My father was always yelling at my mother during all of this. He would tell her that she was a fat cow, worthless, and that she was faking all of her problems. I never got between them on these one-sided arguments, but my brain seemed to absorb everything that went on. I would get angry at him for being so mean, and I would get angry at her for never defending herself. I could not understand how she could just stare out a window and never stand up to him. My escape during these times was books. Books became my best friend, even though my dad cussed and yelled at me about that as well. I would read anything I could get my hands on, no matter the consequences. I was whipped, threatened, demeaned, and had them taken away, but I never gave in to him on this. If there was a brief moment I could escape into my reading, I did.
By the time I was fifteen, I was a product of my upbringing. I was very overweight, had a major attitude problem, and never showed any emotion but anger. I managed to do well in school, but I was never allowed to socialize outside of school. I had a few close friends that knew some of what I dealt with, but I tried not to have them over often in case they saw more than what they should. Upon entering high school, I discovered band. From my first moment with an instrument, I was hooked. As a freshman I was in marching band, jazz band, concert band, and pep band. My dad hated this; I was wasting my time, and I would never get anything out of it. My sophomore year, I was forbidden to be in band. At that point, it seemed that the only thing but reading that I had ever enjoyed was being ripped away. With my mother's and friends' parents help I was able to sneak to practices, even though I was not able to march. It was at this time that I became bulimic. I know now that according to all the experts I was using that as a way to have some control over my life; I was simply tired of being fat and watching my mom be ridiculed about being the same way. I swore the first time I threw up that no man would ever call me a fat cow, no matter what.
Between the ages of seventeen and eighteen, I got over my fear of my father. I was so used to being whipped with a belt; along with all the threats that he was going to shoot me that I had started standing up for myself. I got to the point that if I was threatened, I called his bluff. If he said he was going to shoot me, I told him to get his gun out so we could see who would actually use it. When he raised his fist, I taunted him. I wanted him to hit me so I could hit him back. I was becoming a very angry person, and I refused to put up with anything from my father. When I turned eighteen, I convinced my mom to leave my dad to go to my aunt's. It took her two days before she decided she had to go back to him.
When she made her decision, I told her I was not going back with her. I had already made arrangements to live with a friend until I finished school. I knew this was going to be hard on her, but I knew I could not stay in my father's house any longer. I was at the end of my ability not to resort to violence against him, which I knew would only hurt my mother more. When my aunt took us back to his house, he noticed that I kept my stuff outside. He did not believe I was going to leave, and even made the comment that this seemed a bit much for him saying that I needed to clean my room. I told him that if he truly thought that was why I was moving, then he was sadder than I thought.
I managed to finish school while working and continuing to go to my parents' house to fix my mom's medication. When I graduated from high school I moved in with my boyfriend at the time, where I stayed for another year. Soon after this, my mom had her fifth stroke.
This stroke left her unable to use her left arm or leg, which meant she was bed bound. My father begged me to move back home to care for her, which I did. Even though I was working full time I still managed to care for her, even though I was now expected to clean her up after accidents in addition to everything else. My mom became a very bitter and unhelpful patient. She would not help when it was time to change her or her bedding, and she refused to allow me to put her in adult diapers. I somehow managed to keep up with all this without growing bitter towards her, at least for a while.
