Defining Moments

Our lives consist of defining moments.

Graduations. Weddings. Proms. Jobs. Engagements. Happiness. Many of my own defining moments are happy ones. For the first half of my life, defining moments consisted of my ability to escape. As you can imagine, my perception of life is a bit jaded.One of my first memories was of violence. My father hitting my mother. My father beating my sister. Walking on eggshells when they were arguing. Hiding in the pasture or the shed when the screaming began.When I was 17, I experienced a truly defining moment. My father had one of my classmates helping him on the farm that day. They were just sitting down to eat lunch in the kitchen. I had just come home from work and I told my dad that my tire had gone flat. I had called my brother-in-law to help me change the tire because I couldn’t loosen the lug nuts. Charlie had purchased a used tire for me because my spare tire was the wrong size for my car. My father paused from shoveling in his food, glared at me over the expanse of the room, and said, “You are so stupid. That tire would work just fine. You didn’t have to beg a tire from Charlie.”  I was mortified that my father had ridiculed me in front of a boy I knew. I looked at him and said, “I hate you.” I knew as soon as those words slipped through my lips that I had made a horrible mistake. But it was too late to take back the words. My father stood up, threw the table across the room, and stomped toward me. Food had flown around the room, and all I could focus on was the raging bull covering the room’s length in three strides. His nose was flaring, and his eyes were black. I tried to back into the hallway, but he got to me before I could escape. I vaguely remember seeing the boy run out of the house, and my mother screaming at my father to stop. I was standing near the corner of the hallway. My father punched me in the face with his fist. He then held my head up by my hair so that he could continue using my face as a punching bag. I fell unconscious. When I awoke, he was kicking me in the side with his steel-toed boots. My mother was trying to hold him back. He threw her aside and continued kicking me. My eight-year-old brother was trying to drag me down the hallway, crying because he thought I was dead. I was able to get up and run upstairs with my brother, locking us in the bathroom.

My father punched me in the face with his fist. He then held my head up by my hair so that he could continue using my face as a punching bag. I fell unconscious. When I awoke, he was kicking me in the side with his steel-toed boots.

My classmate had gone to get help, which is probably what saved me. My sister and brother-in-law showed up. I heard my father leave the house. My mother told us to pack our bags. My brother and I packed silently. I was unsure of where we were headed, but I knew it had to be better than home. My mother had us in the car. I still remember distinctly the sounds, the smells, the sights. It was July, so my mother had the windows rolled up with the air conditioning on. It was sunny and muggy that day. I was in the passenger seat, feeling the heat of the beige leather seats of my mother’s car against my thigh. My mother was sitting in the driver’s seat, crying quietly. My father walked to my window and said, “I hope you’re happy. You’ve destroyed our family.” He then said to my mother, “I love you.” Those words echo in my head. I love you. Words he never said to me. Words he probably never considered when thinking of me. I knew he hated me. My mother then drove me to my sister’s house. She left me there and told me she was sorry, but she and my brother were going back. My sister looked at my bruised and swollen face and just cried. I stayed with her until school started in August. I then had to move back home. My life was never the same. I decided that he would never render me helpless again. I vowed that if he ever lifted a hand to me again, I would retaliate.  And my life returned to “normal.” School, work, homework. We never talked about that day again.

My mother was sitting in the driver’s seat, crying quietly. My father walked to my window and said, “I hope you’re happy. You’ve destroyed our family.” He then said to my mother, “I love you.”

My father became very ill not long after that. He was soon disabled and unable to work. He was in and out of hospitals, nearly dying multiple times. He mellowed, but not completely. Many years later, I was going through a divorce. I was at my parents’ house with my two small children, who were asleep upstairs. My father became angry at me because I was leaving my husband. He called me a whore and a slut and said that my actions must have caused the downfall of my marriage. I was standing near the front door as he came toward me. He said, “I hate you. I’ve always hated you.” I stood up tall, and looked him straight in the eye. I calmly and quietly said, “I know you hate me. And the feeling is mutual.” He raised his meaty fist to my face. This time, I didn’t run. I didn’t even flinch. I told him, “You can try to hit me. But you’re old and sick. And this time, I will fight back, old man. And after I do that, I will then call the police. So if you want to hit me, this is your one shot.” He stood there, nostrils flaring, trying to intimidate me. I wasn’t scared.  My mother was crying and telling him to calm down.  We stood at an impasse for over two minutes. He finally and slowly lowered his fist. He then walked away. I’ve read about children who were abandoned or ignored by their parents. In fact, my own stepson has a mother who has not shown an interest in him for most of his life. And I don’t know which is worse. Having a parent abandon you, or having a parent openly hate you your entire life?  I grew up knowing I wasn’t enough: smart, pretty, funny, worthy. At least if he hadn’t been present, I could have pretended there was another reason for his absence. Instead, I was reminded of his disdain for me on a regular basis. But no. I was told I was hated. Openly hated by my father. And I was ready to take away the power I had given him.  I grew up knowing I wasn’t enough: smart, pretty, funny, worthy.That moment when I stood up to him was my own moment of clarity. He no longer owned me. I didn’t need his love. And I no longer cared. It’s sad to me that my empowerment occurred as a result of abuse. But at the same time, how else could I have ever stepped out of his anger and hatred? That moment made me feel like Wonder Woman. I knew I had inner strength that no one could extinguish. And I knew that I would be okay.