Words Wound and Scar

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words shall never hurt me.
Children’s Rhyme

Words shall never hurt me is a myth; words do hurt and cause scars that no one can see.

Mistake… my mother got pregnant outside of marriage.

Accident… my mother didn’t intend to have any more children, especially not fourteen years after her third child was born, not as a single woman in the seventies.

B*stard… “an illegitimate child”; illegitimate: “not recognized as lawful offspring; specifically: born of parents not married to each other.” (Merriam-Webster)

Mistake… accident… b*stard… I used those words to describe myself in eighth grade. That’s when I learned that last definition, and it seared in my memory. On those days that I questioned my existence, that’s what I called myself. Eighth grade was a tough year. I wish I’d known then that my Father in heaven was just waiting for me to run to him, but God and faith weren’t things we talked about in my family.

That year my mother told me about my biological father.

When she was fifteen, Mother worked as a car hop at a drive-in; “Teddy” came there to hang out. She knew him from school, although he was a couple of years older. He asked her out and she said yes. Early on, she got pregnant with my sister (it’s unclear if it was consensual). My grandmother forced Teddy to marry Mother when my sister was born, but he didn’t hang around. Mother said she never emotionally matured past sixteen because she never got over him.

Twenty years later, although married with eight more children, Teddy called from another state and said he wanted to see her. She dropped everything and went to him and, about nine months later, I came into the world.

That year I lost my virginity.

Two weeks before my fourteenth birthday, a friend of my crush told me that my crush referred to me as “Super V.” When I asked what the “V” stood for, he looked at me incredulously, then said, “Virgin.” He made it sound like a bad thing, and I didn’t know what he meant. My best friend explained it to me, and I foolishly decided, if that made a difference in how my crush felt about me, that needed to change. She made a few calls, found two boys who were interested in coming to her house, and we had a slumber party.

When the boys snuck in her window that night, the boy I was expecting — another boy I liked — didn’t come. He sent his friend, a boy I didn’t even know, instead. Didn’t matter. I cried through the whole experience while “Danger Zone” played in the background. He mocked me for crying and made me promise not to tell anyone what happened. Although I didn’t tell, someone did. By the time I got to school the next day, so many people were mad at me. Even my friends since elementary school started calling me another name that I didn’t know: sl*t. I couldn’t believe that my reputation could completely change — from virgin to sl*t — over night.

My on-again-off-again best friend dumped me. I believed what people said about me and pursued attention from boys. Girls hated me and threatened to “kick my a**”. I was afraid enough to hide out in the bathroom at lunch so no one would find me.

I had zero self-worth, but I wore a mask well. At home, my mother had no idea what I was doing or what was going on at school. I continued to make good grades, and I never talked to her about the issues I endured. Shame became my companion.

That year my mother found love again.

Valentine’s Day weekend, Mother received a phone call from “Tim” a man whom she had known for many years. Mother, her husband, Tim and his wife shared a season of life together when my siblings and their sons were the same ages. He said he and his wife were divorcing, and he wanted to pay her a visit. I knew this man because Mother and I traveled to spend weekends with him and his wife when I was younger. My memories from those visits included wheelbarrow rides and Tim teaching me how to shuffle cards. Here’s a picture of Tim bottle-feeding me, not my biological father.

man bottle-feeding an infant in his lap in 1970's decor

I went to a party at my on-again best friend’s house when Tim came to visit, and there I met my first real boyfriend.

That weekend changed everything. Mother said she and Tim had feelings for each other for years, and they immediately began making plans to marry. Their planning didn’t faze me because I was also “in love”. Everything was going well with my boyfriend; he claimed to love me, too. Too enamored with her newfound love, Mother didn’t notice my devastation when he broke up with me.

That year we became a family.

April 28, 1988, Tim, Mother and I eloped. I even skipped school for the event! I remember being so excited! Tim would be my dad! But the honeymoon didn’t last — for any of us.

Tim moved into Mother’s house and started looking for work. Unfortunately, his specific skills didn’t transfer well to the area where we lived, and he couldn’t find a job making the amount of money he was used to. Tim didn’t think he should have to settle for a job beneath him; he became angry and depressed.

When school let out for the summer, things were tense at our house. Mother still worked, so she wasn’t around. I stayed in my room reading or babysat for the neighbors. One evening as I sat watching TV, Tim came storming into the house after mowing the lawn. I don’t know what set him off, but I quickly became a target of his anger. He came into the room and shouted, “And you sit there like [an effing] princess not doing anything! You could mow the grass once in awhile.” That’s it. That’s all he said to me. Then, he turned and left the room, leaving me with new words to add to my self-destructive arsenal.

I was shocked.