I can attest to any display of tears seemed to always rile my abuser resulting in a more sustained attack. At a certain point you learn to become wooden without any display of emotion except of acceptance. After all, you must deserve to be beaten, the silence broken only by the sound the weapon used against you meets your flesh and perhaps a grunt from the inflictor brought on by their exertion. The shame is nothing much has changed in the years following my escape from such abuse in the case of children who are at risk except the growing statistics of those who have died from their hellish neglect and abuse.
I can remember so well when my dad got his belt, I'd steel myself, vowing not to give him the satisfaction of hearing my screams. I became good at it, and when it got (bloody) I'd get scared and if I didn't pass out, I'd pretend to. He'd stand there staring down at me before moving to my brother's room, and I knew the importance of staying down when I was knocked down.
My brother Steven though, he always got it worse than I, and his screams were and remain the worst sounds I've ever heard. I'd tell him to just lay limp and close his eyes, but he never did. Broken ribs often resulted because he wouldn't just... well, lay dead as it were. Dad wore steel toed boots and the horror of hearing Steven scream for me, or for Mom... were beyond horrific.
I say that to say this: This damnable day was the day (6/25) my brother ended his life with a shotgun. Nobody can tell me it wasn't a direct result of having been shown so much pain...been told SO many times he was worthless, a fucking disappointment...well hell, he believed it. He had zero self confidence, rarely met anyone's eyes; always looking down as though he'd done something wrong. He got through two years college, was a hell of a musician. ..but he only seemed to hear Dad's words...God it was so obvious.
These weren't punishments for bad behavior. They just meant Dad was home. I can hear my brother's voice so clearly even now going, "Was that Dad's truck?" Then, always, "Is he mad?" I hated saying yes because of how Steven's face would be just...
just all fear. He had this frantic look, then a sort of panic, then he'd try pleading... oh God when that...when that's someone you love... oh God it hurts.
My point is this: Just because there's no casket doesn't mean there's been no loss of life. It may not happen in infancy or childhood, but you cannot take a child's confidence, his worth, his very will to live away and expect no repercussions.
It's gonna come up...whether they ever mention it or not...it's in there. And it's still hurting... and killing.
No way were we the only kids living in Hell then, no chance there's no pathetic excuse of a mother taping up broken ribs so her child won't miss school. And God help me, but somewhere a little girl's rage grows inside her as she hears her brother's screams for ...mercy. Not a toy or a phone or a certain cereal at the market... just mercy.
My brother got his 12 years ago today. I still forget he's gone sometimes. When a well-meaning someone mentions how he "took his life"... I don't bother correcting them, but I know. Steven's life was taken slowly, brutally, by a monster I still call Dad.
Child abuse is so much more than what we see. I know, I watched it happen. What I don't know is the answer to this epidemic-level war on children. Judges need to consider this when sentencing these monsters. Let's stop pretending the child is healed when the bruises are gone.
And just because he's now forever silent, doesn't mean I don't still hear those screams, and they'll always be there, clear as six-year-old me heard them, same as these children will always hear them.
I wanna put, "And the band played on..." But I can't. We put these judges in their robes. And we can vote the lenient ones the hell out of office, damn the torpedoes and campaign funds. If any of us isnt paying attention to which judges get real, we're all going to pay. I wish there was more I could do, but damn its better than many are doing. Write letters preventing parole, write to anyone who'll listen (I do... its therapeutic as hell) -- and speak for those who were unable to speak for themselves. It won't change the world, but it sure won't hurt.
**Apologies for my ridiculously long posts... I swear I try to edit. Clearly, I should try much harder! I am sorry, though. --TJ