. . .And What Am I To You Mommy?

The inspiration for this came from one of the morning reality programs that so many of us watch.


And what am I to you Mommy?


Mom had left when I was very young. She had been crying again and Dad had shouted and slapped her “until she shut up!” He had said those words to her over and over again. I always wondered how he thought she would stop if he was hurting her more and more, but now I am older, I too have learned to be quiet while the violence is still raining down on you. Survival leads us to learn some harsh lessons, but as a child I could not comprehend such capabilities of the human mind. Eventually Mom was quiet while he hit her. He then held her and told her she was a “good girl and he loved her even though she made him do terrible things to her.” The look in her eyes at that moment is still with me now. Mom was an animal. There was a mixture of fear and anger, only overshadowed by the hatred she was nurturing as he sat with her.

He had fallen asleep in the lounge later in the evening. Mom was busy upstairs. I could hear cupboards and wardrobes being opened and closed as I crept up the stairs.

“Mommy needs some kisses.” I thought as I opened the door to her room. “I will love her better, and when I am bigger we will run away like they do on the TV and live somewhere else with a Daddy who loves us and a house full of laughter and singing.” My mind was creating a whole new world for Mommy and me. I thought about the times we would enjoy, playing games and talking without whispers and furtive peeks through windows to make sure he hadn’t crept into the house to spy on us. If he caught us being happy or enjoying our time without him, there would follow the most horrendous beating for Mommy, and I would have to stand over her as she lay broken on the floor and tell her I hated her, tell her she was a bad Mommy and no-one loved her. Mommy always said she knew I didn’t mean it. She could hear him threaten me with the same belt she had just seen. I always hoped that Mommy never cried thinking that I really did ever feel like that about her. Sometimes, even now, I wonder if she remembered those times and thought that I must have felt it to say it. We were both like frightened little children with a wicked master in control of our lives. The difference for Mom was that her body was that of a 20-something year old woman, while I truly was a little child.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what Mommy was doing! All her possessions were in two suitcases on the bed. She was actually going to do it! Get us out of there and get us far away from him and his hell.

“Oh Mommy, thank you! Thank you! We’re going aren’t we? Yippee!” I whispered as I had learned over the years. I would not have dared to wake him! This was the bravest thing we had ever done. If he were to wake . . . Well . . . We would never ever forget this moment. He would punish us forever and a day.

“I can’t take you Rosie.” Mommy was staring at the suitcase as she spoke. “I will have to go first and find somewhere for us.” The words were not really sinking in and I thought I had heard wrong. I thought it was the excitement and the fear in the room distorting the words as they left Mommy’s mouth.

“You’ll be ok here for a couple of weeks, honey. I will get a job and a place to stay. Then I’ll come and get you”

The room started to move. The window that was directly in front of me started to bend and twist, moving backwards towards the street behind it. The walls to each side melted as they too lent backwards stretching like elastic. I was not old enough to know what was happening! My eyes felt huge and round and sore and red and scared. I tried to focus on Mommy, tried to re-arrange her words until they said “I love you, let’s go, now!”

“Mommy, Mommy, don’t leave me! Please Mommy!”

My whisper was beginning to crack and Mom Shhh’d me, glaring at me with a look that said a million things. I think I wet myself, I don’t need to tell you that, but that was the fear in my little body, giving itself away and stopping any normal body action or control in its path. Mommy was at the door. She hadn’t even kissed me. She just said she would be back and I was not to annoy Daddy and I was to be a good girl until she came to get me. The words “good girl” made me feel sick. They were the words he used! They were the words that made Mommy look like she wanted to kill him! Why had she said those words to me? Was it some kind of warning? As she went through the front door, I realized I was alone with him. I realized he would wake and there was only me here. I realized I had better be a good girl . . . and quickly! Life was going to be harder still for the next week or two!

I am 23 in three weeks. I am a grown woman, am a woman who has made her way in the world. I have a good job, a good home, a good man and a good life in general which I fill with friends and people who are original if not odd. I love them – I love my life! I am very happy and very lucky! I am almost well-adjusted, if not a little laid-back. I can forgive anything of anyone except violence. It is a pet hate I nurture, and I spend a lot of my spare time helping mothers with young children escape from nasty evil little men who bully and batter the only people he feels superior to, and by that I mean his poor wife and children! Most of these little excuses for men hate me. I make it personal between us. I make sure they know that they are finished with their ways and they are on their way to prison if I can help it where they can be bullied just as they have bullied. They can be abused just as they have abused.

So, Ok, I may have a little pocket of bitterness in my mind somewhere that feeds this little joy I feel from seeing these men crawl and cower from the attention they receive from Social Services and other bodies who are interested in his abuse of his family. But today it all came to a stop! Today I became 7 years old again, I wet myself! I didn’t have to tell you that, but . . .

Mommy has had a book published!

She smiled at me over and over and over from the window of W.H Smith on the High Street. Book after book showed Mommy smiling a soft focus smile. Almost angelic, she stared intently out from the shop, looking for the entire world like a Hollywood star. Each perfectly placed hair was bleached blonde, but she still looked just like Mommy . . . except . . . what was it? Something was missing . . . I thought back in a flash to her words “Good girl, good girl” she had said. God, yes, I know what it was! She had no bruises, had no swellings around her eyes. I had never seen Mommy without the green and blue highlights around her cheeks that she tried so hard to hide with make up on the rare occasion she went outside. In fact she looked younger in the photograph than she did on the day she left.

I sat trying to relax.

“It’s just another book,” I thought to myself “I can just read it like I read any book. If she explains herself then all well and good and if she does not then I am no worse of than I am at this minute.” My hand shook as I turned the first page, the spine was stubborn and I needed to fold the book back upon itself to keep it open.

“Oh well, here goes!” My feet perched themselves under me and I settled into the read of my life!

Except it wasn’t, it was the most pretentious piece of pseudo-psycho babble I have ever had the mis-fortune of spending more than 30 seconds with. This woman was a far cry from the beaten broken wreck I remembered. I was physically uncomfortable from the start to finish. Gone were the parents she had that drank their way through a small fortune. Gone was the husband who took his temper out on her face and body daily. Gone was the Mother who had a child that she left with a promise of returning in two weeks to save. This woman had been born to angels and raised by fairies according to her memories.

It had taken me a few days to fully digest the implications of this, her finest work. I had to think very carefully before I dived into rash actions. I wanted to hurt her so much! I wanted to watch her crumble, just as she did when Daddy hit her! I wanted to make her cry! After years of coping with my own history, I found myself wanting to be as horrid and hateful as the man I wished to death. I knew deep in my heart that I had to raise myself above the emotions and the pain I was feeling. If I could just do it one last time.

Mommy was appearing on a TV show on a dark, wet and windy morning. The tickets were not hard to obtain, especially with the amount of work I had done for various charities. I found myself with a ticket right in the front row, directly in front of the chair Mommy would soon sit on. My body was shaking and I tried to breathe slowly and deeply.

“Soon, soon it will be done and everyone will have a front row seat to the finale of my life waiting for Mommy.” Eventually the show got underway, and Mommy sat and honored a whole army of spirits and dead people and people not yet born. She must have a brilliant memory to retain all their names and attributes. It was funny how she couldn’t remember one little girl. The host came to the audience and asked if there were any questions. I waited my turn, and stood, shaking.

“And what am I Mommy? Where did I fit in to all this?”

I think for years to come the image of my Mom’s face as she looked and realized who I was will be played over and over again on programs. She nearly fell out of the chair. I know that if there had been one slight hint of love or remorse on her face, I would have loved her all over again, but there was nothing, just nothing that gave her an aura of humanity.

They say that it is how Mommy dealt with the life and hurt she suffered. They say that it is quite common for women to re-invent themselves to hide the misery and pain. So, maybe I understand a little, but she will never meet her grandchildren and she will never come to know a loving and safe family.

(1974 words)