That evening I returned home to an unusually quiet house. The door creaked behind me as I opened it. I stood silent in the entryway for a moment, listening to each rhythmic pulse of my heart as it thumped low and deep in my chest. Maybe Mom will be different this time. No, that’s stupid. This is the worst thing I’ve done to her. I heard water running from the kitchen sink, so I tiptoed toward the kitchen doorway to listen.
As I peered through the doorway, I saw my mom standing by the sink with her back facing me, washing a plate with a wet rag in hurried motions. Her wavy black hair reached her hips, surrounding her frame like a cape. “Dear Lord, please forgive my daughter, for she has sinned greatly,” she said, staring out the window above the sink. She repeated the phrase over and over. I shuddered. She was so conservatively religious, believing everything the Bible said word for word. She made me attend Bible School as a child and continued to drag me with her to church every Sunday even now.
There was something about the way my mom stood that seemed ominous. She kept scrubbing and rinsing the same plate, ignoring the pile of dirty dishes lying on the counter next to her. Suddenly, she stopped speaking and her hand stopped moving. I froze, wide-eyed. Did she hear me? Crap. I should just head back to my room. As I began to back away, my mom twisted her torso around, meeting my gaze. Her grey eyes drooped down at the corners. I could see a hint of sorrow in them. I almost felt bad for her.
She shook her head as she looked at me. “I’m so disappointed in you, Katie.”
I shuddered. I hated it when she said my name. It sounded like a curse rolling off her tongue.
She laid the plate down in the sink and began walking toward me. “I don’t understand. How did you turn out like this? Did I not raise you right?”
“This is who I am. I can’t change.” My voice squeaked pathetically.
“Shut up.” She slapped me, leaving a red smear across my cheek.
“Mom–” My eyes filled with tears.
“I can hardly stand to have you in my sight anymore.” She grabbed my wrists with her hands, gripping so tight I could feel bruises beginning to form beneath her fingers.
“Mom, you’re hurting me!” I gasped.
She pushed me to the floor with the force of a hurricane. Her hands curled into fists and she began to strike my sides with them as she screamed, “Why! Why! Why is it my own kid?” I curled up into a ball, covering my head with my hands, and squeezed my eyes shut. Her fists pounded against my ribs repeatedly. I didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t anything I could do to fight back. I was too weak against her. All I could do was cry. I waited, my brain slowly numbing the pain, letting my body take the beatings until she tired herself out minutes later.
I tried to imagine a world where I had the courage to stand up to my mom. What would that look like? Would I beat her the way she beat me? Would she cry the way I did? Would my dad be there? Where was he now? Driving back from Minneapolis? Why did he have to work so far from home?
I longed for my dad’s embrace, even if all he’d do would be to shelter me from the storm; the storm that was my mom. She was a hurricane. There was no other way to describe her. Once, out of concern for my mom’s unstable mood, my dad suggested she visit a psychiatrist to receive treatment. That didn’t go over well. My mom yelled at him, stating that nothing was wrong with her and that the only help she would ever need was from God. My dad went along with what she said. He cared too much about her even though she would never care enough about him. He told me she just demonstrates her love in an unconventional way. I told him, “Bullshit.”
I didn’t even notice when my mom stopped hitting me. As quick as the storm began, it ceased. She took a few heavy breaths before the expression on her face became regretful and she stammered, “Oh, Katie. You know I didn’t mean to do that.”
You’re full of lies. My ears rang and my heart pounded in my chest. I got up, pushing past her, and ran to my room. I slammed the door behind me and leapt on my bed.A tremor ran up through my spine, and my body shook with anger. I took my frustration out on my pillow, thrusting my fists into it in rhythmic punches. I cried and screamed with each hit, punching my pillow until my arms became weak and my body became limp, collapsing on my bed. What am I doing? I thought I was going crazy. Then a nagging thought took over my mind. Would I become like my mom? What I just did… isn’t that something she would do? What’s wrong with me? I don’t want to be like her. I can’t be like her. My mind was filled with fear. I didn’t want to think about the little bit of satisfaction I received from hitting my pillow. I moved my hand to touch the stinging blotch left behind on my cheek. It burned like rage.