Growing up in my generation kids got spanked. Yes, there were those abusive parents who went too far, but usually you only got a swat when you are misbehaving or acting out. At about age 10ish the idea of “hug don’t hit” your child came in, and this new ugly view of spanking as discipline really took hold. I consider Danielle to be in the middle when it comes to spanking. It’s was more of a last resort for her, my stepfather, CJ, on the other hand loved to dish out belt whippings. I avoided them at all costs.
Me? I feel discipline is necessary for children, but outright hitting your child in anger or frustration is damaging to the child. It teachers poor anger management to the child, and they are more likely to lash out as they grow up. I mean you are teaching them, when you get mad you hit things or people. If you are going to use a spanking to punish a child it should be done in a more calm disciplinary manner or not at all.
Okay, why am I talking about spanking? Because I’m on the fence about something. I don’t have a normal--what would be considered normal--scale of which to compare the messed-up-ness of parts of my childhood. Was it extreme? Was it abusive? Over the top? Average? Standard? I simply don’t know because I grew-up in a different world than most people, and I’m on the fence about this memory. I think I deserved half of what I got because I did do something wrong. However, when I told my husband this story he said it was all extreme and brutal. Why not put it out in the world and see what everyone else thinks. For me, I believe I truly deserved it because I was raised to believe I was a troubled child. An awful kid, problem child, ect. Felt like I was always in trouble for something, even if it wasn’t my fault. I grew up on eggshells, and this is an example of why.
It was summer and I was about seven years old, we lived with CJ’s parents while he was attending the police academy. It was kind of nice, different because I was used to living in California, but CJ’s parents were nice people and he was gone most of the time. Danielle started working at a nearby Denny’s. I don’t believe she did it so much to bring in extra money, as to relive the boredom and stress of taking care of three kids. Plus, built in babysitting living with grandma and grandpa. At this point my brother was nearly 2 and my sister not even 1 yet. They had these big piggy banks, plastic, in the shape of Big Bird and Cookie Monster. Coins and change that the grandparents gave us went into them, and Danielle would empty all her change from waitressing into those piggy banks.
I had one too. Not anything special, just a pig shaped bank. I don’t even remember what color it was, but I do remember begging Danielle for some change to put into my bank. She never gave me any. Nope, all of it went to two babies that knew nothing about money. Like a 7 year old has a grasp on money, even though I thought I did and it still stung that they got all the change coming into the house. How was a girl supposed to save money in a house like that? Their banks were so damn full I could hardly lift them at that age, and Sam and Chet only played with the banks because they were Sesame Street characters. Silly babies, you don’t play with piggy banks.
I’m not saying I was right, but some background was needed before I tell you that I did take money out of those banks. When no one was paying attention I would sneak whatever coins I could out of those banks and into mine. I wanted to have a heavy bank too. A 7 year old is not a criminal mastermind, and it wasn’t long before I got caught. In the dumbest way too.
Danielle was off on a Saturday, it was hot and the middle of summer. Luckily CJ’s parents had a pool, so I pestered Danielle to invite the cousins over to swim. I was bored. While she was in her room getting the babies ready before our guests arrived, she noticed that Chet’s piggy bank was lighter than usual. Normally he could barely move it while playing, now he was picking it up. I said, “Oh, yeah. It is light. Here, he can have some of mine.”
I went down to the second story to my room, brought my piggy bank back up to their room on the 3rd floor, and gave (gave back) some of the change I snuck out of his piggy bank. Danielle confronted me about my, now, heavy bank and I crumbled to a confession in seconds (the woman terrified me my whole life). I admitted to taking the money from the babies, and when she asked why I told her. “I wanted a heavy bank too. I just wanted some change too.”
To which she responded, “That’s not good enough, Jacqulene! You’re a thief! Criminals go to jail!”
I begged her not to send me to jail. She had no sympathy or understanding as to why I took some of the money. It’s not like I took all of it, and I had no were to spend it. We also never got allowances. Danielle’s waitress change was all we ever received, besides the random couch cushion change.
Danielle scream, yelled, and scolded me until the cousins arrived. Then she asked them to watch my brother and sister downstairs in the living room. I was taken to my bedroom, ordered to remove my shorts (I was wearing a pair of shorts over my swimsuit), and spanked my ass until her arm was tired or her anger waned. Not sure which it was. Afterward, me still in my swimsuit ready to put the whole thing behind us, Danielle picked me up and threw me on the top bunk of my bunk beds. I was ordered to stay on that bed until she came back for me, then she took everyone else outside to go swimming.
I screamed. . . cried. . . screamed some more, and at some point I started wailing about how I wanted to die. Yelling through sobs about how sorry I was, and I didn’t want to live. When I heard Uncle Chet (CJ’s father) come home, I screamed louder hoping he or anyone, would save me.
No one came. . . no one cared.
Instead I cried and screamed myself into exhaustion, and fell asleep with puffy eyes and a throbbing headache. It was after dark when Danielle woke me up for dinner. The straight lines on her face let me know she was still mad about the money. She spoke softly, and lead me downstairs to eat a plate of macaroni and cheese. When I asked for milk to drink with it, she growled and said, “you get water,” (I was never really allowed to drink milk or much of it at least, because it was for my brother and sister.) She acted as if getting me even a glass of water was a big inconvenience for her.
I ate my food and drank the water all while she sat across from me staring daggers, no one else in sight. I knew I was in trouble, even more trouble than before but no idea why. After I was finished she made me brush my teeth and then she took me back into my bedroom, and watched me dress for bed (I was still in my swimsuit). Her facial expression never changed, with each second I was growing more and more scared. I went to put my night pants on and she told me not to, then she closed my door and leaned in really close.
If there was one thing I disliked more than disappointing Danielle and getting in trouble, it was her breath. Danielle always had nasty breath, not as bad as CJ’s but still nasty. She was a smoker but chewed gum all the time to hide the smell. It didn’t work, you couldn’t tell her that though. To Danielle her breath was perfect and she farted roses.
In a calm, even tone, Danielle explained how extreme I had acted with my tantrum. She said that Uncle Chet had to hear all of it after a long day of work, and that was not acceptable. We do NOT draw attention to our family problems, even though we all lived in the same house. Aunt Joan and Uncle Chet were not to know what goes on in ‘our’ family. Then she ordered me not to scream or make a sound as she vented her anger on my ass for the second time that day.
I did my best to keep from crying out, and she mocked and shamed me when I started doing that crying hiccup thing kids do when they are really upset. Like it was a normal, average, everyday thing she helped me with my pajama pants and tucked me into bed. She opened my bedroom door, made sure the hall light was on, turned mine out and said she loved me and good night. I cried myself, silently, into exhaustion. I didn’t speak for two days afterward. Not even in school did I say a word, I simply sat there with an achy butt wondering why I was such an awful kid. I avoided Danielle as often as possible, and only came out of my room when she wasn’t around.
I started this entry wanting to know what people thought about this, if Danielle’s punishment was too extreme. I went into writing this with a defensive stance for Danielle, but why? Because she conditioned me to defend her, to not see these things as problems. To me, while I was in the throws of my old family--living with this abuse and Danielle--I saw her as a fair mom because she didn’t hit me every day. Things like this didn’t happen all the time, but they did happen. As I write this all out and look over it I realize, she was wrong and this is fucked up!
What parent makes their child feel the way I felt. Alone, left completely out. An outcast in a new house, with new people by their own family. By their own blood, by their mother. Singled out for some unknown reason while the other children are spoiled, fussed over, and can do no wrong most of the time.
Danielle would often say she loved all her child the same, that we were all equal. No, she didn’t. A realization I came to by age 10. When I would foolishly correct her and say something silly such as, “but Chet’s your favorite.” I was punished, so I tried to twist things to where her statement made sense. Telling myself she did love me equal to my brother and sister, and I told myself the punishments--her always being angry with me--the tough love and harsh standards I was given to live up to was how she loved me. I was special because I was singled out. How twisted is that?
Man, don’t I sound like a battered woman? Someone who gets trapped in an abusive relationship? Only instead of a spouse it’s my mother.
Don’t you often here abused women say, “he doesn’t hit me all the time. . .” That sounds like me with Danielle.
I started this entry not knowing if Danielle’s punishment was extreme for the crime I committed, I found my answer.
#abusiveparent #badmom #childabuse #spanking #punishment #domesticviolence #hardtruth
~JAX~
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