For a while, I wanted to be a doctor. Dr. Kildare was my favorite TV show and I had read a biography of Elizabeth Blackwell, one of the first, if not THE first woman doctor in the United States. I started to write a novel with myself as the main character and I was a doctor in this fiction. Not wanting to sound like an idiot when I wrote, I decided to do more research. As soon, as I found out how many math courses I would need to take to become a physician, I abandoned that dream.
By the time, I was in seventh grade, my father had remarried. His wife was only six years older than I was. Unfortuanately, she was 4 inches taller than me and she was as big as I am now. That is to say, she was a BIG woman. She also resented that I went to live with them.
For the next three years, my life was made a living hell by this abusive woman. She didn't spank. Spanking I understood. Spanking is not abuse--at least not when applied to the butt. Spanking is how we were corrected as children.
This woman beat on my brother and I. This was being hit with fists and being forced to kneel--back straight, arms straight up in the air, eyes straight ahead--for hours at a time. Usually a minimum of 3 hours a night. Not that we had done anything particularly wrong, but, because she was angry with my father.
I used to peek out of the corner of my eye in order to watch as I shifted my knees slightly to relieve the pressure and pain. She caught me doing that one night and punched me in the eye, put a blindfold on me and forced me to continue to kneel.
When she was really angry, I had to kneel holding a wooden chair over my head. I used to imagine being telekinetic (even if I didn't know the word at the time.) I would imagine that I could open the doors of the china closet and make all her favorite dishes fall to the floor to break.
One of the ways she used to beat me was to use her fist to pound the center of my back until I fell to the floor and then kick me around the room. She was also handy with a belt across the back. Her fists connected with my face a lot. I couldn't possibly tell you how many black eyes I had during those years.
If I were horribly bad, I might have understood some of it. But, we were beaten for little things. Like not hanging my father's socks on the clothesline correctly. Or not using Noxema as a night cream on my already oily-skinned face. Or maybe I missed a spot while dusting. (Because I also was responsible for cleaning the entire house--except for her off-limits bedroom).
Where was my father? Either working one of his 3 jobs or drinking. (He's sober now, born-again and totally changed. Better late than never, I suppose.)
What has this got to do with fantasies? I admit that I got off on a bit of a tangent there, but, fantasies kept me alive during those years. There was a point when I considered suicide as a way to end the abuse. But, since I couldn't think of a painless way to commit suicide, I decided to stick around.
I pretty sure that a lot of the fantasies were about getting even. Some of them had to do with taking her to court and forcing her to pay modeling fees of $50 dollars an hour for all the hours I spent on my knees.
I hadn't heard the expression at the time, but most of my fantasies fulfilled the adage, "Living well is the best revenge."
Well, It's late. I'm tired. So, goodnight.
for the border background.