The scars of our memories.

When I was around 7 years old my father hit me on the head with a wire hanger. My "crime" was that I had scuffed the toes of my new school shoes. He checked them just before I was ready to head out the door to school and his reaction was rather extreme...if I say so myself. 

Grabbing the first thing available, one of those wire hangers that had a cardboard cylinder for a base, he smacked me on the head with it several times. He then kicked my butt, literally, and sent me out the door crying and with abusive words and threats ringing in my ears. Unknown to me, but I would shortly find out, was that he had actually managed to hit me hard enough that the wire had entered my skull...thus I was bleeding quite profusely as I stumbled shaking and crying down the street on the way to the bus stop.

 It was one of those moments where you don't realize you are injured until someone points it out to you. In this case, it was one of our neighbors that happened to be out in her yard and who quickly let me know something was wrong with me by her piercing screams and bug eyed look as she rushed towards me. 

She actually scared the cry right out of me as I saw her come rushing at me and I wanted to turn tail and run back to the house. Not often children see strangers come running at them while screaming and reaching out in such a way...but back home was the stuff of my nightmares...and so I stopped dead in the street and waited for whatever fate this screeching woman intended for me. 

It was then I realized I felt a very warm sensation oozing down my face and shoulder and I reached up to wipe it away only to come away with a hand drenched in blood. I stared at my red hand wondering just how it came to be covered in blood and couldn't think of one good reason. Suddenly the screaming woman went silent though her mouth still made the motions of screaming...only to be replaced with a very loud buzzing sound. Just before I went weak at the knees I was scooped up by someone I hadn't seen coming up behind me. My mother. 

Apparently my mother hadn't witnessed my father's early morning lessons on keeping my shoes unscuffed, but had heard me crying as I left the house and came to the door to see if I had left or not. It was then she noticed blood droplets in a haphazard line leading away from the door and towards the sidewalk. She told me her heart stopped in her chest when she saw that blood, assuming I had been taken by someone and injured in the process. She ran down to the  sidewalk just in time to hear the neighbor woman start screaming...and assumed the very worst.  

As she rushed me back to the house intending to take me to the hospital, not knowing how I was injured but seeing lots of blood, she was met with my stony faced father who quickly took charge of my "medical care". He refused to allow her to take me anywhere and insisted I be put in the shower so all the blood could be washed off. I remember him insisting my underwear stayed on which seemed rather odd when I thought about it years later. All the while he was washing off the blood he was on a long rant of how it was my fault and these were the consequences of disobeying his orders. I made not a peep in my own defense knowing it would do no good and also knowing it could make matters far worse. 

My father investigated my head to see what the injury was and declared there being no need to pay a fortune for the hospital when all I had was a pin sized hole in my skull from the end of the wire hanger. My mother did not insist...in fact she said very little. Something I took in stride at the time but would recall years later as being silent acceptance of my fate at his hands yet again. 

He kept me home from school that day and we never spoke of it again until I was grown and my mother came to visit me. She said that she didn't want me  to be hurt more than I was so she remained quiet...to protect me. Considering what that man did to me over and over again for the next 10 years I find it hard to believe my safety was what motivated her that day...but who knows.  Possibly she had my short term safety more in mind back then.

I think about that particular moment of abuse more than lots of others because I have a scar on my head to constantly remind me. It started out as a small raised bump but over time it has grown bigger and gets scratched my hair brush quite often. My father is long gone but his mementos are still around keeping his memory alive. Yay me. 

Another memorable event that always comes back with unending clarity were when he forced me to stand in the corner with my sodden underwear pulled over my head. I was a horrible bed wetter as a child and it lasted until around the age of 9 I believe. My older sister absolutely hated sleeping with me as I generally soaked us both with my nocturnal offerings more often than not. I remember my father making it a point to come check the bed every morning and me laying there fully aware of what he was going to find yet again. 

No matter how hard I tried or what I did (using the bathroom before bed, not drinking anything for hours ahead of time) it never seemed to help much. I actually recall having dreams as a child of me getting up and using the bathroom, feeling that sense of  release when you have been holding it and then get to finally go as you sit down...only to wake up and realize it wasn't a dream. For the rest of the night I would lay there cold and shaking from both the wetness and fear. 

On those mornings he chose to come throw the covers back and pull me from the bed I knew what fate awaited me...hours with my face pressed into the corner with my own panties snug against my face. Of course it didn't end there. Once his particular brand of punishment was over I still had my older sister to contend with. She always found time to punch or pinch me while hissing in my ear about how disgusting I was and what a baby I was and did I need diapers again? 

For the life of me when I think about these episodes...I can't remember what my mother had to say about it or if she ever did anything for or against me other than once again change the sheets on the bed after letting it air outside for a few hours. To this day the smell of urine triggers memories of those mornings spent in the corner while everyone else went about their routine as if I were invisible and inconsequential. Good times.

Years later when my own youngest daughter had her own bed wetting years, I should have made the connection, one of many, but it just never clicked until hind sight gave me 20/20 vision about that and a lot of other clues as to what was going on. Another reason to feel such guilt about my blindness. 

When these memories, and so many others, suddenly intrude on a perfectly nice moment, I can't help but wonder what memories my own children have locked away that also cannot be forgotten and make for unwanted company now and again? In my own defense (if I even have the right to make one) I did not remain quiet from the moment I learned what he was doing. I know this does not mean anything against the painful memories my children suffer from when I was clueless but it at least lets them know that if I had known sooner...I would have stopped it sooner. 

Small solace but something I try and convince myself means something. 

 

My room, my desk.

After spending that past semester trying to make due with my card table to do homework on (trying to squeeze my books etc on there along with my monitor is very frustrating), I broke down and bought a nice spacey desk. It weighed a ton...and came in a box. Apparently I had to assemble my new work space before I could enjoy it's many shelves to put things on, its long wide table that will hold my monitor and books easily, and the little lamp I bought especially to shine down on my new contented head while I did homework. All I had to do was put this puppy together and I was good to go. Homework heaven here I come.

I might mention I have never in my life put anything together more complicated than Lego blocks. My ex did all that sort of thing and I wasn't allowed to touch anything cause I "might ruin it"...being a girl and all. Whatever. How hard can it be anyways?

It took me 20 min to get the darn thing out of the box. Those boxes are like...indestructible. Seriously!!! I was hacking away at it with my kitchen knife no less and contemplating borrowing the neighbors chainsaw to get it done. (no idea if my neighbor has a chainsaw but he looks very Jasonish...so I'm assuming odds are in favor he has one tucked away in his closet somewhere).

Finally ripped a corner open with a banshee scream of success, which brought all my kids running...in which one of them pointed out the easier way to get it open. Which he did, in about 2 min. Creep.

There were about a million and five pieces to this desk. I sat looking at the pile of soon to be desk delight...and at the picture on the box and couldn't fathom how all these pieces were going to culminate in such a work of art. Looked like left over pieces after building a very big house.

Then I remembered these things come with DIRECTIONS!! Yay me. I hunted for the elusive piece of paper...actually a small sized telephone book of instructions it turns out...and eagerly flipped through the pages thinking...no big deal. Nice pictures, plenty of arrows...no big deal.

On the first page it makes this claim (that I discovered later was TOTALLY bogus...I should sue someone for false advertising) that it would only take about one hour to assemble this lovely desk. One hour. I had 5 hours before I had to be at work so plenty of time to get this thing together AND to test drive it with some Biology homework I had waiting. No big deal. One hour.

One of the very first things I learned about furniture assembling is that you need a lot of space to spread things out adequately. I was in my bedroom and had to put the desk together there cause it wouldn't fit through the door later if I did it in the living room...where there is lots of room. So the most I could spread out was in about a 4 by 5 foot square area....with areas extending down by my bed and into the closet. It was a tight squeeze, but hey...one hour. I could tolerate the cramped space for an hour.

I separated pieces of wood into like piles and went hunting for some tools. Screwdriver, check. Hammer, check. Apparently that was all I would need so I was good to go. I sat down in the middle of my pile and looked at the directions for the first step. A nicely drawn picture of two pieces of wood joined together with little pictures of the appropriate nails to hold them together with. Some kind of locking nail as it had a hole in it which another nail was meant to sit in at some point and lock together when you twisted it into place. Easy peasy.

I looked at all the pieces trying to discern which ones were the ones in the drawing. I held up this one and that one and compared them to the picture...no..not that one...too narrow. Not that one, too square. Ah..here they are. Two rectangles that matched perfectly.

I spent about 10 minutes trying to figure out how to hold two pieces of wood together while at the same time screwing a nail into them. Apparently I was jumping the gun as I was meant to screw the lock into one piece and the locking nail into the other and then fit them together. Ok, gotcha. I'm starting to catch on to rules of the game. Things should go smoother now.

Once done with those two I looked at the next set of directions. I had to add another piece onto the two I just fit together. Once again I hunted for the right piece of wood...not easy when they looked pretty damn similar to each other. (I would be nearly half done with this damn thing before I actually noticed that on the edges of each piece of wood was a letter associated with the pic it was needed in. So much easier that way *sigh*)

For the next hour I hunted for the proper pieces...struggled with nailing and screwing things as they are not my forte, and cursed the heat, the lack of space, the mocking children who ventured in every now and then to point and laugh and the various scratches and bruises I was self inflicting at an alarming rate. Still...it was coming along...sort of. By the end of the promised hour...my desk still did not resemble a desk and there were far more pieces left to assemble than had been assembled. I grumbled and went to take a break before I chucked it all out the window.

I came back with new resolve and tackled the next set of directions. Attach the little shelf dividers with pegs that went into each edge and into the main part of the desk. No problem. Easy enough. After completing this no brainer I sat back and looked at my progress. It was then I realized I had put the shelf dividers on backwards. Instead of the nice smooth pretty surface facing outwards (where we can see it) the grainy woody part was looking at me. Damn!! I grabbed the hammer and tried to pry them back out. I could barely get the edge of the hammer underneath the edge. It was too tight a fit. I struggled with it for a few minutes before deciding, Who cares? My room...my desk. One little misstep would not take away from the purpose of the desk. (I'm pretty easy going like that...plus it gives the desk character. *ahem*)

I finally got the point where the shelving pieces fit onto the top of the desk. At this point I am meant to sit under the desk, twist and contort my body into a position in which I can screw nails upwards and at an angle...putting pressure on top as well to allow the nails to enter. While Pilates class has taught me some interesting moves of late, this was nearly impossible. It was probably the most frustrating part of the whole damn process. I took another look at the directions and noted at the beginning where it said One Hour (liars) it also said only ONE person was needed for assembly. Really? One very nimble flexible 4 handed person apparently is what they had in mind. That wasn't me by a long shot.

I took another break.

I came back and with more sweat and cussing than nohow, I managed to get the damn shelves on. They even looked mostly straight. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Next part was to put the backs on the shelves. Little flimsy pieces of panelling that closed off the back. How hard could that be?

Hammering teeny tiny little nail wannabees is a lesson in perseverance and marksmanship. Perseverance I have...marksmanship....not so much. 10 throbbing fingers later I had the panels on. Now it was looking like a desk. Hot damn!!

My daughter came in, took one look and asked..."are those panel things supposed to be showing the grainy side this way?"

DAMN!!!

I grabbed my hammer and attempted to pry the panels off so I could turn them around and put the smooth side facing the right way. The panels were too thin though and immediately began to shred when I attempted to pry them up. Hell...OK then...no big deal. My room, my desk.

I looked at the clock and noted that over 3 hours had passed by now. One hour my ass. Who wrote that false claim on those directions anyhow, Inspector Gadget?

I was hot and a mess. I had numerous self inflicted injuries...and my "be calm be patient" mantra was starting to wear thin. I had to be at work soon so needed to get this done. I did NOT want to come home the next morning and face this mess on the bedroom floor.

I tackled it with renewed vigour...and promptly stubbed my little toe on a protruding edge. More cursing and some fairly energetic hopping around and I'm sure I heard some giggling coming from somewhere else in the house. Just remember, kids...moms don't forget.

I started slamming the remaining pieces into place and banged away with the hammer much harder than I needed too...but ironically my aim improved considerably. Who knew?

Within an hour (20 min till I needed to be at work) I was putting the last piece into place. (or so I thought). I called all the kids and they came to admire (poke fun at) my handy work. Not bad if I say so myself. It looked like a desk. The goal I was going for..so it's all good. See what nearly 5 hours of hard labor will get you...a desk with several backward pieces and some nicks and cuts here and there...but homework here I come.

My son pointed out that there were several pieces of wood still on the floor. I turned to look and yes indeed, there were 4 triangular pieces of wood just sitting there mocking me. What!! I grabbed up the directions and flipped pages frantically trying to figure out what step I missed that would include 4 triangular pieces. I looked at the picture of the finished product and could see nothing that looked even remotely triangular in nature. WTH!!!

I will be honest and say that I chucked those pieces of wood in the dumpster. Until now I have no idea what they were for...but the desk seems to be holding up nicely so whatever they were for...they weren't being missed.

At any rate, desk is assembled...homework has been done on it with nary a problem arising from the backward pieces...and I'm proud of myself for getting it together without resorting to the gasoline and matches that had crossed my mind more than once, taking hold.

I won't be putting anything else together anytime soon. There are somethings I can do easily...and maybe better than some other people...but assembling furniture is not one of them because I know...if I choose to do this again..there will be sweat...there will be tears...and yes...there will be blood. (not necessarily mine but you know...blood).