Story of Patience

Under My Covers

PatienceP

PatienceP
Birthday
January 01
Bio
On the surface I'm a well put together, successful mother and wife, but under the cover of perfection and smiles lay the story of child abuse, domestic violence, life in the adult entertainment industry, coping with understanding society rules, roles, religion, honesty and crime against humanity. I'm lost under the covers of life, trying to shuffle through all this mess, trying for once....to have it all make sense. * Disclaimer: The people, location and events have been changed to protect the innocent, any similarities to actual persons, either living or dead, are merely coincidental. Thank you for reading

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FEBRUARY 22, 2012 2:58PM

The Devil Made Me Do It

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I spent 1st through 3rd grade in a private Christian School. Bible stories were read daily along with corny childish prayers about hamsters that were sick and wanting new bikes for birthdays. I thought God and Santa Clause were pretty much the same person…..see’s you when you’re sleeping, knows when you’re awake, condemns you to a fiery hell if you don’t do your math homework.

I remember my teacher, Ms. Gillespie. She wore thick rimmed glasses, an oily Dorothy Hammil haircut, green polyester skirls with tan hose and shoes that looked odd compared to her pale arms and face. This was a woman of God with no concern for her appearance as it was a sin to attract male attention. She told us about her neighbor who was kind and generous, but was not a Christian; therefore this neighbor of hers who had never hurt a person in her life was destined to be an overdone tater tot sizzling in the depths of Satan’s lair for all of eternity. I raised my hand, “Ms. Gillespie, what about those little children starving in Africa that don’t know they need to say their prayers for their sick hamsters because they don’t know God?” Ms. Gillespie shook her head in disappointment and lined us up for lunch. We had tater tots.

Nancy was in my class. She was a thief. The kids knew it, the teachers knew it, but Nancy would swear she didn’t take the pencil, the chalk, the little bouncy ball from the toy box even if it was found in her clammy little hand. Nancy was adopted. Her parents were older. I wondered if she took things because her parents were so old they didn’t allow her any modern toys like Barbie, sit-n-spin, that little plastic lemon thing on a rope that wrapped around your ankle when you skipped over it. Maybe they only let her play with wooden toys her dad made. I didn’t know and I’m sure I spent too much time wondering about it during phonics lesson.

Stealing was especially a bad thing to do in a Christian school. This is why we felt we had to help Nancy. Okay, not so much help, but tempt her. A couple of us kids would bring in a dollar or Luden’s cough drops, the candy disguised as medicine. We would place the booty on the very edge of our desk closest to Nancy, pretend to be engrossed in our work, watch her writher in pain as she ached to take her prize. Carefully, she would get up, graze the side of the desk with her gray blue pinafore all the girls were required to wear and like a true professional, she would take those Luden’s cough drops ever so gracefully as to not cause suspicion. Of course we would wait just long enough for her to think she had gotten away with her crime, then we would scream in horror, little tears developing in our innocent eyes, “my Luden’s cough drops my dad bought me this morning for my sore throat……they’re gone!” The teacher would always go to Nancy. It was entertaining for us and as good Christian children we were also helping to save Nancy from a life of crime. We were all being groomed in our Christian school to love those who believe the way you do, give generously and take it away and lie when it benefits you. We were bred to be the next generation of Republicans.

My sister also went to this school. She was in the pre-school program. I don’t recall my parents preaching fire and damnation, but one night something horrible happened. The night started off as usual. We went to my father’s restaurant for dinner. He was there most every night, so if we wanted to see him we had to go there too. I was eating my steak dinner, which always made me sick, and was told by my mother holding her glass of wine in between shoving fistfuls of buttery bread into her mouth, to take my sister to the restroom. I slid out of the booth, took my sister by the hand and led her to the lady’s room. In the restroom were two stalls that more resembled closets with the doors all the way to the floor so you couldn’t see under them. I figured I may as well go too since we were there. This was a big mistake. I was being influenced by the dark side and had no idea my mortal soul was being possessed at this very moment. As I was “going”, I asked my sister if she was okay. A lady responded, uh oh! I came out of the stall. My sister was nowhere to be found. Now this was my father’s restaurant in a very small town, my sister was more likely to be abducted by unicorn aliens than be kidnapped. I ran back to the table.  There she was, pointing at me. My sister and mother are looking at me as if I am brimming over with evil. My mother grabbed my upper arm forcefully and rushed me to the front door passed all the patrons. She took me out behind the restaurant parking lot where it was dark but I could still see her glaring eyes on me and the spittle coming out of her mouth as she was yelling “How could you? Can’t you do anything right? I ask one thing from you, one thing!!!”. She pushed my small frame against the building so hard that the air escaped from my lips in a huff and tells me, Satan has made me do this horrible thing.

Hold on, wait a minute…what? I play back in my mind what had just happened. No, no, I definitely do not remember having a conversation with Satan in the last five minutes. In my mother’s eyes I was a selfish girl who was disobedient and did not allow my sister to use the bathroom and because of my actions, my sister had wet her pants. I really had no idea this would be the result of me simply using the restroom, now the family had to leave the restaurant because my sister smelled like pee and it was all my fault.

My parents were furious with me. I cried all the way home as they discussed their disappointment in me between themselves in the front seat. When we got home, I was told to stand in the family room. I stared down at the golden orange carpet. I felt like I was about to be beheaded. My sister and mother took their places just a few feet away and stood as an audience to witness my punishment. I was told to pull down my panties and tights all the way to my ankles, lift my Christian school pinafore dress and assume the familiar position. Bent over, even at 7 years old, I am embarrassed more than afraid of the pain about to come. It feels like I stand there for an eternity in this position as my father slowly removed his belt. I felt the sting of the belt, three strikes, all eyes upon me. I’m humiliated. I am a bad child and still don’t understand why. I dress myself, head up to my room confused and unable to sit down, just me and my Luden’s cough drops.

 

 

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belief/religion, family

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I'd like to think this was a singular incident, but I doubt that it was. It is a well written and heart wrenching piece that proves again that we can never really know what goes on behind closed doors. And, at least to me, that religion isn't the answer. I hope you've been able to move beyond your childhood and find answers and peace.
I have moved on and estranged from that family, but these memories still haunt me at times. I'm speaking up for that little girl that was never allowed to speak and it helps so much. Through my writing I have found many have had similar expeiences, so yeah we really never do know what is going on behind closed doors. Thank you so much for reading.
Obviously your memory is scarred for life. You know, a lot of Christians are really terrible witnesses to the character of God. I hope you can see through that now that you're older.

I really enjoyed your piece, up to the point of your being punished. So sad...
I have one memory of a bruising butt whipping I suffered as a child, and your story brought it back to me with chilling effect. That whipping definitely caused me to fear and obey my father, but it sort of killed the possibility of me ever truly loving or respecting him. Oh well. Perhaps I deserved it, because my sin was to creatively embellish the pledge of allegiance with four letter words. I guess a sin against the flag is as bad as a sin against the father. I felt like that ritual obeisance was just calling out for some chaotically creative exercise of freedom. Live and learn.

I enjoyed the story, but one thing you might work on is the moment in the bathroom when you made the fateful decision to go before tending to your sister. It seemed in the story like it got passed over quickly. There was too much I didn't understand: did you have to go so badly that you couldn't help your sister first, or did you not understand your younger sister needed help, had you helped her before, or did you just space out that one time? That moment is really important because it is the supposed moment of satanic meddling, the moment you were supposedly tempted to sin, and I don't have a clear picture of what was in your mind. I think it is a delicious moment of this story, that contradiction between the idea of an innocent young child being victimized by a hellish monster, and the utter banality of human error or carelessness that actually explains the moment. I think that part deserves to be expanded and focused on some more.

That God/Santa correlation is pretty amusing. I figure that when I managed to logically puzzle out in my child-mind that Santa couldn't possibly do the things that were claimed of him, it was good practice for later when I recognized the impossibility of God.

Back when I still had a superstitions mind, it was possible to attach some significance to the fact that Santa nearly spelled Satan. Coincidence? I think so, because the etymological pathways are entirely distinct, but once upon a time I had that kind of childish mind that promiscuously blurred and blended symbols out of fear, the perfect kind of mind for religious teaching to bend and shape.

The Bible is certainly a much thornier problem to puzzle out than the much simpler Santa Clause story. It was especially that last book that terrified me. Once I could see Revelation for the hallucinogenic nightmare of a sadistic patriarchal control freak that it was, I was well on my way toward liberation.

If I were a Christian, and it were in my interests to encourage belief, I'd surely want to eliminate the Santa Clause myth from our culture. He teaches us to recognize and to place cultural myths like God and Jesus in their proper perspective. Praise be to Santa Clause.

I might also want to very carefully examine the records of the council of Nicaea and those synods of Carthage, where men who qualified as knowledgable in the 4th and 5th century designed doctrine and established the canon. What were they thinking when that monstrosity was added to the end of the new testament? I guess they figured it was good to be feared as well as loved, and that in addition to walking softly they needed to wield a really big stick as well.

That bad tail end of the good book was their way of preemptively coercing generation upon generation to bend over bare bottomed and submit to the purifying fire of the leather strap. Fear and loathing are the natural compliments of love and respect.
Jeff, Thank you for reading. In the bathroom, I really didn't elaborate because there wasn't much to say. My sister was capapable of going on her own, maybe I should have stated that and I was just a young girl. My mother should have taken her if she was concerned about anything, but she was too busy gulping her wine. But during the time, it seemed just like any other moment you use a restroom; you just "go" because you are there and nothing more. And while I was innocently "going" that is when I guess Satan (or Santa haha) was working his evil, unbeknownst to me.

I have always enjoyed writing, but this is the 1st time I have put it out there for others. So thank you for letting me see the story through your eyes. I'm just shocked that people would read or be interested in my memiors!

Your thoughts on religion are not far from mine, especially after my experience in a Christian school. Thank you again for taking the time to comment. :)
I think your mother was more angry about losing her steak dinner, than the fact your little sister peed herself. Hysterical socialite types. Joan Crawfords. Sickos. All in the name of conforming to society's customs. A simple logistical error on the restaurants part. Only 2 bathrooms, not enough holes in the ground to piss. If you were a hillbilly, you'd just pee out in the woods and it wouldn't matter, and people would go back to plucking banjos. So much of life's ills are based on improper design and planning. I'll bet mother never thought of that as she was neurotically eating her steak and drinking her wine. Bitch.