baksetball

When Joanna had kids and we were old enough to walk and understand basic English, she basically made us her slaves. First it was with my older brother until he got too pissed off and hateful and then just refused, then it was me until I got too pissed off and hateful, and lastly my youngest brother (though it was constantly my grandmother, her own mother, who did every little thing for her because she was terrified of her own daughter, until she moved out). If she was sitting on the couch and her purse was literally five feet away from her, she would call on me, often while I was outside, or a completely different part of the house to hand her her purse, or get her a Xanax, or whatever she wanted. It was absolutely ridiculous, and it was constant. This happened non stop all day, and she'd be enraged if I didn't respond quickly enough.

When I was in middle school, I want to say sixth grade, she was driving me so basketball practice. She enrolled me in any and every sport, no matter how much I hated it or sucked at it (and I sucked at most) because she was afraid I would get fat. Also, she had decided this was the only way I could make something of myself and my profession would be that of a famous athlete. When I would miss a practice or do poorly in a game, as soon as we'd get in the car she would lose her mind about how I was throwing my life away...this started in about fourth grade.

On the way to basketball practice she was fumbling around in the center compartment of the car and then stated,
"There's no chapstick in here." I nodded my head in acknowledgement. I knew she was telling me to find her the chapstick but it infuriated me that she didn't even have the decency to ask. Again she said it,
"Did you hear me? There's no chapstick in here." Each syllable was pronounced harshly, she was pissed I didn't immediately start searching for some chapstick.
"Ok." I said quietly and calmly.
Then the backside of her closed fist connected with my face. She was a fan of the "backhand." She was always threatening them, but she refused to acknowledge that a closed backhand was a punch. She almost ran the car off the road, one hand on the wheel and the other hitting me as I tried to protect my face and my head, my head tucked to my knees while I began hysterically crying. I always wanted to be one of those strong silent types that could get through it all without crying, but I never was.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" She screamed, "How could you do this to me?"
Naturally, I had no idea what the fuck that crazy bitch was talking about. I would've tried to respond, to tell her that the only thing I did was not grab the chapstick, but it would've just made her more angry. And now looking back, I don't think it was about the chapstick, I think she knew that the act of not finding her fucking chapstick was my act of rebellion. Most kids pierce something or sneak out in the middle of the night.

She stopped hitting me and continued driving to my school, my little brother was there anyway and we had to pick him up. She screamed at me the whole way, calling me a fucking bitch and the like, though she did say I wasn't going to basketball practice, so I was thankful for that. When we got to my school she told me to wait in the car while she picked up my little brother.
"Don't even think about running away. Who do you think will want you? You have nothing and no one, no one wants you and no one in this world will help you."
She told me this regularly. I know now it was to alienate me, and to scare me. It worked. When social workers would come to school and ask me questions, I was always afraid to say yes, my mother does hit me and no, she does not feed me.