I knew I was in trouble when I heard the door close. Deep trouble. I sat on the side of the bed and waited, being ever so quiet, and waited. I began building the wall. I knew what was going to happen. I sat and waited. I would not wait long. I did not know what to expect, but I knew it would be bad, - I would pay dearly for my bad judgment, and there was nothing to stop that from happening. Nothing.
The door opened slowly, quietly. I could hear the strength that went into her grip on the door handle. There was no noise, -no creaking, no barreling into the wall behind it, just quiet. It was then I realized I had stirred an anger that would crash down on my head, literally. What the hell do you think you're playing at? The first blow was not as hard as I had expected, it was more of a slap really, not too bad at all. That's when I knew I had crossed a line that I would dearly regret, and it would not take long. I slipped myself off the side of the bed and tried to curl up beside it on the floor. I could block the force of the blows better if I huddled up. The shouting began. Who do you think you are going behind my back? Did you think I wouldn't know? I said nothing, that would have been throwing gas on the fire, and I knew enough not to open my mouth. I would not be talking my way out of this one, and as mad as she was, it was not going to be anything but bad. I was right.
I imagined a big heavy brick in my hand. Beside it, a big yellow bucket. It was full of mortar, ready to set up, not too thick and not too soupy. I scooped out a thick coat of mortar and flopped it on to the brick. It had to be thick and strong. This was my wall and it would have to serve me well. It would be the only protection I would have. I had already built it many layers high and thick, it would not be knocked down or blown over. It was my wall and I would need it to survive. I could not have been more right.
Her yelling became nothing more than noise. I would not need to remember what was said, it did not matter. The message was loud and clear. She only paused between the blows long enough to suck in a breath, to gather enough momentum to strike again. I said nothing. That was the best way to help myself; it would only have made her more angry and vengeful. She was doing a good job without me adding to it. I remember that somehow I had squeezed myself into a ball that was strong enough to push the bedside table away from the side of the bed as I pushed myself into its space. She grabbed my hair and pulled me out into the open, the blows continued. As she got tired, she grabbed me by the arm and yanked me towards the door, - towards the hall.
I knew what was coming and I began to beg, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please don't make me go in there! All the while I knew what was going to happen and no amount of begging would ever change that. The best I could do was to block the blows I could, and not provoke her any further. I reached into the pile of bricks in my mind and started piling on the mortar, nice and thick. After a few minutes, I felt the blows less and less. I went numb and quietly stacked my bricks on the wall. Lots of mortar, lots of mortar, brick and mortar..
I knew where I was going, and I knew what that meant. I heard the hallway closet door open. I remember it struck my leg as it opened outward. I was clumsily pulled around it as she gripped my arm. I was trying to shield my head. She had a tight hold on my arm and in the process, had also managed to have a good grip on my long hair. It had become entangled in her grip on my wrist as she pulled me. I tried to keep my head close to my wrist because she was pulling so hard, but I knew not to let her have enough room to land a better blow. I was aware of my brother watching from the door way of his room. He did no move or say a word. He saw it all, but would never interfere or barter for my cause. He knew he would not have the same fate. Never. He was the "Golden child and he could do no wrong. I quietly learned to resent him. His lies would guarantee more of the same for me, and it did quite often.
Once I was shoved into the closet, there would be another round of blows. Their direction would get more and more random, landing where ever they happened to fall. I don't know where the horse strap came from, but I was acutely aware of its part in my beating. It was long and thick and had holes in it for the buckle to fit in to. It was long enough that it stung bitterly when it hit. Again, I mudded up anotherbrick and put it into my wall. Over and over, the bricks went into the wall. Over and over, brick and mortar, brick and mortar There was no pattern for the amount of time I would be in the closet, it varied with the intrusion my presence made, and the amount of agitation it caused. I could guarantee a good throttling if I had over stepped my bounds, which I seemed to do daily.
I knew the worst beatings came from the attention my dad showed me. I loved so dearly his attention and the love he projected in it. I felt so very loved when I looked in his eyes, he was my dad and I was his baby girl. The more attention he gave me, the worse the throttling. I knew I should not have said anything to him. I should not have expected him to help me. I knew he would not rescue me, but yet I always waited for him to come through. I was the little girl he wanted and loved, so surely he would help me if I could just tell him what was happening. I just knew he would scoop me up and make everything all better. She would stop hitting me. I just had to tell him she was hurting me. Surely, he would see the bruises, anyone could. I might have been an awkward little girl, but he had to realize all those cuts and bruises weren't from being clumsy. I just only need to tell him I never guessed that would be the absolute worst thing I could ever have done. I assumed he would grab me up and hold me tight, and so keep me so close to him that it would never happen again.
I am not sure which hurt worse, the physical beating, or the realization that dad had told her everything I had said to him. He would not be my ally. He would deal me the hardest and most painful blow I would ever receive, and he did it without ever putting a finger on me. That was the one thing I always wanted, -for him to wrap me in his arms and hold me close, to be my daddy and to let me continue to be his pride and joy. It was not to be, ever. It must have been then that the little girl I remember being ceased to exist. The rest of the memories are all sad and dark for that little girl I once was. The only evidence that she actually existed within me is the huge wall I have built in my heart that runs straight through to my soul. I grew up building my wall, so tall and thick, that even I can't see over it. All the hurt and sadness is there, behind that wall.
Now I am a grown woman. I did not abuse as I had been abused. I told my children everyday how much I loved them. Perhaps, I gave them the love and affection that I once craved so deeply. My great sin? The deed that brought the wrath of hell upon me? To have been born to a mother who did not want another child and to a father who would not stand up for me, to plain and simply want me enough to rescue me. I can not convey the emotional scars I am still sorting out so many years later, but, with help, I am learning to face them. It is time for me to face my wall and to start removing the bricks that not only keep me from being hurt again, but that have kept me from feeling at all. I built my wall, quite strong and tall, but now the bricks are crumbling down on me. Each brick that falls holds a memory. Now it is time to sort them all out. They demand to be seen and I am finally becoming strong enough, with the help of a good therapist, to face them and to take the wall down, - one brick at a time. One day at a time, and one brick at a time.