Help, God! I Can't Afford a Psychiatrist by Donna Benedict

Chapter One ...

Content Warning: This chapter includes depictions of child abuse. We recognize this may be deeply triggering or painful for some readers. Please read with care.

A Child's First Lessons

I wake up and it’s dark and quiet. When I hear a faint sound from down the hall, I know why my sleep was interrupted. Dad doesn’t sleep very well. I get up from bed and quietly tiptoe down the hall, careful to avoid the creaking places on the floor—I certainly don’t want to wake up my mother. In the quiet of the still, late hour, he is absorbed in thought. He’s the Display Manager at David’s Women’s Clothing store where he decorates the windows and the inside of the store for the seasons and holidays.

He looks up and greets me with the kindest smile “Hi honey, what are you doing up?” he asks.

“It’s hot in my bedroom and I couldn’t sleep,” I respond.

He pulls a chair over next to him and I sit in my favorite spot – up close to my dad. Sitting here, I watch him drawing his designs on top of the smooth surface of our Formica-top table. With pencil in hand, he makes quick lines—drawing, erasing, drawing, erasing. He is sketching out his design ideas for the next creative thing he wants to use in one of his window displays. I watch quietly, fascinated as he brings his ideas to life. He is an incredible artist, and I absolutely love his designs and creativity. I can’t wait to actually see them in the store window. He dresses the manikins in the latest fashions and they almost look real, coming alive in vivid colors and textures. Surrounded with the designs he’s created from the designs drawn on the kitchen table, he builds the set to fit the season. It’s like magic.

It’s so special spending a few quiet moments with him and I cherish every second. No noise and commotion, just a few minutes of peace and quiet.   Being the oldest of eight kids, I still know I’m “Daddy’s little girl.” He is and always will be my hero He’s my compassionate, loving protector in my otherwise intolerable life.

My first vivid memory of Dad is when I’m about four or five years old. We had just moved to Albany. He comes home from work early, sits on the floor, puts me on his lap, and I see tears in his eyes He apologizes for punishing me for something I did wrong.

“Donna, I’m so sorry for having to spank you this morning. It hurt me more than it hurt you.  What you did was wrong and to protect you from ever doing it again, I had to spank you. I don’t ever want to see you get hurt because you disobeyed what I told you to do.”

I don’t remember the spanking or what the punishment was for. His love, compassion and tears for me while holding me on his lap and hugging me close to his chest, crowd out all memory of the spanking. After this, I know I never want to hurt him ever again. He’s my daddy and I love him more than anything. He consistently shows me how much he loves and cares for me and I am so thankful for my wonderful, loving dad.

Mom is a different story. She has violent, abusive outbursts that seemingly come out of nowhere. You never know when or whom she is going to go after next. I hear her footsteps pounding at various times during the day and night, and they always leave me trembling in fear. Which one of us is she coming after? All of us kids live with that fear. If she’s in the house, we know we’re not safe and we dread her tirades of abuse— physical, emotional, or just ear-piercing fury. She has severe emotional problems, but as a little girl, all I know is that she scares me to death.

Dad left for work. I’m in my room that Pat and I share. Oh God, no. I hear her coming. Uh oh, my heart starts racing. I feel the terror rising up within me and I’m totally unaware of what Pat is going through. She barges in, rips the clothes out of our closet, throwing them in a heap on the floor. Then she dumps out our dresser drawers, flinging clothes all around the room. I watch in horror, hoping beyond hope that she’ll sweep the last item, my jewelry box, off the dresser and leave. But she doesn’t leave. She starts screaming, reaches for Pat, grabs her by the hair, and hits her in the face, over and over and over. She turns to me, grabs my hair and starts shaking me back and forth like a rag doll, “Donna, you’re a pig! Look at what a mess this room is!”

“Clean up this mess and get yourselves ready for school. I want this room clean before you leave this house,” she commands. We fly into action, picking up clothes and reorganizing our room as fast as we can so we can get dressed and out the door for school. I feel disconnected from my body. My mind is numb and even after I get to class, I can’t focus or concentrate.

When I’m away from her, at school, or in a restaurant, I catch myself tensing up my shoulders, and constantly looking behind and around me for fear of being attacked by someone, anyone. I’m so used to bracing for an attack that I can’t let my guard down; I can never relax. All of my siblings are affected as well. We never know when she will fly into a rage, keeping us on guard constantly.

Mysteriously, there’s another side of Mom that is over-the-top generous and fun. This leaves us in a tortuous place of uncertainty, hoping for the good side to emerge, while fearing the appearance of her cruel Mrs. Hyde.

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Thanksgiving, Christmas and other celebratory events bring out her sane and caring side. She makes sure Christmas is special for all of us. Each one of us have at least ten or more gifts under the tree. Decorating, wrapping presents for one and all. Mom and Dad have big families, so there’s at least 50 or more people that gather together to exchange gifts.

Birthday parties, wedding showers, or baby showers, she’s in the middle of them all. She makes cakes with her delicious homemade frostings. Her famous Hershey’s fudge is sheer perfection, and we can’t wait to consume the S’mores she makes over the gas stove. She attends every outing, birthday party, wedding, funeral, and such. At these, she is amiable and usually the “life of the party.” Several of my cousins love her as their favorite aunt, completely sold on her act of being the perfect mom.

They have no idea.

In addition to her acting and social entertaining skills, she actually does a good job managing the household budget. She only has a seventh-grade education, but I can’t believe how she can stretch a penny. We always have nice clothes, dinner on the table every night and a warm bed to sleep in, no matter what. She starts Christmas shopping in June, puts everything on layaway, and has it all paid off before Christmas. I appreciate how she takes care of her family this way.

What I really want most from Mom is her love when it isn’t Christmas or my birthday. I can’t help but compare her to my dad and how he makes me feel safe, cared for, and respected. Beginning at a young age, my relationship with her is strained and dysfunctional. I don’t trust her; I love and hate her at the same time. Her love is what I want most of all, but I’m not sure I will ever have it. There’s a part of me that thinks she loves me but I’m never quite sure. Practically right out of the crib I hear her say to me, “You will never amount to anything. You can’t do anything right. You’re stupid.” I begin to believe that everything she says about me is true and I will never measure up to her standards.

Hurt, anger, bitterness, and resentment become deep-rooted within me, caused by the cruel words she carelessly flings about when she’s mad about who knows what. How can I go on living this way? Terrified, I believe that if someone finds out how we live they will know it’s all my fault. All I want is a way to escape the insanity I feel because of her. I want to run away, but I’m young and don’t know where to go. Besides, I love my dad, and he’s the one who keeps me protected. Problem is, he isn’t always here. He doesn’t know the half of what we endure. I only wish someone did.

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“Cruel words erode the self-esteem like the ocean eats away the shore.” —Abigail Van Buren

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning. I’m 10 years old and feeling quite grown up because I spent the night at a friend’s house. I had a great time with her lovely family, and now I’m heading back home. I’m carrying my little suitcase and skipping along towards the city bus stop, filled with happiness and peace. If my bus isn’t there, my friend instructed me to go into the little grocery store at the bus stop to wait. Not seeing my bus, I climb up the step leading to the front door of the store, push it open and walk inside. The walls are a pea green color with accents of yellow here and there. The floor is tiled with a variegated yellow and green pattern. Ugly! is all that comes to mind.

There’s a counter to my left with a glass enclosure that displays different candies, gum, and a variety of treats. The cash register sits on top of the counter. To my right are several tall shelves filled with canned goods, cereals, and a variety of other items.

A short, stocky old man is standing next to the counter. I know who he is. No one else is here; we are alone. I put down my suitcase. The old man is walking towards me and as soon as my hand releases the handle, he grabs my arm! He jerks me over and pulls me between two of the shelves.

We are hidden from the front door I am shocked and my whole body freezes. I’m terrified like a deer in the headlights. I can’t move. He wraps his arms around my body so I’m facing him. He smells like an old cigar and dried sour sweat. He grabs my butt with both hands and pulls me tightly so I’m pressed up against him. My feet come up off the floor. I’m frozen in fear and can’t react. He tries to stick his tongue in my mouth and just then the shopkeeper’s bell over the inside of the front door jingles loudly and someone walks in. Immediately he drops me, and as fast as I can, I dash out from between the shelves, grab my suitcase and bolt out the door. Thank God there’s a bus! I don’t care if this is my bus, I’m getting on. It’s just idling there with no driver, but I don’t care. The two front steps are pretty steep but I jump with all my might, landing on the top step. I forgot to put in my token. I don’t care. I get on my hands and knees and begin to crawl towards the back of the bus. The black rubber mat on the floor is covered in dirt and grit. My pretty dress doesn’t keep the grit from digging into my legs and knees with every move. Ouch, don’t cry. Keep going.

Finally, I reach the last dark green seat on the side of the bus that faces the store. As I crawl under the seat, I pull my suitcase in with me and press it close against my trembling body so we are totally hidden.

My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I feel like I want to throw up. Several minutes seems like several hours. The bus isn’t moving. Where is that bus driver? God, please be with me. I’m so afraid of what that old man will do if he finds me. Slowly I rise up just enough to peek out the window. That evil old man is standing in front of the store. His hands are on his hips and he’s looking up and down the street. I’m sure he’s looking for me. Where’s that guy who walked into the store just in the nick of time? I don’t see him anywhere. That’s odd. Ducking back under the seat, I wait. The bus driver, finally! I hear a loud “whoosh” noise as the door closes and the bus starts to move away from the curb. God, please don’t let that old man follow me home.

Crawling out from under the seat, I climb up onto it and sit down, keeping my head low, but keeping an eye out for my stop. Thank God, here’s where I get off. The door at the back of the bus opens with another “whoosh” and I grab my suitcase, run to the steps and leap off the bus. I land with a thud on the sidewalk. My mind is in a swirl of fear on so many levels and I can’t think straight. I can’t tell my mother. She will kill him. She won’t let me stay overnight with my friend ever again. There’s no way I can tell Dad either, because he’ll tell Mom and I know she’ll punish me. Terror hits me at the thought of walking in the house to face her. My fear of her is almost greater than my fear of that old man. I just know, even at ten years old, that it will not go well if I tell her or anybody.

Walking up the steps to the front of my house, I hesitate, take a deep breath and open the door. The small vestibule is dark when I enter I turn the corner to walk into the living room. My mother is sitting on the couch with one leg tucked under the other as she looks out the sun-filled bay windows that oversee the front porch. She looks at me and motions for me to sit with her. Reluctantly, I walk over and sit down. I can tell by the frown on her face she is upset about something. She says, “Donna, what’s wrong, you’re white as a sheet?”

“Nothing, I’m okay,” I say, even though my stomach is tied in knots. She knows something is wrong, but I will never tell. I keep my mouth tightly shut. She continues to question me. I can’t think, feel, or respond. Staring at her, all I want to do is get up, go in the bathroom, throw up, then go to my room.

Finally, she realizes her questions will get no answers. She tells me to get up and put my things away. Like a robot, I get up off the couch, walk through the living room, the dining room, and turn to go into my bedroom. Closing the door behind me, I drop my suitcase on the floor and throw myself down on my bed. I bury my head into my pillow and sob quietly, trembling from head to toe. I will never go near that dirty old man ever again. I hate him. I hate what he did to me.

Gone is any sense of safety and peace. I’m not safe around anyone, anywhere. I’m 10 and now I know: The world is not safe. I will never tell anyone what happened. I think, I don’t like how he made me feel. Would he have hurt me more if the other person hadn’t come in the front door? My whole body is still trembling. Was this my fault? Did I ask for him do this to me somehow?

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I recover enough to fake it through dinner with my family. It takes everything I have to act “normal” as my body begins to settle down. After dinner, Pat and I go outside and sit on the front porch. We decide to grab our bikes and ride around the block. Thankful to escape the glaring eyes of my mother, it feels good to get out and feel the fresh, crisp air blow against my face as we ride and ride around that block until we’re both worn out.

Here it is, a year after that old man stole my innocence. At the time, I could not have known that it wouldn’t be the last time I was molested. Our family dentist and a female babysitter stole another part of my childhood innocence. The same “deer in the headlights” reaction hit me. The fear paralyzes me.

The effects of these molestations haunt me. The old man is a friend of the family. The babysitter is a relative and I’m around her frequently. How can I get free of the “fear and terror” I feel when I see them or anyone who reminds me of them? Will I ever get over the shock, terror, shame, and guilt? I hold all of this deep inside. It’s in the shadow of my inner chamber of secrets. Nobody knows, and I don’t think I can or will tell anyone.

Reliving the memories, all I can do is live one day at a time the best I can, cautiously looking over my shoulder. Whenever anyone like that old man gets close, I leave the room, the sidewalk or store, all the while looking behind to be sure I am not being followed. Help, God! Keep these awful people away from me. Help me stay safe, even from my mother.

Copyright © 2024 by Donna Benedict