by miskin69
(cont.)
I had been about to enter the bathroom when my mother approached me with the inch-thick padded bearing her last name.
“You will go to church with me,” she stated.
“No, I won’t.” I sat upon the carpet and crossed my legs like a Buddhist monk placing himself upon the pyre of flames.
Perhaps my mother had needed a friend too, wanted me to be with her at church so she would not feel so alone. May she craved what my brother, three years younger, could not provide, that which I her daughter could only give.
My mother hit my back with the paddle then again and again.
After some time I did not feel the pain. It would take the black and blue bruises longer to disappear than my growing numb to the hits and impact of the inch-thick piece of wood.
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This is very deep and thought provoking. It takes a lot of courage and bravery to reveal and perhaps relive old wounds.
My mother also beat me with the “switch” my father’s belt and later threw things at me, but now as an adult I chalk it up to her schizophrenia. We never argued about church because neither of my parents were religious and never went to church but I suppose being in the throes of mental illness and self-medicating with alcohol skewed her child rearing skills.
Still I miss my Mom to this day. I think about the woman she became or rather returned to once she was forced to take her medications. Then my mother became the Mom I knew as a very young girl.
As always Thanks for sharing.
DeBorah Ann Palmer´s last blog post ..I’m Still Here