By Eleanor Cowan I was eleven years old. “Do you know what you are? asked Mother, thrusting open my bedroom door to find me, as she knew she would, in a predictable spot reading a predictable book. “I’ll tell you who. You’re a big, fat, lazy nothing.” Waving her souvenir from Mexico, a horsewhip, she flicked my hair up at the back as I hit the stairs to begin new tasks. Even though I weighed less than a hundred pounds, even though my chores were done and I’d earned the right to read for awhile, I did not defend myself. There was no talking back, no disrespect, no arguing. Only one rehearsed sentence was permitted. I said it: “Yes, mother? What can I do to help?” Standing up for myself would …
Never Good Enough (My childhood adaptation to abuse)Read More