Mother's Rules
By: KK
Copyright @2001

My mother grew up in a strict Catholic home. She was the definition of a rebel. She refused to follow her parents rules and did as she pleased. When I was born she thought those rules and then some would suit me just fine.

I don't know if she was trying to form the perfect child or just make sure that she had complete control over me. I heavily lean towards the control issue. My sister was never treated the same and she never had the same rules as me. In fact, my mother allowed my sister to have the freedom of a butterfly. I on the other hand had the fist of Hitler pounding my head on a daily basis. My mother's excuse for not enforcing the same rules on us was, "I made all of my mistakes with you and your sister has always been an easier child." If my mother were honest, which she never has been, then she would just hand my sister an award saying, "Mom's Favorite".

My definition of spanking a child is a swat on the butt. My mothers forms of punishment crossed the line of brutal and these days would be considered child abuse. To this day I cannot come up with a legitimate reason for her physical punishments. I have tried to make excuses and say that she was young and did not know any better or that was how she was raised and she thinks that's the way she is supposed to do it. Those excuses fall short when I look at how differently my sister was raised and how I raise my children now. People make a conscious decision on how they choose to treat people. There are no acceptable excuses when a parent abuses a child.

Of course there are two sides of the story and my mother sees things differently. But this is my life story as I saw it and felt it and not hers, so she doesn't have much of an opinion as far as I'm concerned. I cannot always say for certain what was going on her life at the time she was raising us. I only can only base my memories on what I saw and felt. Things have become much clearer since becoming an adult and receiving information from people who know her.

I never considered myself to be a particularly difficult child to deal with. I misbehaved like the average child. I do not remember being spanked when I was a toddler. But I was told by a family member that as young as two and three years old I would beat my dolls and punish them. They felt sorry for me because they knew that I was acting out the way my mother was treating me. I don't ever remember not being on guard around my mother. She had a short fuse and would turn on me for even the most minor things.

Her rules were simple, ridiculous and changed all the time. Chores were her number one priority and not doing them was a punishable offense. God forbid if my mother's bed wasn't made or her bathroom was not cleaned. If meals were not eaten, they were worn. My mother believed in shock value.

My earliest memory was when I was about five years old. We lived in a small apartment and my sister was an infant. My mother sent me to the kitchen to get a soda. While pulling it out of the refrigerator I dropped it on the tile floor. When I handed it to her, she opened it and the entire can exploded all over the living room. In a split second I realized that I was in trouble and she back handed my face and sent me reeling. She went into a verbal tirade and sent me to my room. That is about all I remember from that particular incident, but what I do remember is vivid in my memory. I am certain that a five year old would not know that a soda can would explode if dropped. My mother thought that everything was done on purpose and it was a personal attack against her and her rules.

The tension between us became worse as I got older. During elementary school I began to sneak, lie and rebel against my mother. I felt it was the only way to have some sort of a decent childhood. Since she was not going to give to me, I felt it was my right to take it. Some of my crimes did deserve punishment, but not to the extent that they were doled out. Since my mother worked a lot we were under the care of my Grandmother and I took full advantage of that freedom. On the other hand, I knew that my Grandmother would tell my mother detail of my day, worthy or not and I would be severely punished when she got home. I did not treat my Grandmother with disrespect, but I did get into as much trouble as the next kid. Walking walls, leaving the street, not doing chores or homework, not eating meals and picking on the smaller kids. There were many a night that I was trembling and in tears hoping that she would never come home.

As young as eight I was required to do most of the housework. My sister received the easier chores, drying dishes, making her bed and emptying all the little garbage cans in the house. Not only did I have school, I did everything from dishes, vacuuming, making my mother's bed, dusting, cleaning bathrooms and feeding and cleaning up after all the animals we had. Not doing one of these chores or not doing them up to her standards resulted in either a switch to my bare ass or me being huddled in a corner, protecting my face while she continued to smack me until her rage subsided. I considered myself the "housekeeper". Although I am sure she did some housework, I rarely recall ever witnessing this. My most hated responsibilities were cleaning up dog crap in the backyard and cleaning out her ashtrays. Those jobs disgusted me and I always felt that they were her animals and her cigarettes, she should be the one cleaning up those messes. I once had the nerve to ask her why my sister did not have to clean up dog crap and her response was, "It makes your sister sick." How dare I question the fairness of a disgusting chore! Why would it make my sister sick and not me?

Right before my teen years the rules became stiffer and more strictly enforced. No calls from boys, wearing make-up, going on dates, shaving, wearing nail polish or trendy clothes, until the age of sixteen. Nothing was allowed that remotely let me fit in with the other girls. When I got my period I wasn't even allowed to wear tampons. To her that was too grown up. All phone calls were monitored, screened, listened in on and timed. If a boy called she promptly told him off and hung up on him. I was allowed one phone call, for five minutes a day, from a girlfriend that my mother approved of. I was not allowed to have a phone in my room and when my friends were over, I was not allowed to close the door to my room. My mother had to be able to eavesdrop on each and every private moment I tried to have. She read and confiscated my notes, photos, diaries and any other thing that she thought was evidence against me to prove what a bad kid I was. My room was constantly searched and at least once a week I would come home from school to find in the middle of my room a pile of clothing, drawer contents, bedding and whatever else my mother decided to tear apart that day. Her excuse was that my room was a mess and this was her way of telling me to clean it up. Truth be known, it was her way of searching my things. I had zero privacy and I can only imagine her frustration of never being able to prove that I was this horrible kid that she had conjured up in her own mind.

I was not allowed to hang out with the other kids at the popular hangouts. Her and my step-father went to a local pizza place, with a gun and threatened everyone in the place if they did not tell them where I was. My step-father ended up in jail and my mother was furious because my friends protected me and would not tell them anything. My best friend Mickey was constantly banned from my life, which forced us to sneak behind her back to see each other. I spent most of those years waiting to turn sixteen. I could taste freedom. When I finally turned sixteen, my gift from my mother was that I was still too immature and that the age of freedom was now changed to eighteen.

My mother was fanatical about the dishes. But, not fanatical to do them herself. If my mother found a dirty dish in the cupboard I was forced to wash each and every dish in the kitchen. I do mean every dish. Although my sister helped me do the dishes, I was the one who was punished. This would take hours to accomplish and she would check each one afterwards. If she again found a dish that was not washed to her standards, I would have to repeat the routine. In most of our houses we had a dishwasher, but we were not allowed to use it. I never quite understood the reasoning behind that decision.

I never possessed any sort of trust towards my mother. As I got older she made half ass attempts to get me to trust her. But, by then it was too late. My mother was famous for saying, "You can talk to me about anything, honey". I learned very quickly that if I confided in her she would twist it around and forever use it against me. I learned how to lie to her to keep her at bay and get away with just enough to shut her up. One day my mother was badgering me to tell her my feelings regarding something I did (to this day I do not remember what I did, that's how inconsequential it must have been). She layered on the motherly sweetness and begged and promised me that I would not be in any trouble if only I would tell her what I was feeling. She swore that no matter what I had to say, we would discuss it together. This went on for almost an hour. Finally, to shut her up, I caved in. I remember getting about three barely audible words out before I was crouching in the corner, while she beat the crap out of me with both hands. I had my arms up in defense as the verbal and physical hurricane came down on me. Within minutes, my step-father was pulling her off of me and trying to calm her down. She was in one of her typical, unexplainable rages. If she happened to break a nail during the beating, I could count on another good five minutes of continual lashing.

I think that my mother loved the control and the thought of her daughter being frightened of her. It made her feel powerful. I am not sure if the verbal and physical assaults were worse or the silent treatment. Her silent treatments could last for weeks. A silent treatment usually resulted after a two or three hour lecture and/or a decent beating. She was not verbally abusive as far as calling me names, but she was torrential with the screaming and cussing. Her physical assaults were painful, but I learned how to tune that out. Sometimes she wouldn't quit until I was hysterical and she felt that she had successfully demeaned me. Grounding me was usually one of her last options and provided me with a little peace.

She was a lecturer and could go on for hours about one single incident. I almost fainted once because she lectured to the extreme. I was then promptly accused of faking the fainting spell and punished for almost passing out. Most of the time I wished that she would have just whipped me rather than lecture me. At least I knew that would have been over sooner. Her lectures would consist of her talking about the same subject five different ways. After awhile it was like beating a dead horse. I became very good at glazing my eyes over, tuning her out and at the same time able to respond when necessary. She would become incensed if someone she was addressing did not look her directly in the eye at all times. The problem with that was that her eye balls always jiggled back and forth like little spasms. My sister and I quickly turned this into a joke and tried hard not to crack up when my mother was having her "eye spasms".

My mother always thought that physical punishment would get me to follow her every rule. It became such a part of my life that it stopped fazing me that I would be punished. I expected it. I did not do drugs, hang out with gangs, dress like a tramp or exhibit any violence. I wanted to wear make-up, designer jeans and cruise around with my friends. At every turn she put up a road block. I reacted rebelliously and did what I wanted anyway. I was not right for doing that, but I was not going to be stifled by ridiculous rules that were made out of the sheer need to have control over another person. My mother did not take the time to get to know my friends. She did not allow me to make my own mistakes and learn from them. She did not make the effort to come to school events and support me. She never tried to see life from my point of view and get to know me. She did not guide me. She owned me.

I was not the perfect kid. My misbehavior was usually a result of her restrictions. Her rules, on paper, do not really seem that strict. But I never had respect or trust towards my own mother. She constantly manipulated, lied and humiliated me for her own ego. There never has been or ever will be the closeness that a mother and daughter should have. During the most crucial time of my development, I grew up with many step-fathers, one mother and no one to trust or confide in. My daily life was filled with fear, resentment and pure hatred for the one person that I should be able to trust. I spent countless hours planning her death and many nights quietly crying myself to sleep, hoping that she would not be alive in the morning. Feeling empty and alone is an understatement. No child should ever be terrified and distrustful of the person who brought them into this world. Imagine walking on egg shells for most of your life because you could be struck down at any time, and for any reason.

Many things are no longer in my memory. I have blocked a lot out and a lot of it has just melted into one big experience. I grew complacent and detached to the way my mother would treat me. I could breathe when she ignored me. I expected her to blow up at the smallest thing, from an ashtray not being emptied to me coming home five minutes late from school. She was volatile, self-centered and I have never liked her as a person. These things have affected and will always affect my life. It is a part of who I am and constant reminder that I will be forced to forever try not to take the path that she did.

I have chosen to take these life lessons and become a better and stronger person. I refuse to lay down and let the past swallow me up. I do not dwell on them or I will drown. My children will be stronger and wiser because I have chosen to be the person I want to be, not the person that I was taught to be.