Clean, cold porcelain pressed against my legs while sitting on the toilet, legs swinging, age 2 1/2.
I was going potty... Yeah, going potty. I was potty trained early, so this was not a new feat for me. While sitting there, the door opens and in walks my mom's boyfriend. He was a mean guy when he wanted to be and he had a very scary presence about him. He was angry; very angry. He told me that I had to fold my toilet paper in perfect squares. Take off a square, fold it over, fold it over again. I think the idea was that he didn't want me to waste toilet paper, but it went beyond that--it had to be folded properly. He sat in the bathroom to ensure I followed his directions and from that point forward he would pop in every now and then to check my work when I went to perch on the bathroom throne.
Now, this memory sticks with me, and has since I was very small. To this day, I still have to fold my toilet paper into a square. I don't do it on purpose, but I find that each time I visit the restroom, it just happens.
If I reflect back, I am sure my following the directions was out of fear. He was scary. He would be in a perfectly fine mood and then all of a sudden start throwing glasses. Shattering glass brings chills to my spine still. He would yell, grab my mom, throw her down, pinch, bite--you name it. I was taught to run to my room.
Even in the sanctuary of my room, the screams and yells hit me. I was terrified. I didn't realize at the time that something could have really happened to my mom--he hurt her in a bad way--she could have died. However, it was so regular, it was almost normal. I had a sliding glass door to a little backyard outside my room. This was my escape route, if it got really bad I would get out of my room through the sliding glass door and go to a friend's house. But how does a 2 year old determine if it is "really bad"?
You know, when you live something regularly it becomes a norm. Well, this all became a norm. I was a happy child, a bit more adult like than necessary, but I am sure that was my coping mechanism. Even when I would go to my room to play with my Barbie dolls and each of them had their heads ripped off (done by my mom's boyfriend), I would just put them back on and move forward. Maybe at first I was upset by this--even got in trouble until my mom realized it wasn't me--but I grew out of it.
To be continued...
I was going potty... Yeah, going potty. I was potty trained early, so this was not a new feat for me. While sitting there, the door opens and in walks my mom's boyfriend. He was a mean guy when he wanted to be and he had a very scary presence about him. He was angry; very angry. He told me that I had to fold my toilet paper in perfect squares. Take off a square, fold it over, fold it over again. I think the idea was that he didn't want me to waste toilet paper, but it went beyond that--it had to be folded properly. He sat in the bathroom to ensure I followed his directions and from that point forward he would pop in every now and then to check my work when I went to perch on the bathroom throne.
Now, this memory sticks with me, and has since I was very small. To this day, I still have to fold my toilet paper into a square. I don't do it on purpose, but I find that each time I visit the restroom, it just happens.
If I reflect back, I am sure my following the directions was out of fear. He was scary. He would be in a perfectly fine mood and then all of a sudden start throwing glasses. Shattering glass brings chills to my spine still. He would yell, grab my mom, throw her down, pinch, bite--you name it. I was taught to run to my room.
Even in the sanctuary of my room, the screams and yells hit me. I was terrified. I didn't realize at the time that something could have really happened to my mom--he hurt her in a bad way--she could have died. However, it was so regular, it was almost normal. I had a sliding glass door to a little backyard outside my room. This was my escape route, if it got really bad I would get out of my room through the sliding glass door and go to a friend's house. But how does a 2 year old determine if it is "really bad"?
You know, when you live something regularly it becomes a norm. Well, this all became a norm. I was a happy child, a bit more adult like than necessary, but I am sure that was my coping mechanism. Even when I would go to my room to play with my Barbie dolls and each of them had their heads ripped off (done by my mom's boyfriend), I would just put them back on and move forward. Maybe at first I was upset by this--even got in trouble until my mom realized it wasn't me--but I grew out of it.
To be continued...
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