This is the last of the "really bad stuff." It feels good in some ways to have it in the past, even sharing and discussing it! I can now basically lock it away in a dark box somewhere and call myself free forever more. It is a bad book I read or an ugly show I saw on TV, almost as if it were never real.
The Final Betrayals
I mentioned the reason for my ceasing to keep a diary or journal in late June 1966. Although in some ways it was less 'damaging' to me than other incidents, I very much felt violated and ...well it seemed akin to being stripped naked and marched around the town with the proverbial scarlet letter painted on me. True,.I suppose only Mom and Dad read my private words and thoughts, but they had no reason and no right to do that! It would have been iffy if I was twelve or fifteen but I was a grown woman of twenty three. It was very much like tearing open and reading mail sent to another person, which in some cases is actually criminal. At least I am pretty sure they never read any of Dusty's letters for I kept them well stored away. At any rate that was the third betrayal. I will rehash it a bit. They found no clue that I was about to run away to 'live in sin' as I had so often been accused of preparing to do and always vehemently denied. Still, I am sure that's what they looked for..
A very few days after Dusty's visit on June 16, I quit keeping a diary. or journal. In one ‘talk’, on June 19, Mom and Dad revealed they had been reading my diary/journal while I was out. With a smirk and a sneer, Dad blatantly quoted phrases and terms I had used. If that was the was the worst he found, it was pretty damn mild!! (Things like referring to him as "the Boss" and labeling a difficult day "A bad day at Black Rock"). I was beyond furious. This totally uncalled for invasion and betrayal was over the top. They claimed they were trying to “help” me. If that was help, I’d rather take poison! If trust had not already been mostly shattered, it was now dead, completely erased. I was even too angry and hurt for violence. Defiant, I wrote a day or two in Spanish. Mom knew French and Dad knew German but real Spanish was beyond them. Then I completely stopped, keeping only a few business related notes for the next several weeks. Before August 1, I had gotten a new steno notebook and kept it in the shop yard shed for which Charlie Mike and I had obtained and installed a padlock. Oddly that was never even mentioned nor did it become an issue. Strange, no?. I wrote sporadically then through the rest of the summer. Even now, fifty plus years later, that is the most unforgettable and unforgivable act of all. I felt my privacy and identity had been completely violated. I might call it rape of the spirit .
There was one more event. It seems almost anti-climatic but for reasons I cannot unravel even to this day. it marked a major turning point. It was the last betrayal, the last real savage or vicious abuse I suffered. And one time, I did not cave in.
One essentially final act in the abuse and harassment scenario took place during the time I was not recording. Thus I do not have an exact date or any at-the-time details so it has to be just what I recall. It was probably during the last few days of June or the first week of July. The sun was still up so it may have been shortly after supper. I cannot remember the context but Dad was after me--as had become so usual--still trying to force me to forswear Dusty, promise never to see him or contact him again in any way, and making harsh threats when I would not do so. I stood at the end of the big table. I’d finally had all I was going to take so I said something like, “Make me.” It was not those words but that was the meaning, the implication anyway.
He jumped up, moving much faster than usual, and hit me in the face with his doubled fist. Stunned, I fell under the old fashioned kitchen sink as my glasses flew off. When he snarled something like “Get up, chicken” or “Go on, be a coward”, I struggled to my feet, still dizzy. “Go ahead, hit me again,” I managed. About then Mom shrieked. “Stop! You’ll kill her!”
That was when I heard a car drive slowly down the street. I ran as fast as I could to the front door, intending to dash into the street screaming. Dad caught me just inside the screen door, grabbed me and slammed a hand over my mouth. I was past fear, past caring, past accepting anything more. As I tried to move my head to breathe or speak, I felt a finger and bit down as hard as I could. I mean I really bit, like a bulldog. Not sure if I drew blood, but I am sure it hurt like crazy. Needless to say, he let go. If there were any further repercussions or violence that night, I do not retain such memories. I did not run off to drown myself etc. either.
The next day I had a prize-fighter’s black eye but fortunately my glasses survived and I went on about my normal business. I do not remember ever being hit or even majorly threatened again. I am not sure why. There were still ‘talks’ but they were relatively mild and it seems "that man" was never mentioned again, even by inference.
Did Dad think I would go file charges? Did he give it up? I can hardly believe that as he was one determined and stubborn man, always convinced he was right. Did Mom actually take a stand? I guess I will never know. At any rate, I never got any more of that kind of abuse for which I thank all the Powers. I could not have survived much more. I never told Dusty anything about this; I hate to think how he might have reacted but that was soon moot for some time since he could not do anything to help or avenge me while he was seriously ill. (More on that later as I continue the next few posts for July.)
I am still mystified. Did my willingness to actually fight back change the dynamic? Did some level of sanity and decency awaken and my father realize he had gone way too far? Did Mom finally take a stand and say she'd leave or go to the cops or something if it ever happened again? I really cannot dredge up anything to give me a clue but to this day I thank the Source for whatever happened or was done that spared me any more of the same, at least on that level. July and August were not easy, no walk in the park or free ride but the balance had shifted. Then the first week of September, my life took a sudden huge change so it was almost as if I was reborn because things were never the same again.
I really have no illustrations here. Certainly no photos were taken of these events or during their course. Even a few words did not find anything in the stock photos. I will just use three very different pictures of me, the child who had never known such trauma, the teenager beginning to feel curtailed and mistreated and the cowboy girl who finally got to the point of saying "No more." First is the 'tuff little girl' at about nine; then probably my second junior year when I no longer smiled in photos, my face was set and stern; finally beside the truck I then drove a lot --edging toward defiance that was building toward the eruption. .My posture reflects that a bit.
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