No more beatings

I shudder to think of how many times I have been beaten, or experienced physical abuse.  My earliest memory of physical violence involved being thrown into a crib and hitting my head.  As I grew I was " disciplined". Yet no child should be struck the way I was.  I never knew where the lines were. Did I sing when I should be quiet? Was I too slow, was I just in the way?

I recall being beaten at church because as an eight-year-old girl I was letting my legs swing to the music. I wasn't even aware I was doing it.  I wasn't perfect, sitting still the way my mother wanted so she grabbed me by the ear, hauled me into the bathroom and let loose on me.

I was beaten because a friend ran up to me and gave me a hug.  I didn't know the rule was I wasn't to be hugged or love.  While I didn't receive love or affection at home, I had no clue I'd get beaten the day someone finally hugged me. 

She taught me how to beat a child without bruising them. She'd explain to me which tools bruise and which don't. If the blows are where others might see then it was advisable to use certain tools that bruise less but still burn. For instance, she taught me that using a rubber spatula hurts more but bruises less on bare skin than a wooden spoon.  She beat me with brushes, every kind of kitchen spoon belts and even ping pong paddles.

I remember sitting underneath the clothing in my parents closet as a five-year-old girl. I had been sent to go choose which belt my father would whip me with.  If I had stolen or done something horrible I can almost believe I would have deserved it, but I didn't.  I was hit without cause over and over.

My kid sister would call out from across the house and say " Eve-Marie's bugging me". I wasn't even in the same room. I was minding my own business and a beating would come.  Again and again, I was beaten because I could be.

My mother would have my hand wash all the dishes for a family of 12 and check in on me as Im working away. If she didn't feel the progress was sufficient she'd make me choose a utensil from the drawer and she'd whip my hands until they were red and swollen. Then she'd return ten minutes later and do it again, and again and again and again.

I recall sleeping on the floor in front of the washing machine doing my parents laundry as a small child. I didn't dare move because I'd be beaten.  Once I started folding the laundry I was too slow and was beaten.

You get the idea. I was beaten a lot.  I hate the things I was beaten with. Brushes, ping pong paddles, wooden spoons, spatulas, their hands.  So tonight I painted a painting. I am burning all the things I have been beaten within a bonfire and reclaiming my worth.  No child should be beaten as I was.  I reject that treatment and every item used to harm me.