Post 3: "Life Will Go On"
Age 5
Age 2, when the "troubles" began
“It is a poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.” Mother Teresa
During this time of chaos, when I was still very young, at the cusp of word and memory, I was sexually molested by my oldest brother Sean. This would continue for four, maybe six years. Nobody in my immediate family knew about it. They would not know for 15 years. Sean said, “This is our secret game.” If I said anything, bad things would happen to our family. As bad things were happening to the family, I acquired an enduring trait of Feeling Responsible for All Things Terrible. Young children naturally believe this: I just ratcheted it up a few pegs. I was the reason for dad leaving. I caused the toilet to clog and for mom to be late for work. If the Cleveland Indians baseball team lost a ballgame, it was because I was present. Since they were close to last place in the standings for years during my childhood, I was very impressed by my aversive powers.
At some point Sean informed me that “this ‘game’ is a baby making game.” I was delighted at the notion of having younger sibling. So I just very casually, comme ci comme ca, asked mom if it would be OK if we had a baby brother or sister. She responded along the lines of “over my dead body.” That response made me break out in a cold sweat. Since Sean babysat me often, we would often go out for walks. Sean would remind me “step on a crack, break your mother’s back” then he would pick me up and put my feet right on all the sidewalk cracks. I peed my pants by the time we got home. He was laughing and I was crying. Didn’t he know our mother was in mortal danger? When mom came home I gave her an extra good back rub to check if anything was broken. She looked at me askance; like, what did you get into now?
It was rough going, making sure I didn’t jinx anybody. I felt I was plagued by the “Minus Touch.” Everyone I came in contact with would suffer as a result. I was convinced I was the cause of toothaches, bad breath, brown grass and overcooked meatloaf. Add to this a kid with no knowledge of the mechanics of conception and pregnancy. So until I was twelve, I believed I held the Guinness Book of World Records for the Longest Pregnancy on Earth. For eight years I believed a baby was going to pop out of me at any moment.
One day, out of the blue, an alien would rip a hole and funnel through my belly button, pouring guts and blood on my mother’s clean linoleum floor. I knew that would piss her off to no end – she would yell, “Now look at the mess you did to my floor! It’s going to take an hour to clean this crap up. Don’t just stand there; get some towels – not the good ones – and some Ajax. And put that thing in the basket! Christ, if I didn’t have enough to do!”
I prayed it would happen at school. “Excuse me, Sister, may I use the restroom please? I think I’m going to pass an alien.” Then I could leave the evidence in the bathroom for the janitor to find. More to the point, on that day I would be the cause of my mother’s death and I was going straight to hell as the most wicked child on the planet who cursed a baseball team into a thirty-year slump.
Or I hoped for a happy conclusion at the seventh inning stretch during an Indians baseball game at the Municipal Stadium. The stadium seated over 70,000, but actually drew about 6,000, on a typical night. So I figured while people were singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” I could sneak away to a deserted corner, produce the child, and voila! Break the losing streak. Then Buddy Bell would get up and hit a grand slam home run and set the Tribe on the way to the World Series.
From religion class I had vivid images of the Day of Judgment. God Almighty, like a bookie, would open the Book of Wrongdoing and Calamities and run his big, fat finger down the ledger. That pudgy finger would stop at my name and tsk, tsk, in front of the billions of people who have ever been born on earth. Then an outraged God would solemnly declare before assembled humanity the unspeakable sins I had committed and those unmentionable games I had played. Men would spit and curse. Women would faint. Children would blush and hide. And God would pluck my sorry ass and fling me into the lake of fire, where I would sizzle like hair caught in a curling iron for eternity.
I was haunted with this vision for years. Even when I knew no baby was coming, Judgment Day remained fixed in my head, the shame and sense of worthlessness was inbred in me as were the freckles on my skin.
Notes:
http://www.verybestquotes.com/150-mother-teresa-quotes/#sthash.2twDajUH.dpuf
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
During this time of chaos, when I was still very young, at the cusp of word and memory, I was sexually molested by my oldest brother Sean. This would continue for four, maybe six years. Nobody in my immediate family knew about it. They would not know for 15 years. Sean said, “This is our secret game.” If I said anything, bad things would happen to our family. As bad things were happening to the family, I acquired an enduring trait of Feeling Responsible for All Things Terrible. Young children naturally believe this: I just ratcheted it up a few pegs. I was the reason for dad leaving. I caused the toilet to clog and for mom to be late for work. If the Cleveland Indians baseball team lost a ballgame, it was because I was present. Since they were close to last place in the standings for years during my childhood, I was very impressed by my aversive powers.
At some point Sean informed me that “this ‘game’ is a baby making game.” I was delighted at the notion of having younger sibling. So I just very casually, comme ci comme ca, asked mom if it would be OK if we had a baby brother or sister. She responded along the lines of “over my dead body.” That response made me break out in a cold sweat. Since Sean babysat me often, we would often go out for walks. Sean would remind me “step on a crack, break your mother’s back” then he would pick me up and put my feet right on all the sidewalk cracks. I peed my pants by the time we got home. He was laughing and I was crying. Didn’t he know our mother was in mortal danger? When mom came home I gave her an extra good back rub to check if anything was broken. She looked at me askance; like, what did you get into now?
It was rough going, making sure I didn’t jinx anybody. I felt I was plagued by the “Minus Touch.” Everyone I came in contact with would suffer as a result. I was convinced I was the cause of toothaches, bad breath, brown grass and overcooked meatloaf. Add to this a kid with no knowledge of the mechanics of conception and pregnancy. So until I was twelve, I believed I held the Guinness Book of World Records for the Longest Pregnancy on Earth. For eight years I believed a baby was going to pop out of me at any moment.
One day, out of the blue, an alien would rip a hole and funnel through my belly button, pouring guts and blood on my mother’s clean linoleum floor. I knew that would piss her off to no end – she would yell, “Now look at the mess you did to my floor! It’s going to take an hour to clean this crap up. Don’t just stand there; get some towels – not the good ones – and some Ajax. And put that thing in the basket! Christ, if I didn’t have enough to do!”
I prayed it would happen at school. “Excuse me, Sister, may I use the restroom please? I think I’m going to pass an alien.” Then I could leave the evidence in the bathroom for the janitor to find. More to the point, on that day I would be the cause of my mother’s death and I was going straight to hell as the most wicked child on the planet who cursed a baseball team into a thirty-year slump.
Or I hoped for a happy conclusion at the seventh inning stretch during an Indians baseball game at the Municipal Stadium. The stadium seated over 70,000, but actually drew about 6,000, on a typical night. So I figured while people were singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” I could sneak away to a deserted corner, produce the child, and voila! Break the losing streak. Then Buddy Bell would get up and hit a grand slam home run and set the Tribe on the way to the World Series.
From religion class I had vivid images of the Day of Judgment. God Almighty, like a bookie, would open the Book of Wrongdoing and Calamities and run his big, fat finger down the ledger. That pudgy finger would stop at my name and tsk, tsk, in front of the billions of people who have ever been born on earth. Then an outraged God would solemnly declare before assembled humanity the unspeakable sins I had committed and those unmentionable games I had played. Men would spit and curse. Women would faint. Children would blush and hide. And God would pluck my sorry ass and fling me into the lake of fire, where I would sizzle like hair caught in a curling iron for eternity.
I was haunted with this vision for years. Even when I knew no baby was coming, Judgment Day remained fixed in my head, the shame and sense of worthlessness was inbred in me as were the freckles on my skin.
Notes:
http://www.verybestquotes.com/150-mother-teresa-quotes/#sthash.2twDajUH.dpuf
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
LAST JUDGMENT