Worthy

Worthy’ is a Visceral True-Story of Child Abuse

Yet Author & Survivor Kimberly Plante Offers Powerful Hope, in Spite of a Tragic Childhood

Author Kimberly Plante, who debuted her riveting memoir Worthy in November 2022, is getting the vital message out to everyone that survivors of child abuse can survive - and thrive.

This book is the true story of the author’s devastating childhood, where her own mother was her worst enemy. Yet even though the author’s childhood is painfully tragic, Kimberly Plante takes readers on a journey that leads to a shocking ending: one that is filled with happiness and family.

As a very young child, the author was locked in a room without food, water, or a bathroom, often for ten hours or more. She endured beatings, humiliation, and much worse at the hands of her own mother. From cigarette burns to being victimized daily, somehow, this little girl grew up to find her own powerful voice and tell her story.

Kimberly Plante wrote her memoir to offer readers her gripping personal journey from a loveless, violent childhood to the uplifting discovery of her own powerful voice.

“I knew I had to shine a light on my own childhood, no matter how painful it might be,” noted author Kimberly Plante. “Right now, thousands of children live through their own nightmare due to being abused at home, and I want to send out a clear message to them and to all survivors of child abuse. There is always hope. You must find your voice.” om always slept all day. I got myself up for school and dressed in the cleanest clothes I could find from the piles on the floor. If she did do laundry, the clothes would sit in the washer for days, growing stinky and black from mildew. The clothes I wore more than once smelled like pee because I was afraid to bring attention to myself during class, and I ended up peeing a little in my pants every day.

As of 2020 reports, Child abuse reports involved 7.1 million children and 90.6% of victims are maltreated by one or both parents.

‘Worthy’ is available in print or eBook and in bookstores everywhere in print or Ebook at Barnes and Noble, all Independent book stores, Amazon, Apple, and more.

Most days, when I came home from school, I opened the front door to a darkened room, except for the glow from the black-and-white TV and the end of Mom’s cigarette as she lay passed out in the pullout sofa from the night before. David, now age two, was either still in his pajamas, his diaper full and hanging off him like a wet sack of potatoes, or running around naked.

I always had chores ahead of me. I cleaned the house, took care of my brother, and tried to figure out what the two of us should eat for dinner. Infrequently, she would make dinner — usually, something from a can like peas or Chef Boyardee ravioli. Peas were my favorite, even cold. Every once in a while, she would make something that required more than a saucepan. On these rare occasions, she attempted to clean up after herself, throwing filthy pans in the sink to soak. These pans were soaked for days and always made the house smell like rotting garbage. One day, I came home from

Mschool and was hit with a horrible odor when I opened the door. Mom was in the bathroom. I knew this because the bathroom door was cracked open, and a trail of gray cigarette smoke drifted into the hall outside it. In addition to the typical stench of her body odor, cigarette smoke, and trash, I smelled a different pungent odor. I followed the smell, through the dark, to the tiny, dilapidated kitchen at the back of the house. The sink was full of dirty dishes, one of which was a pan from days earlier that had been soaking. I stepped on my tiptoes to look inside. It was full of stagnant water and had food crusted on the edges. I looked closer and saw tiny white worms crawling around in the pan. Maggots. Tons of them.

The smell was so bad I almost vomited.

“You need to clean this pan right now,” Mom snapped from behind me. Horrified, I pointed up at the maggots. “I don’t want to touch them.”

She laughed. “Get it done. And it better be spotless, along with the rest of the dishes.” She went outside, sat down on the porch, and lit a cigarette. This was her daily afternoon ritual. Sleep until I got home, my brother penned up in his crib with multiple bottles, some empty, some curdled, in a sopping-wet diaper. Then, when I came home, she’d get him out of the crib, change his diaper, and take him outside with her. Today wasn’t any different.

Once she had shut the door, I looked again at the pan, knowing there was no way I was going to put my hand anywhere near the slimy food and little worms. So I opened a grocery bag, picked up the pan with paper towels, and shoved it in the bag. The smell was so bad that I threw up in my mouth a little.

I took the bag out the back door and threw it in the trash can. Somehow, it didn’t occur to me that this wasn’t a foolproof plan.

A couple of minutes later, she yelled for me to come outside. My heart sank. I was in big trouble.

“Did you clean the pan?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied, my heart beating so hard and fast that I could hear the beats in my ears.

“Where is it?” she demanded.

I paused for a minute, not knowing what to do or say. I knew the truth would bring on the wrath of the belt. So,

I tried another lie. By now, I was crying — not fake tears to get away with a lie, but tears of fear of what would happen to me if that lie didn’t work.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” I said. “It’s not clean. I tried my best, but it was unclean. The food was too stuck on.”

Instantly, she grabbed my arm and walked me to the side of the house where the trash can was. I knew I was getting the belt.

“I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m sorry, Mommy!” I repeated.

She lifted the trash can lid, pulled out the paper bag with the maggot-ridden pan, and took her cigarette out of her mouth. She shoved the pan at me, but I didn’t take it, afraid to touch what was crawling around the edges, and the pan fell to the ground.

“Pick it up!” she yelled.

I was frozen with fear, sobbing, “Please don’t make me touch it. Please, Mommy, please!!! I’m scared of the worms. Please, Mommy!”

Then she grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the monstrosity, and I pulled away. She was furious. She grabbed the hair on top of my head and pushed me down toward the pan. I screamed in pain and fear.

“Pick up the pan, Kim,” she repeated. “Pick up the goddamn pan!”

Still sobbing but harder now and begging her in between sobs for her not to hit me, she let go of my hair, grabbed my arm, took the cigarette from the corner of her mouth, and pressed the red-hot end into my forearm. The pain was so intense I could hardly breathe. I had no idea what she would do next, and not knowing was almost as terrifying as whatever she would actually do. “Pick up the goddamn pan!” she yelled again.

My arm was throbbing. I could see the perfect circle where the cigarette had been burned into it. I was crying so hard I couldn’t catch my breath, which only made her angrier. Terrified that she would burn me again, I somehow managed to pick up the pan with my other hand. She grabbed my burned arm and squeezed it hard right where the burn was. Searing pain radiated through my body.

“Get your ass in that kitchen and make this goddamn pan spotless!” she yelled and dragged me inside.

This was the first of many burns Mom gave me. Most of the burns were done in a rage, but some were done for no reason, as though she enjoyed it and just want- ed a laugh when I cried out in shock and pain. The scars on my legs, arms, and hands have faded over time. Usually, I could hide them by wearing pants and longsleeved shirts.

The night before our school pictures, I had taken out the trash and forgot to put the lid on the can. That next morning, the trash was all over the yard, and she was fuming.

“Get your ass outside and pick up every goddamn piece of trash,” she yelled.

I had gotten up early to figure out what to wear for pictures. My closet didn’t have much, and the rest of my clothes were dirty. I decided on the pink-and-white seersucker top Gram had made. When she yelled this to me, I was standing in front of the mirror, admiring how I looked. She found me in the bathroom and again yelled at me to go pick up the trash.

“But I will be dirty for my pictures,” I said.

Without hesitation, she reached over and pushed her cigarette into my neck, right in front. I screamed and winced in pain.

“Clean it up,” she said as she turned around and left me standing in the bathroom.

I never told my aunts or grandmother about the burns. I was afraid Mom would find out — and of what she would do to me when she did. But I was also embarrassed. In some way, I thought maybe I deserved them. I didn’t want my family to know I was a child who deserved such a punishment.

Kimberly Plante is currently a director of respiratory therapy at a children's hospital in Boston. She has completed many levels of education, including a master’s degree in healthcare administration. Worthy is her first book and is available in all bookstores in print or eBook. Visit WorthyMemoir.com to learn more.

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