Nine Years Of Age And Too Terrified To Sleep

My father remarried when I was approximately seven years of age. He married a woman who had two children of her own. Her son was the same age as me and her daughter was a couple of years younger.

Meanwhile, my Father had three girls and I was the youngest.

Later they had a son together, so all in all this was a mixed family with six children.

Prior to meeting and marrying this woman, my sisters and I were living in a Children’s Home, so by remarrying we could live with my father full time. That’s got to be a good thing, right?

Unfortunately no!!!

As horrible as the Children’s Home was, it was better than living with Dad and his new wife, the stereotypical Step-Mother.

Within two years, my Step-Mother had me so terrified, that I was too scared to go to sleep at night, unless she had fallen asleep first. This was a horrifically terrifying time for a little nine year old girl.

I was young when Dad met and remarried and life had not been kind. To be placed in a children’s home and separated from my father and both my sisters was traumatic enough but it was nothing to what was in store for me when we moved back in with Dad and his new partner.

From the very first day, I could do no right by this woman. She made demands on me that I was not comfortable with, and unfortunately even at the young age of seven I was stubborn and fought back on the unfairness of it all — maybe that made it worse in the long run — but it was that strength that allowed me to survive, but not without long term battle scars.

It started with the little things, like she insisted I call her ‘Mum’. I, however refused and called her Mrs Millsteed instead. Every time I did so, I would get a whack across the back of my thighs with whatever was close by, usually some kitchen utensil or some such thing. If nothing close by, then I’d feel the sting of her hand. Still I refused to call her ‘Mum’ for quite some time but she gradually wore me down.

There were lots of these little battles between us but really what chance did I have in all this?

All these little battles added up to a mass of trauma for such a young child and as a result I was a bed wetter and usually had an ‘accident’ every single night. Of course, this became another punishable offence.

Every morning, before school, ‘Mum’ would brush my hair and it was at this time that I would feel the hairbrush across the back of my thighs if I had wet the bed the previous night. Always across the portion of my thighs that were hidden by my school skirt.

‘Mum’ took me to the doctors to get me treated for bed wetting but no solution was found. I was referred to a psychologist or psychiatrist, or some such professional but again no cure was found. Of course not, as ‘Mum’ sat in on every session.

I was prescribed some sort of capsule medication to be taken before bed every night but again that didn’t work. That could have something to do with the fact that I pulled the capsules apart, emptied the powder down the sink and then swallowed the empty capsules.

Why?

Because I knew the only reason I wet the bed was because I was too scared to get up and go to the toilet at night. I was awake and conscious when I wet the bed after holding on for as long as I could.

This was because I was convinced that ‘Mum’ would be waiting for me if I got out of bed. ‘Mum’ was my monster under my bed, in my closet and around every corner.

When nothing the medical community tried was able to stop my bed wetting, ‘Mum’ decided the punishment needed to be harsher and she was adamant this would make me stop.

I would still get the hairbrush across the back of the thighs, numerous times each morning but now I had to wash my own bedding before school each day and the washing machine was strictly out of bounds. It was now my responsibility to get up in the morning and hand wash my bedding and hang it outside on the line every morning, before I started to get ready for school.

I was also expected to bring the bedding in each afternoon and re-make my bed.

Every morning that I completed my new chores, I found the hairbrush against my thighs to be harder and consist of more repetitions than before.

It was for this reason that I stopped washing my bedding and instead hid them under my bed, as far back as I could possibly hide them and I would then sleep on the cold plastic that covered my mattress each night.

The other punishment I received was the new rule, whereby I was not allowed any form of liquid after 4pm each day. No drinks of water, no matter how thirsty I was or how much I begged. No ice-cream or watermelon for dessert but I was not allowed to leave the table and was made to watch while the other kids had their dessert.

By the time I was nine years old, this trauma and discipline had escalated to the point where I was so terrified I could not sleep.

At nine years of age, I had a bedtime of 7:30pm. I would lay in bed, on the cold plastic, with the bed covers pulled up tightly under my chin, no matter what season it was, even during the hot summers.

I would lay with my eyes on the door and not move, until I saw ‘Mum’ walk past my door, heading to her own bedroom, which happened to be next to mine. I would continue to watch the door until I could hear ‘Mum’ snoring in her bedroom.

That snoring was my cue. I could finally close my eyes and sleep. Tonight was not the night that ‘Mum’ was going to come into my bedroom and slit my throat, from ear to ear, with her self sharpening kitchen knife.

I had received a reprieve for one more night, but I was convinced that it must be tomorrow night that my life would end in such a gruesome manner.

I couldn’t afford to push my luck by leaving my bed to go to the bathroom in the night though, as I was sure she would be waiting. Therefore the bed wetting continued and I was the only person in my world that knew why.

It was not until I was eleven years of age that I stopped wetting the bed, seemingly overnight. However there was a very good reason for that miraculous event.

We moved from the city to a large country town and the house we moved into consisted of an outdoor toilet, separated from the rest of the house. It was for this reason I now deemed it safe to leave my bed to go to the bathroom in the dark of the night.

Why?

Because I knew I could run faster than ‘Mum’ when I was not constricted by small rooms and walls. Once outside, there was no way she could catch me, or so my young mind was happily convinced.

Thankfully my bed wetting days were over and my defiance and obstinate stubbornness were just starting to seriously raise their heads, much to my step-mother’s horror.

**********************************************************************

If you liked my writing, please click on the small heart underneath, near my name. Or send me a tip and let me know you enjoyed it.

****

Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.

If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.

Originally posted on Medium