“My 4 year old self”

Some of my earliest memories were when I was probably four years old. Those memories include Mom being in bed with what she called “a sick headache.” Much later, I learned this was a debilitating depression. The room would be dark and quiet with a cold cloth on her forehead. We were not allowed to make any noise, and often, we were to go outside and play. For hours and hours, we were not allowed to go near her for any reason. To make sure we would stay out when Mom was sick, the home would be locked. Darkness and hunger would finally bring us to beg to be let into the house. Before my Dad would get home from work, my Mom would drag herself up to get Supper on the table for him, or he would get furious.

The moment Dad came in, a beer would be in his hand until the following day when he again left for work. After Supper, I vividly remember him sitting beside the house in a lawn chair, drinking one beer after another. Sometimes I would slip up from behind and drink from the can sitting on the ground beside him. I knew he knew, but he never said a word to me.

Although Dad did drink a lot, he never missed work, Always had a beautiful lawn, and was known for having the best garden in the entire county. We were in that garden too, morning and evening, and there had better not be one weed left, or we would be back there until it was spotless. By us, I mean my two older sisters and me. We were doing as much of the lawn and garden as he was. I can remember mowing when I couldn’t even see over the top of the mower handles.

Life was difficult. Funny thing, though, I didn’t know that at the time. This life was all I knew. A poor existence. A tiny house that was hot in the Summer and freezing in the Winter. My sisters and I would carry coal in 5-gallon buckets to make fires in that old fireplace to try and stay warm. I was barely big enough to drag that heavy bucket across the lawn, but I somehow managed to do my part, or I would suffer the consequences.

My sister Beverly was the oldest of three girls; she often played the role of Mom to Wendy and me. Being 14 years older, Bev became our Mom. As I stated before, Mom was often not well enough to take on that role, even though it was her responsibility; whatever it takes is what Moms are supposed to do, right? I was always furious at her for that, among other things that can be shared later. She (Bev) made sure we had something to eat, even when there was not much in the house for us. She would ensure we had our bath, clean clothes, and hair washed. Most of the time, that was out of a dish tub using creek water and on the front porch. She somehow managed to get us to school every morning. God knows I didn’t make that easy.

Wendy was the middle child, battling weight problems, wearing old clothes, and extremely shy. One of these things alone could cause you to be a target for bullying, all three making the kids ruthless. She was put on the bus every morning, crying hysterically. I was the youngest child and only 18 months younger than her; I took on the role of protector. I was the tough one taking on all the bullies and trying to protect Wendy. The truth is, we were both made fun of because we were poor.

Most of our home life consisted of Mom yelling at Dad for drinking when she wasn’t in bed. He would end up leaving, sometimes for days at a time. When he did come in, usually in the middle of the night, stumbling over things, fell drunk, cursed, and generally vomited all over the place. Then the fighting with Mom would start. If Wendy and I did anything to make noise or talk and laugh, Dad would come to us throw back the covers with belt In hand, and we were made to be sorry for our actions. To add to the pain, I was a bed wetter, so that belt hurt so much more on wet skin! The bed-wetting, too, was a whole story on its own.

I should also mention how terrified Mom was of storms. When Dad would be gone, and it stormed, Mom would make us get up in the middle of the night when it was storming, get dressed, and sit in a corner with our hands over our head and ears, bending over in a fetal position. When the lightning came, we knew that the big claps of thunder would send her into hysterics.

Back to that 4-year-old, the day she was dropped off at her grandmother’s house to spend the next month of her life alone without either parent or sibling. That ”sick headache ” finally landed her Mother an extended stay in a Psychiatric Hospital hundreds of miles away. That little girl had no clue as to why she was being left. She was even more confused in the Months Ahead while enduring even more trauma from that Grandmother. She made to sleep on a cold floor in the middle of Winter without even a cover because she wet the bed. A fire that would go out before morning, and a little girl waking to an empty house because her grandmother thought it was funny to leave her alone with nothing to eat and no electricity. For hours, sometimes even the entire day, she didn’t know where her Grandmother was. Other times she would hide behind doors pretending to be gone, to jump out and scare her. Saying it was a good lesson for her. She remembers being afraid she was never coming back and equally scared she would.

I am leaving things out for now. This is the first time I have been frank about my childhood. Believe it or not, things became much worse over the years. I was 11 years old when my Dad was killed; things spiraled out of control.

I am secretly hoping no one in my family, or anybody I know, read this. I know there are lots of us out there that have had painful childhoods and subsequent traumatic lives… Telling my story and hoping it helps someone else to heal their old wounds can and will be worth the uncomfortableness and the fear of being judged for who I am. Ginger 💜�