Ronald E Hestand, EdD 4134 Kalayne Lane Williamsville, NY 14221 Phone (719) 580-3344
Word Count: 1774 Category: Feature Article Confessions of an abused child
As a child, I thought beatings were normal. After all, at school if I got out of line the principal used a strap on my butt. At home, though, the punishment was far more severe. During the day when dad was working, mom would make me cut a hip from the weeping willow tree and switch my legs, all the while, admonishing me that I'd really get it when dad got home. And I did! The beatings were frequent and started at an early age. I can remember getting them back in the first grade. I was usually bored at school, having understood what the lesson was about before the slower kids in the class. As a result, I was often doing something other than listening to the teacher. That was true for all the subjects except for math. I had trouble with math. Today, I understand that I have a kind of math dyslexia. Let me say here that was something I struggled with even through my doctoral studies in my statistics classes. Those days when boredom got the best of me, I would get out of my seat and wander over to the book shelves to get a book to read. The teachers didn't appreciate that. So, home went a note, and I'd get a beating. As I mentioned, math was my bugaboo. I was required to bring all my graded papers home. Any grade less than an S got me a beating. (Our grading system was E, S, M, I, and F). Around the house, if I did not do something to my mom or dad's satisfaction, I got a beating. My brother was the favored child. He survived after mom lost two children between us. Thus, he could do no wrong. I was most often blamed and beaten for what he did. I also had a touch of hyperactivity back then. Unless I was reading a book or watching the television (or before we got a television, the radio shows I liked). I was kicked out of the choir at church for fidgeting. Never mind that I couldn't carry a tune. So, yes, I got a beating. I was sent to a dance class when I was about five or six. I could not sit still. I was bothering the other kids. I got kicked out of the choir and the beating ensued. My mom was cold and unaffectionate toward me. Dad was a tyrant. Little I did pleased him, and when it didn't I got a beating. Back in the fifties, if you went to a movie and didn't get there until after the show started you could remain in the theater until you got to the part you had already seen. On holidays when we went to relatives for dinner, after we ate I got to go to the movies. I remember going in by myself as young as seven. My dad would check how long the shows would last, and expect me to come out at the exact time the shows ended (back then all the shows usually had a double feature, cartoons, a serial, and trailers of upcoming movies). If I was even a few minutes late I got the usual beating when we got home. Dad and mom's public face gave the impression of outstanding people. Dad was a deacon at church and later an elder. Mom was both a local and state officer in the Eastern Star. Dad was also a local officer in the Eastern Star, and later the president of the Moose Lodge for several years and they both ran the bingo games at the Moose Lodge. Not at home though.
Up until now, I've given you a picture of when I would get beatings. I am now going to describe what those beatings were like. As I said, until I was in college, I thought those beatings were normal for all kids. I'll give you just some of the worst beatings. Very early on, when I brought home a bad grade (usually in math or spelling or in deportment), my dad would start beating me with his belt to the point I corrected my errors to his satisfaction. The beatings were severe enough to leave welts on my legs. When I was about nine, I went to a local theater to see a special showing of Walt Disney's Fantasia. I went in before the movie started. The previews were running from the last showing. I got my popcorn and a Coke and settled down to see the movie. The show hadn't been running long before a man came in and took the seat next to me. He leaned over, putting his hand on my leg and ask me if I was enjoying the movie. He left his hand there, and slowly moved it up my leg until it was on my crotch and then began fondling me through my jeans. It felt good, but after a few minutes I became scared and said I had to go to the bathroom. Back there I his in a stall for a while. When I thought it was safe and the guy didn't follow me in there I left and found a seat on the aisle. I had missed ten or fifteen minutes of the movie, so I sat there thinking I'd see the part I had missed. But I didn't make it. Dad came storming in the theater, and spotting me, grabbed me be the ear and dragged me from the theater and shoved me into the car. When we got home, he pulled my pants down and started swinging the belt with what seemed like was all his might. He continued striking my legs with the belt until the welts began to bleed. He then told mom to bring him salt. When he got it, he rubbed it into my bleeding welts. Another time, I was playing down the street and didn't hear mom calling me. When I finally came home, dad was waiting with his belt in his hand. He began strapping me with that belt relentlessly. I ran from the house and down to the chicken coop to hide. Dumb move. He had me cornered. Luckily the coop was small enough he couldn't get a good swing. As he came at me, he ran a piece of chicken wire into his head. That was the break I needed. I bolted past him and back up to the house and upstairs to my brother's and my room and his in the closet. He came up there after mom cleaned the puncture and put a bandage on the wound. He blocked the closet off so that I couldn't get out. He left me blocked in there for several hours. He finally let me out and sent me to bed with out supper. To this day I can't stand closed-in places. The abuse was not limited to physical beatings. There was the mental abuse also. Nothing I ever did pleased him. I was called names all my life till he died. As a child I was fat. I was either called fatty, or subjected to the saying "Fatty, fatty two-by-four". I was always given second best things as a substitute for what I wanted. Rock and roll was just emerging when I was in the sixth grade. I'd ask for a particular record by Bill Haley for instance. He'd buy the cheap knock off imitations of the singers. On the other hand, whatever my brother asked for he got exactly that. My first bicycle was a used one he repainted. Even when I graduated to a three speed bike, he bought a used one again. My GI Joe was a cheap knock off. No matter what I liked or wanted to do was stupid. When I was ten, I started caddying at a local golf course. Carrying the clubs for one golfer was not good enough for him. He insisted that I sign up for
Ronald E Hestand, EdD Word Count: 1774 4134 Kalayne Lane Category: Feature Williamsville, NY 14221 Article Phone (719) 580-3344 doubles. I was expected to be there every day during the summer. My making money was the end of my folks buying me cloths, toys, or books. I had to buy everything I wanted. Even then, whatever I bought was a waste of money. I should have bought the knock-off version. At twelve, I got a “steady" job at a local greenhouse taking cuttings of various plants that they would root and sell. When fall came and we weren't working every weekend, I was sent to a local restaurant that used carhops. I was told to lie about my age to get the job. That job lasted about three months until they somehow found out my real age. I was fired. My dad made fun of me for losing that job! Remember, he told me to lie about my age. My interests were in science. I read every science book I could find at the local library. Reading was my rest from belittlement because I was up in my room reading, no matter how hot that attic bedroom was in the summer. When I came down the verbal abuse would start in again. In high school when I started dating, dad found fault with every girl I dated. They were too fat, the wrong religion, lived in the wrong part of town and so on. It was a constant barrage of insults and name calling of both me and the girl I was dating. While the physical abuse more or less ended when I started high school, the verbal abuse continued to his death bed. I never had the right kind of job, going to graduate school after my BS degree was stupid. My choice of a career in psychology was wrong. Until his death, he would always ask when I was going to get a "real" job! Today, I understand his treatment of me was a projection of his inadequacies. He never truly liked any one. There was always something about them that he didn't like. He would degrade them behind their back. I am still scared from that childhood. However with my own training therapy as well as seeing fellow professionals for therapy, I've come to the point where I have divested most of the baggage my parents gave me. These kinds of abuse can leave one with much baggage, such as problems with authority, nightmares, flashbacks to those abusive events, problems with relationships, and so on. It is my hope that you will seek help from a professional counselor if you have experience any form of abuse as a child.