Author: Big Bertha Evans (---.88.141.67.ip.alltel.net)
Date: 05-15-08 16:38
Here is a little of my book...VICTORY AFTER ABUSE. What do ya think? Does it capture your attention? Would you buy it?
I remember one of her favorite pass times was having her fat legs wrapped around me putting out her cigarettes out on my shoulders. She would sit there just relighting her cigarette over and over taking a few puffs between. She would say… “Be a big girl, don’t scream.” I couldn’t help but scream. She would laugh at me like I wasn’t a big girl and make fun of me for being so weak. It took all I had not to cry.
My daddy worked all the time to support my parent’s addiction to alcohol and cigarettes. I remember walking to the grocery store with daddy, to get cigarettes, I’m sure. I wanted something to eat as usual, anything to satisfy my hunger pains. Candy of course was something I could throw onto the belt and maybe daddy wouldn’t see. However he did see. He put it back. He must have thought I was just being like every other child with candy. I’m sure he didn’t realize I was starving because at the time beer and cigarettes were the most important things to my parents. Just about every night my parents would drink themselves to sleep. They both smoked constantly. I didn’t know parents were supposed to be any different. This is all I knew.
My daddy told me of a time we went into the grocery store. My stepsister and I wanted to ride the carousel of horses, but when he said “No”, I bit him on his arm. I’m quite sure my stepsister put me up to it. I would NEVER willingly hurt my daddy. He was at the checkout stand writing out a check for his order. When I bit him he forgot what the amount was and asked the checker, “What was the amount.” He told me he was so mad he thinks he slapped me? I’m not sure he did, I don’t remember him ever hitting or hurting me? I must have really bitten his arm hard for him to react that way without thinking.
Many nights I remember my stepmother would hold me between her legs with a shotgun over my shoulder. She would tell me, “I’m gonna blow your daddy’s head off right in front of you.” The time would just drag. I’m not sure how long I would sit there but it would seem like an eternity. She would taunt me with very descriptive statements like: “I wonder where his head will land?” She would also ask questions like: “What color do you think his brain will be?” She would just keep on saying stuff like this, sometimes she would just repeat the same question over and over if I gave any sign of the question bothering me. I learned really quickly if I would get hysterical she wouldn’t still be in that chair and have the gun pointed at my daddy when he came home. I was only a little girl and I could only take so much of her taunting without getting hysterical. In the evening when she first started taunting me, I tried to act like she wasn’t bothering me but eventually it would. I would throw a fit. She would get distracted and take me to my bedroom. She would look all over the room, frantically, for something to beat me with. I am amazed that she didn’t ever beat me with the gun. I would scramble under my bed while she was on her hunt but she always reached me to drag me out some how? I tried to be sure all her usual weapons were out of the room before evening so she would have a hard time finding something. She would almost always have to go in the other room and find a fly swatter or something. I held it in as long as I could so she would be busy beating the tar out of me. I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping my daddy alive even if he wasn’t getting me away from this woman.
She would beat me with whatever was around everyday. She loved to use this yellow broomstick that was broken in half. She would put all her weight in every strike. She was not a small lady either. I remember she would hold me around my armpit with her puffy, fat hand. She held me so tight I would have black and blue armpits. When she made contact with my body, my little frame would go flying. She knew if she held me there my shirt would hide the bruises. I would never give her the satisfaction of letting her see me cry no matter how much it hurt.
I remember I would wait until my stepmother fell into a drunken slumber then I would come out of my room and huddle behind my daddy’s chair. I would beg my daddy to leave her. He would be just sitting there drinking away. He was under a lot of stress and I’m sure he felt guilty for not doing something. I can’t even imagine what a feeling it would be to know your little girl was being abused yet be so scared of the person hurting her that you felt like there was nothing you could do.
There were several reasons my daddy was afraid to leave her. My stepmother would chase my daddy all over our trashy, dirty, stinky trailer with a butcher knife. She would even do this before she would start drinking so I can’t blame it on alcohol. I believe she was crazy. In fact she went into a mental institution after I was put into foster care when I was eleven years old. My stepmother also would pile daddy’s clothes in the yard. She would squirt lighter fluid on them and light them with a match right at the time daddy would come home from work. I think she got a kick out of seeing him run from his lime green, GMC pick up truck to try to put the fire out. Looking back it was kind of funny. My daddy would jump out of the truck yelling and screaming at her while trying to stomp out the fire. You should have seen it. I think we would have won funniest home videos if we had taped it? She did this quite often it was like a ritual, it was either the gun over my shoulder or burning his clothes. I looked forward to going with my daddy to the Second Act clothing store and try to find some clothes after she did this. My daddy and I would walk all over town picking up cans. Just so we would have a little bit of money to buy him some clothes with after we sold the cans. My daddy was and still is in the National Guard, one day my daddy told me my stepmother put all his guard uniforms out in the yard and burned them. He said, “The people in charge of the uniforms told me. You are going to have to pay for them all if it happens again.”
I have lots of sweet memories of time spent with my daddy. When I was with my daddy I was safe. He never hurt me or held me down so other people could hurt me. I love my daddy with all my heart.
My Stepsister would get a kick out of holding me down while her mother beat me. She would laugh so hard. I still can’t understand how any human being with half a heart could be like my stepsister was. I would feel sorry for the person getting beat not laugh like I was enjoying the show. I though my stepmother knew exactly what she was doing. If she was mentally ill why did she never hurt her own little girl? If you are mentally disabled you would hurt anyone not just one person, right?
When she beat me, she would rare back and hit me with all her might with whatever her chosen weapon was that time. It could have been her favorite the yellow broom handle or the wire end of a fly swatter. It could be a two by four or a metal spatula. It could even be a wooden spoon, anything. When she made contact with me body she would give a really deep exhale like it was a relief to her. I remember her nasty breath. I never remember her ever having pleasant breath, it always stunk like beer or cigarettes or both. She would never hit my bottom. I seldom was able to wear shorts because my upper legs would be black and blue. When she used the wire end of a fly swatter the sting on my upper legs or on my lower back was excruciating. It stings so badly on those two areas of the body. The marks almost always went away so there was no proof of what I just endured. My daddy wouldn’t have done anything anyhow. He was scared of her too.
I would sleep with my bottom in the air because it hurt to bad for me to be on my backside. I was afraid to sleep flat on my stomach because she might wake up from her drunken slumber and beat me some more. At least if I slept in that position she couldn’t get a good swing because I slept on the bottom bunk. She wouldn’t have very good aim because she would be drunk or hung over. I was a clever little girl, I figured out how to beat her at her own game.
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