have grandchildren to spoil and love. There is just no excuse for meanness.

I admire people who can turn around toxic family behaviors, Aquarius. As a teacher, I've made the observation that anyone can (and does) have children, meaning that mentally ill people, mean and abusive people, neglectful people, all have kids.

While my mom didn't beat me or physically abuse me, she didn't show much affection or love for me as her only daughter. She was emotionally detached from me.

My dad told me when I was an infant it was he who paced me during the night because she wouldn't get up when I cried to pick me up.

There were pics of me as a baby crying in my high chair with chaos around me as I was locked in because no one was paying me any attention. (Maybe mom thought that was a "cute" picture?)

Thank goodness I was a daddy's girl. He was usually in my corner when mom was on my back. When my parents fought though, mom would call me "his daughter." It was during their fights I wasn't their daughter, only his.

One of my favorite aunts on dad's side who knew me growing up, said to me as a young adult "It was no mystery to us why your mother hated you as a child. It was because you were so sweet and demure. Your mother was jealous of you." She was the only relative who had told this to me, but knew my family well since before I was born. I loved that aunt dearly, so I took her at her word. She was always very good to me and treated me very well.

You'd think my mom would've wanted at least one daughter to pamper and spoil. But she didn't do the girly things a mom normally does with a daughter. We didn't go shopping together. I didn't have pretty clothes or do social things daughters and moms typically do together. We just never bonded that way. My mom was very self-absorbed. Her acting, and she worked. Her sons. Always felt my brothers were mama's boys. My baby brother was a bratty little boy who got away with too much, and had ADHD that wasn't a diagnosis when he was a kid. He loved playing with fire.

On the same day my parents divorce was finalized the hotel my mom and brother were living in burnt to the ground. Only my brother was there when the fire started. He was the pyromaniac. Mom was across the street at the grocery store when it began. Bro got out safely with his life. The cat did not. Of course he was traumatized, but never owned up to what he did. Mom took the insurance money to start a new life back in Utah. One day earlier she would've had to split that money with dad. Talk about timing. I think mom left my brother with a book of matches as she left to go shopping, knowing he was going to play with them.

It started in the family room, and completely destroyed the hotel in a matter of minutes.

Insurance examiners wrote it off as "probably" the furnace exploding in the family room (because it did after the fire started.) They were not told that my brother was a pyromaniac, or my mother a nutty nut herself that could have set my brother up to doing something like that. They had nothing else to go on except a charred remains of what once was a home/business. Mom took that secret to her grave, and bro will himself. When I brought it up several years after the fact he turned beet red and said nothing. He was twelve at the time of the fire. That was during his peak years of being a pyromaniac.

He was the only child of our parents that went to live with our mom. The older siblings stayed with our dad. Our oldest was on his mission during that time, so was able to avoid all that fiasco, but when he came "home" there was no "home" to come home to.

I'm amazed and heartened that you folks can tell your stories so vividly.

I can't yet. Maybe one day.

I'm glad you're here Heidi, regardless.

Your presence heartens me.

Seriously..

❤️

Share if and when you think it might help. In the meantime we'll be sending supportive thoughts to you.

Not lying convincingly about the family involvement with plyg groups.

Not being able to to lie when my mother tried to use coupons inappropriately or when she wanted special treatment from stores or other businesses.

Not doing household tasks as well as older siblings or up to family expectations.

Asking questions. This was a very bad habit I had to curb.

Bringing up inconsistencies when adults and church people answered questions in incomprehensible ways.

All of these things meant being physically punished. If others were present, she would pull my arm behind our backs and jerk it to the breaking point while digging and scratching it. I was expected to pretend this wasn't happening.

If we were at home with no guests, she's sock me in the face or hit me with the broom handle or anything else she could grab.

is the part about my brothers. My older brother made peace with my dad over his beatings and abuse. My brother had a brain bleed at age 42. He happened to be in the U of U hospital cafeteria at the time he passed out or he would have died. He had 5 brain surgeries. My dad took care of him. He had to give him IV antibiotics and take him to speech therapy. My dad was still gruff, but they were good friends when my dad died.

My younger brother still suffers. I tell him to yell at my dad, to talk to him (he is dead), but to yell, to get it out. He needs to get it out.

Neither of my brothers abused their children. They have big hearts and love their kids almost too much. They only had boys.

My younger brother has been the most successful of all of us and my dad NEVER took credit for that. My dad regretted what he had done. You saw it before he died. He was so proud of my little brother and what he had accomplished. He only had a GED and he has been a plant manager of 2 companies now, making in the $200,000 range. He gives back to all of us, especially his 2 disabled brothers.

My mother was difficult to understand a lot of times, but she never beat us. I can't imagine how it would feel to be beaten.

Mother's day and father's day I don't think should even be holidays personally. I don't celebrate mother's day. It has a lot of bad issues for me having been single until I was 27 and everyone else was a mother my age that I knew. I never wanted my kids to feel they had to make it a big deal on one day. I wanted them to love me everyday. I, myself, tried, but I also failed at times especially when I was a single mother.

I've said before that I sometimes wondered about my own parents UNTIL I read here. I'm actually not shocked at what I've read as I've seen it with so many families. My boyfriend had issues with his parents and he had cut them off pretty much except once a year at Thanksgiving. He saw them more the last few years before his dad died.

One example of kindness that I saw was in watching my dear nephew grow up. I shared many meals with my brother and his family. Even into his elementary school years, at every meal, almost without fail, he would accidentally knock over his glass of juice. He was always a good athlete, but for whatever reason he just could not figure out how to keep a drink upright. And without fail nor reproach, my family would cheerfully clean it up.

He so consistently got mustard on his T-shirt at baseball games that he had a specially designated "mustard shirt."

He's grown up to be a wonderful, cheerful, and kind husband and father. He dotes over his little girl. He is very hard working and has achieved well in his chosen career.

It's nice to see kindness and love carried into the next generation.

That is a touching story.

It happens. They were children in the late 30s early 40s.

Just look at the list of names on this thread of posters who endured (and lived through) horrific, unthinkable emotional and physical abuse AS CHILDREN......

***Cheryl
***Amyjo
***Tevai
***exminion
***mythb4meat
***donbagley
***Jaxon
***Aquarius123
***HeidiGWOTR
***Presleynfactsrock

Abuse that includes being kicked, hit, smacked, being thrown out of a car, made to clean out cooking bowls without leaving a kernel of food, having your arm twisted badly, being made to eat every morsel of food on your place even if you couldn't stomach it, being ignored because you were a girl instead of a boy, being ignored period, being beaten with a belt snapping at your heels, having a rifle aimed at you with threats and swearing, AND ON AND ON AND ON!

I really am almost at a loss for words at what each and everyone here (and I'll include myself) have endured and witnessed. OMG, OMG, OMG. Thanks for the thread Cheryl.

My abuse was mainly emotional abuse, but also some physical. I grew up (ha, ha, it took me forever to grow up because of this homelife) in an alcholic home where my Mom and us kids all had to tip-toe around the proverbial elephant in the room. My Mom (may she rest in peace) worked and worked somemore, even reporting for duty to do my Dad's work) while he layed around drinking his nasty, homebrewed wine. He was mean when he drank, soooo that meant he was mean about all the time.

To give you an example of his meanness and arrongance----when my Mom delivered me, the #7th girl (of course he wanted MEN). he had not been there, surprise, surprise, to be with her when she was giving birth, these were the nasty words he said to her, "Another girl? huh. Is that all the better you could do?"

I did not hear this tale until I yanked and pulled some (any) information out of my Mom about my past and our family's past.
No talking was how our family did not function. And, if by chance you told anyone outside of the family any family secrets, well, that is when there was lots of talking all of a sudden, hell a stream of talking in the form of mostly loud, very loud cuss words from my Dad while my Mom just huddled in a corner of the room like a scared, cornered mouse.

I learned this information when I was having problems with depression in my twenties, finally found a book that described how alcoholic parents created children to be victims of an alcoholic syndrome. Discovering this book entirely by accident at the library (remember those?), it was so unbelievable and ground-breaking to realize my siblings and myself were right there in print! She was describing our various traits and personalities to a tee. This scholar and researcher is one of my heroes. It was a true break through for me which might have even saved my life.

I became the only one in my family to break out of the alcoholic abuse cycle which I am so grateful for. It was due to finding and reading that book, searching, university courses, and help from a very capable and caring counselor. Boy, life can be a struggle accompanied by tons of hard work. I wouldn't let up once I found some confidence, some love, and my voice.

Emotional abuse is a bu**ar. It was horrific to be a child who was not noticed. I was never good enough to do anything except get out of the way. Never hugged, never heard the words I love you, never had a birthday party and only a few times did I get handed a present. I was put down and made fun of because I did excellently in school, eventually attended university on a full scholarship (we lived in poverty so I could never have gone otherwise), but told I was wasting my time and I would never succeed.

Well, I was determined to prove them wrong and, since I had become very talented at hustling and over-achieving to get noticed at least at school, I became the first and only one in my family to graduate university. Never did get a Congrats or anything from my only surviving sister nor from my Mother, but my brother, two years younger than me, surprised me by traveling from out of town to my graduation, arriving with an armful of beautiful flowers. I cannot tell you how thrilled and tearful I was to see him.

I suffer with PTSD and wake up to images of my Dad aiming a gun in my face (which he did do, several times, to us kids, His kids, the memories which I suppressed, only discovering them by pestering and pestering to death an Aunt to talk to me.

My Dad died due to alcohol killing his liver, my Mom became a single Mom when I turned six, having to leave town to head to the city to find a job without having a high school diploma. To her credit, she was a very hard worker, managing to keep us in food and with a roof over our head. We kids all worked early to buy our clothes, help out, etc. When Mom was 60, I attempted to draw her into a discussion to learn more about my past and her past. Refusing, she looked me in the eye, which she seldom did, saying, "Presleynfacts, what good would it do?" I replied, "I have learned and believe from my counseling it can help me, and probably, you. Would that be good enough?" Nope, it wasn't.

Hugs and more hugs to all of us. We are survivors and we're strong, yet I would have certainly preferred to have grown strong from love and positiveness, but hey, it wasn't to be.



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 04/18/2019 04:43PM by presleynfactsrock.

"Emotional abuse is a buggar. It was horrific to be a child who was not noticed. I was never good enough to do anything except get out of the way. Never hugged, never heard the words I love you, never had a birthday party and only a few times did I get handed a present. "

I hear you. I was beaten by my father as a teen. I was yanked and slapped and grabbed violently a lot by my mother but I think it was preferable to them never hugging me. My presence being an annoyance. Them forgetting my birthday. My being cared for by siblings instead of parents.

I was one of many and not loved as an individual. That hurts more. The opposite of love is indifference.

I agree that indifference is like you are invisable, being a ghost that no one sees. In my situation, my Mom gave birth to a boy two years after me......A BOY, A MAN AT LAST! He got positive attention, surprisingly even once in a while from my Dad who wanted a boy so badly. It stung for me to be around. Infact, my brother was pampered and spoiled in lots of ways as he was the one who got the spare dime if there was one available, having to smile his charming smile and turn his handsome face (and he was handsome) at my Mom and my sisters and the the money appeared in his paw like magic. (and yes, I will admit I was jealous of him)

However, this spoiling, plus not being held accountable, caused real problems for my bro, starting as early as ten years of age. He believed he didn't have to follow rules and could count on my Mom and older sisters lying for him and being there to get him out of trouble when possible. He was a handsome manipulator, perhaps a narcissist. I miss him and loved him to pieces as he was the one of all my siblings who was fun! lots of fun and did, as we grew older, give me love and friendship.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 04/18/2019 05:26PM by presleynfactsrock.

I don't think spoiling is real love?

presleynfactsrock Wrote:
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> I would have certainly preferred to have grown strong from love and positiveness, but hey, it wasn't to be.

I have often wondered how differently I would have turned out if I were raised with "love and positiveness". What if?

I'm with you there. I've wondered to.

One of my best school friends, we still talk about twice a week and go places together, and I feel so fortunate she is in my life. Her home was a very loving, FUN, AND PEACEFUL HOME.

I remember the first time we hung out at her house when we were freshmen in high school. I was there at lunch time and her Mom fixed us this amazing lunch that looked beautiful on the plates and tasted beautiful. She came to us, saying she would like to fix us a nice lunch.....OMG, this was just amazing and wonderful and unbelievable! My best friend is one of four daughters and Mom and daughters did stuff together like crafts, silly dancing , and cooking.

I would like to thank all the survivors for sharing their stories. For the longest time, I didn't realize that I was a survivor. Somehow, I thought it was normal in the proper way of Mormonism. I have since learned that my Mom was abused as a child (she admits to verbal, but I think she was spanked and hit for the misdeeds of her younger siblings.) I place a lot on the church because it REINFORCED the idea of being super-authoritarian. You're the adult and it's YOUR job to train up your children correctly.

I think the pressure to become a super TBM drove her to be more proactive in public spankings because some crabby sister would remark "Your son isn't well behaved. You don't discipline him do you?" And this would send my Mom into a frenzy. I remember that several of us had climbed up the tree outside the chapel (it was Wednesday primary of all things) while a bunch of sisters were standing around outside gabbing. That's what we were taught to do back then- Don't ever interrupt adults when they are talking. I remember trying to climb down from the tree when she walked over and grabbed my arm. Naturally, I lost balance and fell partly onto the concrete sidewalk. I scraped my leg from the fall and I was bleeding. I cried.

"Good! You're bleeding a bit. I hope it hurts because that's what naughty boys deserve for acting like tree monkeys." And then she would rant and lecture about not behaving and disappointing Heavenly Father. If I didn't stop crying on the way home, she would pull over. "I'm going to count to three. If you don't stop then I'm going to leave you here and drive home by myself. One..."

Family vacations

Both my parents worked and the latter part of July every year was family vacation time. It SHOULD have been a wonderful, care free time in my youth that I would look forward to. However, my Mom was unpredictable. While I believed that my good behavior would please her for the most part, the unexpected could cause her to flip-out.

There was a craze of outdoor skating that both my parents wanted us as a family to enjoy. So during a stop in Santa Barbara (trip to Southern California) we stopped to see a giant tree -Moreton Bay Fig Tree. I think it's near the Amtrak train station. So the Goops started roller skating on the smooth concrete platform (no trains or people were around). And then my blue yellow skate became detached after 15 minutes of use. Of course, my Mom went through the roof over it! "We just bought those at K-mart. And look how you treat it! Do you think we have a money tree?" Dad was more reasonable and gave up some of his vacation time to exchange it for another pair, but no more skating for the Goops. It later went unused as a donation to DI. I didn't get hit, but later that day I had to sit next to her and help her navigate through LA while reading a map (Dad was in the back of the pickup-camper). When she missed the needed turn-off, she pulled into a gas station and slapped me twice. She then tore up the map. I had to go ask for a free map with red hand prints on my face.



Ice Cream Social

During the early correlation years of the church, the scouting program adjusted to a zero budget by using an ice cream social called "Dixieland" to raise funds for scout camp. My Mom did all the artwork (she's a very gifted artist) as well as the overall set up. It usually took four days to decorate the culture hall and I was involved every night getting ready for the main event. The scouts served as waiters and the adults worked in the kitchen to serve up the different platters of ice cream. Basically, every family paid a set fee according to the number of people attending. People had to RSVP their allotted time because there weren't enough tables. My Mom was busy running her photo booth of taking polaroid photos of people in dress up costumes (mostly funny hats and wigs).

At the very end, we the scouts were allowed to eat some ice cream. The only table that was available was up on the stage. The wooden stairs had no railings and I being clumsy fell with the ice cream plate. I fell back to the basketball court and the sticky ice cream was scattered on two different levels. All church eyes were upon me, except for Mom. A little girl ran up to my Mom and got her attention that I had fallen down. My Mom only saw a big mess. While I was trying to clean up some of the ice cream scoops on the stairs, she came up behind me. She had become a raging bull. She pushed me off the stairs and I tumbled for a second time. "You're so clumsy. You always make a mess and leave it for me to clean up. You think this is so funny. Well damn you and your smile." It was one of the few times that I know of where she cursed in front of church members.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 04/18/2019 02:24PM by messygoop.

... leading directly to the cause of death of one of my siblings. And possibly indirectly to two of them ... or more.

It occurred to me today as I'm heading out to go choosing tile for my kitchen, that another aunt of mine (now deceased,) told me when I was about 40sh, that my mother starved each of her children gestationally. No one had ever told me this before. But it did explain a lot as to why each of her children had complications at birth, following birth, or died shortly after.

She was surprised no one else had ever told me before. I was too.

She started by explaining to me that my little sister who I'd always believed was born premature and died at five days old, wasn't premature at all. She was born full term, auntie told me. But was severely underdeveloped. Which was why she did not survive and died less than a week old. Her little body was malnourished. Hearing that made me grieve her loss all over again. Before I'd been a child of five years - now I was grieving for her again at 40. How could a mother do that to her unborn child? That is child abuse.

My mother drank booze and smoked cigarettes all the way through each one of her pregnancies. She was anorexic through parts of her adult life. When I remember my mom in her later years what I remember her living on was diet pepsi, cigarettes, and prescription narcotics.

She and dad only cleaned up their act after my second oldest sibling died from abdominal cancer at age six. He'd had for 18 months. That was around the time mom converted to Mormonism, and my parents went through the temple eventually when I was age six.

My oldest brother was born with a genetic mutation that started with him. He's passed it on to two of his three children. It may be what led to his untimely death late last year. Another brother was born with a learning disability. My youngest brother was born with ADHD (it wasn't a diagnosis when we were children, but is today.) No one else in our immediate family have had that. But three of his four children do that were diagnosed with by the time they entered school. He was also born premature and spent time in the hospital before he could come home. He came home from there on the same day our other brother who was dying from cancer was going back for the last time.

He told mom and dad he wasn't going to go before he could see his new baby brother, because he knew he wasn't coming back.

My birth disorder that I was born with was jaundice. Cigarette smoking by expectant mothers is a known cause for infants born with jaundice. Likewise second hand smoke is a known cause of all sorts of cancer, including childhood (for deceased brother of mine.) Alcohol is also a known carcinogen and is known to cause birth defects. What the mother ingests goes directly to the womb.

So my aunt knew what she was talking about. But hearing it for the first time, like hearing and seeing pictures of some of my relatives who perished in the Holocaust for the first time, still sent shock waves through me. I grieved for my little sister. My mom starved each one of us. There is some guilt in survivorship that some of us made it, and some of us didn't.

My mother was not a nurturing type of person to become a mother. She had ten pregnancies in ten years before she had a hysterectomy by age 30. Only six of those pregnancies were live births. Two were miscarriages. Two were stillborns.

Mom abused her own body her lifetime throughout. She self-destructed like a slow suicide over a long period of time. She dragged her children along with her while we went along for the ride during our time with her. She didn't know how to be a mom.

Oh she could cook. She loved to speak at church. Being the actress she was, she became stake drama director for several years. She knew how to put on a show. It was only a mask. At home that mask came off.

My mom had a Jekyll and Hyde personality. When I was a teenager, shortly before I became homeless in Ogden, I went to the LDS Social Services seeking assistance with my problem (which was really just the impossibility of living with my mom.) They didn't want to help. There was no assistance there to be had. They didn't understand or seek to understand what kind of home life I had - wasn't their problem and I was on my own.

After mom died, her husband would call me a couple of times in the three years following before he died to ramble on about his life with my mom. Out of the blue during one of those calls he told me that my mom had a "Jekyll and Hyde personality." When my little brother (the ADHD brat from Hell,) came to visit, she wooed all over him. The second he left my mom was back to being her old self again glowering at my stepdad and treating him horribly.

I kind of chuckled to myself while keeping my composure as I answered him, "Oh yes, I know what you mean. I saw that side of mom too. Only no one believed me because she was such a good actor that she put on a good show to the rest of the world, no one believed she could be like that behind closed doors."

In the months leading up to my mother's death her deteriorating health had taken its toll, because she never took care of her body or mind, they both failed her at the end of the day. Her personality that was once there was just gone, shriveled up. Nothing was left but a hollow shell of a person. Her bones were reduced to powder inside her body from years of drinking diet pepsi and poor diet. She didn't only starve her babies in the womb. She starved herself too.

The abuse she inflicted on her children was nothing compared to what she heaped on herself. She slowly self-destructed until there was nothing left. She had so much talent once. It was sad to watch her wither away. And that is what she did, was wither up.

As for child *abuse* I think that fits the category. I attribute it directly to abuse not neglect, because it is what caused my little sister's death. Death by starvation, another form of child abuse.



Edited 4 time(s). Last edit at 04/18/2019 09:58PM by Amyjo.

My parents grew up in tight times in the UK.

We were encouraged not to waste food or anything, really.

My mom made a game out of it. She is a very clever woman!

Oh, yeah?

Well, when I was 14 I stole a car and wrecked it and the police were going to arrest me (for breaking curfew) so I claimed my knee hurt and got a ride from the scene of the accident to a local hospital.

My parents were called to come to pick me up. For the entire ride home I remained solemn and tried to evidence remorse.

I got three months probation on the breaking curfew charge and my mom made me pull weeds from the lawn for FIVE DAYS STRAIGHT, from when I got home from school (Naturally I dawdled) until dinner time.

My dad giggled...especially when he found out that I lost control of the vehicle on a tight corner, chasing a car load of high school girls one of the guys with me knew. But I'm afraid his joie de vivre was somewhat diluted in me by my very sober-minded mother's genetic contributions.

As for the three months of probation, I had to write a monthly report to take with me to my monthly meeting with my probation officer. The report was supposed to be about how I was spending my time and also my thoughts on how to become a non-recidivist...

I'm reasonably certain that he gave up trying to get through all the prose with which I presented him. I did the best I could to be thoughtful as well as thorough. My last one was the masterpiece because I was able to bring in the three degrees of glory and my perspective on the best way to wend one's way to the highest degree.

And I never got caught stealing cars again! And that's the truth!

"And I never got caught stealing cars again!"

Heaven protect the juvenile offender and bless him with superior skills.

Lot's Wife Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> "And I never got caught stealing cars again!"
>
> Heaven protect the juvenile offender and bless him
> with superior skills.


Heaven did .... he had a wonderful childhood with loving, doting parents.

So did I....plenty of love, plenty of everything . We both had

wonderful childhoods.

Life is sweet.

The Bell-Shaped Curve in action...

elderolddog Wrote:
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> The Bell-Shaped Curve in action...

Amen.

I just took it and took it from my increasingly schizophrenic mother from the time I was 5 until I finished high school and left home. My father had been driven out of the house and the marriage.

I don't concentrate on details. All I say is that nowadays she would have been arrested and convicted for child abuse for even half of what she did to me. Back at the time it was just my bad luck. It didn't even occur to me to complain to anyone.

She knew better than to do what she did, much better, but never sought help or even admitted that there was a problem.

She's dead now. Thinking of her memory, sometimes I love her and sometimes I hate her, like when she was alive. She had her very good points. I did whatever I could to un-learn her terroristic methods of parenting when I became one; it was a struggle. But hopefully that all ended with me.

I recall getting hit by my grandfather a few times (he grew up in the 20s). On one occasion I went and hid in the basement after getting hit and my grandmother came down and said not to be upset that it's just the way people were in the olden times before this modern era of political correctness. And that things were much different now.

She was a great enabler!

The thing about hitting kids is that sometimes they deserve it. But an adult can never be too sure in their haste and anger if they are right or wrong. So it's always best to not hit a child.

What was that I heard growing up - stay thy hand spoil thy child?

I'd like to think that most of us grew up to be better parents than the ones who hurt us so much.

My mother was forever hitting me or slapping me across the face for saying something she didn't want to hear. After my father (the SANE one) died when I was 15, I can remember squaring off once with my mother about something - I don't remember what it was. But it was obvious that she intended to beat the daylights out of me.

I told her, "Just remember - Dad isn't here to protect you any more. If you ever raise a finger to me again, YOU'RE GOING DOWN!" I was taller than she was, by then, very athletic, and had YEARS of stored-up resentment.

She never hit me again, after that. In fact, once she got over her power-tripping act, we became somewhat closer. Since it wasn't about power any more, we actually had some enjoyable times together. We were never really close, but it was a big improvement over the wild-eyed woman who seemed to have a dozen hands, hitting me with all of them at once.

I often wondered why my gentle father never intervened when she was being so intemperately mean to me. (Well, he did, once in a rare while.) Mother's explanation was that they had agreed to always "present a united front" against the child.

I remember as if it happened last week, the moment, decades ago, when my mother pulled her right hand back to swing it like a baseball bat and slap me in the face for some ridiculous reason, as she had done so many times before.

As her hand was launching upward from the level of her hip, I suddenly thought, in the time it takes to blink your eyes, that I was looking DOWN at her---I had grown bigger than she was. I had turned 12 a few months earlier.

Instinctively I raised up my own right hand, grabbed her swinging arm around the wrist a few inches from my cheek, and pushed it back down to her hip -- gently as could be, but firmly. I was also much stronger now too, I understood.

We just stood there looking at each other -- I don't know who was more surprised. I remember thinking: "Well, THAT part is over with." She just turned away and walked off, I think, and the moment passed.

I never got hit again. But the other part -- the verbal abuse -- relentless once it started, paranoid, insulting, insane -- that part continued until I could finally move out at 17 1/2 and became a freshman at my state's flagship public university, 500 miles away. Finally I was free of her rages.

My father's family was crushed by the Great Depression and for a while they lived in a canvas tent in a Hooverville. He was such a cheapskate; and always looking in supermarkets for the moldy cheese or the steak that was past its sell-by date. He scrimped and saved and he piled up money in a miserly way. He never gave me a dime without a loan agreement and an interest rate, not once in my life. But at least he was patient, rational, and never violent in word or deed. But as noted previously, he wasn't there, either.

The first ten years or so of my life was impacted with all kinds of rationing because of WW2. Food, (2 ozs of butter/margarine per week for an adult male) clothing, footwear, fuel were all rationed, some into the early 50s. My only hang up from that experience is that I cannot abide seeing lights on in an empty room. Otherwise I did perhaps over compensate in the other direction taking great pleasure in plying my kids with things like candy which I never had as a child.

WOW!! I relate with so many of you. My heart truly goes out to all of you!! It's amazing any of us lived through the abuse. Amyjo, I'm so sorry for the loss of your siblings.


My grandmother lived through the depression and became a hoarder saving everything from rubber bands, newspapers, and empty tissue boxes, to empty milk jugs and bleach bottles. I'm sure she is bipolar but I suspect she had other mental illnesses as well. She is extremely selfish, indifferent toward her children, and put my mom & her siblings through a living hell. By the time I came a long she had changed quite a bit and wasn't nearly as abusive, She did switch me the heck out of my legs a few times (hit me with thin whipping stick).

My mother never learned how to be a mom or had ever experienced taking care of children. She married a man who was extremely abusive especially emotionally. She did the very best she could to raise us under the circumstances but made many mistakes.

My childhood was FULL of abuse. I would have taken any beating over the emotional abuse we endured. It was relentless!! My sister became the scapegoat and pawn, and my brother took out his psychotic anger on her as well as my father. She struggled with mental illness her entire life and finally as an adult received the correct diagnosis of DID/Multiple Personalities from everything we lived through. I have a very good memory but have a some blank spaces of time around kindergarten & first grade. I'm afraid to know what was happening then.

I am so sorry, mahana.

I, too, think that the "blank spaces" are meaningful.

I wish all of these things had never happened to you.

Tevai Wrote:
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> I am so sorry, mahana.
>
> I, too, think that the "blank spaces" are
> meaningful.
>
> I wish all of these things had never happened to
> you.


Thank you Tevia. I'm so sorry you went through the things you did as well. I would never want to relive a second of it but I'm a better person because of, and in spite of it.

Things could have been much worse and I am grateful beyond words my mom cared for us. She didn't know how to show it but I knew she was in my corner. My heart hurts for those of you who had no one there for you. I cant even begin to imagine the pain you experienced. FWIW, even though it's the internet and I'm more of a lurker here, I still care about all of you. ((((hugs)))

I remember being forced to watch my dad butcher my pet rabbit. He stood over me with a belt at the dinner table when I cried and wouldn't eat it. I normally would have fought him tooth and nail but I was too emotionally drained at that point. I gave in and ate a few bites between sobs. I immediately started puking my guts out but he was satisfied with his victory and let me go to bed.


I don't know what it was with rabbits but there were few incidents with them. By far the worst was when my brother buried my sisters rabbit alive in our giant sandbox. He came running in the house and told her that if she wanted to save her rabbits life she better come quick. I thought he was just tormenting her and surly he wouldn't have actually hurt the rabbit. A minute or so later she hadn't come back so I looked out the window and saw her frantically running around the sandbox digging with her hands.

I ran out and he was laughing like a lunatic and telling her when she was getting 'hotter' or 'colder'. I was ready to murder him on the spot but tried to help my sister find the rabbit first. After several minutes he'd had his fun and told us where it was. He watched her dig up her dead rabbit and ran of laughing. To this day he claims he never did it.