Spoiled Brat

When I was a child, I was under the impression that somebody would come and rescue me. Many a night, I lay curled into my covers, trembling, and praying to any God that may exist to stop my bedroom door from opening. I had a hard time relating to my peers, whose parents showered them with love and affection when my mother showered me with gifts as if to drown out the hunger in my belly from her absence and the bruises on my flesh from His presence. Him. Father. Dad.

Each man she brought into my life was “Dad.” Father became a word that left a sour taste in my mouth, so sour that I began to believe not having a biological father in my life was a blessing. Why would I want another father when all of my fathers crept into bed with me at night and hit me after a bad day at work?

Spoiled brat. When I reported the first incident to a school counselor, my mother showed up in all of her Calvin Kleined glory to make sure the world knew there was no way she’d allow her children to suffer. “She’s doing it to herself, she’s a spoiled brat and just wants attention. I work my ass off just to put her ungrateful self into those Nikes. Would an abused child wear name brand clothes??”

Denial. My whole existence as a child revolved around denial. I was denied warmth, compassion, understanding, individuality, and a safe place to develop my person. I knew no nurturing. Anything I received came at a cost. Affection from my mother was reserved for a public display when we got around others. At home, it was a battleground. I had to avoid setting off the bombs of Father of the Year while waiting on my absent mother to swoop in like a medic, to patch up my sweltering arms and legs, and fill my aching core with materialistic presents. Presents that were soon ripped from my hands and put into the hands of my siblings or friends because I was a “spoiled brat who didn’t deserve them.”

You know, when I was a girl, I used to hope that someone, anyone, would come and rescue me from the Hell that I called reality. But the dream I held closest to my heart, was that my mother would be just that - a Mom. My protector, my provider, the one who puts her foot down and saves me from her vile men, who wipes away my tears and says “I love you” - and means it.

As an adult, I’ve spent many years trying to heal that damaged part of me. The child whose youth was robbed of her. The little girl who yearned for the appraisal and warmth of a true loving family. There are dark pieces of me that were shattered and messily stitched back together in time for the next person or event to rip apart my seams and leave me back in a tattered mess. Back I go, back to the little girl whose mother didn’t love her enough and whose fathers loved her too perversely.

Now that I am a woman, I often wonder when the day will come that I can finally revel in my accomplishments and appreciate the good things in my life. Feeling stupid, worthless, and ungrateful was pounded into me and I sometimes trace my fingers along the words etched into my soul, wondering if there’s truly anything strong enough to fill them in.

But then, my boyfriend wraps me in his embrace and I feel that warmth I longed for so dearly as a scared and broken little girl. Or my sister sends me a video of my nephew playing - giggling, happy - and waves of hope for his future flood out the darkness of our past. Or my dog wags her tail excitedly and covers me in sloppy dog-breath kisses and I realize that the only thing bigger than everything I’ve endured is:Love.

And so, if I revisit my past and trace out every little drop of love I experience, even momentarily, I realize that even in my darkest times, there was always light. Whether it be the teacher who gave me a hug and beamed on my accomplishments during the last day of school or my brothers and sister and I playing flashlight tag in the dark during a moment where time stood still and nobody was hurt or crying or hungry. There’s tiny moments of love that I can recall to help that little girl inside of me heal and to make the past a little less painful and bizarre.

And when I think about it, I was saved after all.

Saved by Love.