Lori Childs

IN THIS EXCERPT FROM HER SOON-TO-BE-PUBLISHED MEMOIR, LORI REVEALS HER FIRST MEMORY OF THE ABUSE SHE SUFFERED AT THE HAND OF HER FATHER. READER, KNOW THIS: ANGELS APPEAR AT THE END.

Trigger warning: The following story contains content about child abuse. Please take care while reading.

By Lori Childs

I remember the first time I was beaten by my father. The pictures in my mind lie much deeper than my skin, and unlike my skin they are impossible to shed. These images are an intrinsic element of my fabric that, although I did not realize it then, is the scaffolding of my resilience.

My parents, my brother and I were leaving Disney World in Florida after a long day of waiting in lines for food, rides, and the bathroom. One accomplished magical feats on these rides, like flying over Neverland (only to bear witness to Captain Hook being dismembered as his hand is devoured by a crocodile). I still cringe when I think of spinning on gigantic teacups, practically at the speed of sound, only to leave the ride reeling and wanting to yack on the first creepy, white-gloved, wide-eyed character that approached me, whom I truly believed was once a puppet but was now miraculously a  real boy. As if this wasn’t traumatic enough, we were surrounded by babes of capitalism who shrieked like the Furies at decibels no human ear should rightfully endure, until they got the stuffed beast or mountainous confectionary concoction that their hearts desired. I myself wouldn’t dare ask for what I wanted because (a) I lived in a “NO!” household, and (b) it would not be until the ripe old age of 26 before I found my voice and permitted myself to use it.

So the first pummeling. We left the park in a hurry. It was supper time and my father could not bear the thought of paying Disney prices to feed his family. The plan was to drive to my Uncle Itch’s house who lived in the Orlando Metropolitan area. His name was Ishmael, or Ish for short. When I first learned to speak I interpreted his name as “Itch,” and it stuck. My mother, my brother, and I were secondary thoughts as he raced to the very end of the parking lot (which may as well have been in China) toward the car to avert his hypoglycemia turning him into Godzilla. To match his pace, it felt as if we had to leap like gazelles to catch up. We finally reached the car when I proclaimed that I had to go to the bathroom. Infuriated, he wondered why I didn’t go before we left the park, when he demanded my brother and I do so. 

“I didn’t have to go then,” I said, quivering in my flip-flops.

With pursed lips, a clenched jaw, and lasers shooting out of his eyes he said, slowly enunciating each word, “You. Will. Have. To. Hold. It. Until. We. Get. To. Uncle. Itch’s. House!” He then got in the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and peeled wheel out of Disney World.

“I couldn’t hold it. I peed on the back seat of my father’s 1972 Hunter Green (metallic), gas-guzzling Buick Electra 225 (Custom Limited). Even the interior was green, all but a few faux-wood paneled accents. I was in the nylon brocade back seat of shame, praying that he didn’t discover what I’d done and rub my nose in it like he did when he housebroke the dog.”

The horror of what ensued was far beyond imagination. So he could confidently navigate to his brother’s place, he pulled into a gas station then circled into the back to retrieve the Florida map in the pocket behind the passenger’s seat. He noticed the dark, wet ring expanding under where I sat—and lost it. 

With fire in his eyes, he began shouting in my face like a drill sergeant, enlightening the immediate circumference of the gas station on why I was an “irresponsible little bitch who refused to go to the bathroom at the park, and had planned to piss in his new car instead.” The over-modulated tone and misogynistic epithets might not have been so bad had he not been foaming at the mouth and catapulting spit as he verbally tore me a new one. For reasons I wouldn’t understand until years later, my father was deathly afraid of the dentist. He never went for bi-yearly cleanings, and his oral hygiene had much to be desired for he rarely brushed his teeth. The maintenance of the yellowish-greenish tiles in his face consisted of loudly sucking decaying food from his gums, which likely remained from days before. Sometimes he improvised flossing by gliding the top edge of a matchbook cover between them to remove the impacted bits of post-chewed whatever that caused him discomfort in the moment. I once saw him remove his own molar while he was sitting in the living room watching “Hawaii 5-0.” I thought he was picking something out of his back tooth with his fingers as he wiggled, twisted, and slightly moaned, his eyes never leaving the glowing box across the room. Then out came the molar along with a terrific splattering of blood, which he kept sucking and slurping until it clotted. He then deposited the excavated molar in the ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. This was neither here nor there as he continued to shout at me in the gas station parking lot. Having a putrid-smelling mouth barking an inch or so from your face, while excreting spit and who knows what else, is just not fun.

Then came the flying fists. Yes, plural. The fists of a grown man in his 30s who still proudly displayed his high school ring, and that of his Knights of Columbus membership. The high school ring, I feel, symbolized the last great year of freedom he had before he “knocked up some broad” (not my mother), which became one of his badges of narcissistic resentment that he wore as if it were on a Boy Scout sash. 

As the full force of his fists contacted my body, the sting shocked my system so that it became difficult to breathe, much less know where I was in space. My poor little body had never before absorbed such pain, disrespect, and mistrust. The face was the worst. As his enormous Popeye fists came at me, they overpowered me and always found the path through my own arms’ feeble attempt to cover up and protect myself. I can only describe the feeling of being pounded in the head over and over again as metallic. Like an anvil uncontrollably soaring toward you from all directions, and your hands shackled, unable to stop it. The rings certainly amplified the experience. Imagine the diamond head on one of those machines at a mall kiosk that etches sentiments into glass or pewter as it personalizes future yard sale fodder, slicing open your flesh. 

Cut flesh doesn’t immediately hurt. When oxygen reached the open wound, the onset of extreme stinging and the blood from, in this instance my split lip, may as well have been battery acid oozing from my face. It tasted tinny and felt like a burning, red stream rippling down my throat. To make matters worse, my father was a heavy smoker. The brocade material of the car seats was already infused with the stale residue of filterless Lucky Strikes and Captain Black pipe tobacco. When he’d had quite enough, I rested my muddled brain against the back seat, which had a vertical stitch at about every two inches. This created folds in the nylon brocade into which my child’s heart and underdeveloped bladder wished to crawl and hide forever. I’d hoped that escaping into the folds would bring me to the Happiest Place on Earth. Anywhere but Disney World. In fact, years later I discovered that this place was without a doubt the Williams Sonoma Outlet.

What kept me present was the faint smell of toxins from the Buick’s exhaust, along with gasping for air as I seemed to be drowning in my own body fluids. The acrid odor of his foul breath lingering in my nasal passages, mixed with the acidity of the stale tobacco resin seats caused my bruising face to feel as if it were burning right off, especially as the excreting tears and blood and snot and fear began to coagulate and encrust in and around my mouth. As predicted, he was indeed rubbing my face in it.

Although I clearly sensed that I didn’t sign up for this, the enormity of the attack was much too much for a little kid to comprehend. It was ground into the fabric of my soul as dirt becomes one with a baseball uniform on a proper slide into home. Where was my mother? This was too heavy a backpack for me to carry — I was four years old.

I came to the realization in college that I’d also been repeatedly sexually abused by my father. Flashbacks surfaced, which led me to find an angel in my life when I connected with Cheryl, my body psychotherapist. Through a grueling nine years of reliving and processing the abuse, and ultimately realizing how my inner child had protected me for years, I forgave my father, embraced myself, and found my voice. The journey of taking back the parts of me that were stolen without my permission, and shedding that which no longer served me well, was triumphant. That is incredibly powerful. 

My mother was an only child and she was spoiled by her own father. Like many women, back in the ‘50s, she moved from her house to her husband’s house. She wasn’t able to find the base of her own power. She still is very childlike. She never became an adult. My father liked little girls—I believe that childlike quality is what attracted him to my mother. That was their dynamic. 

My mother did not know know what to do about the abuse I was suffering. I remember when I was in the second grade, my parents had a horrible fight, yelling and screaming at each other, before I went to school. I asked my mother “are you going to get a divorce?” I was so hopeful. She said “Maybe.” I was so full of joy. I skipped to school that day. The crossing guard commented “Wow, you’re happy today” and I said “Yes! My parents are getting divorced!” I was so overjoyed. Every year, the only thing I wished for on my birthday was for my parents to divorce. Of course, my mother didn’t have the confidence in herself to be able to do that.

“I am a joy warrior. I’ve experienced the depths of absolute horror. It’s because of this horror that I feel I can appreciate joy a lot more in life. I believe that when you’re that desperate in life and you ask for help, there are angels that come into your life. That continues to happen to me. ”

I was blessed with my husband because we have fun all the time. We are on a mission to consciously have as much fun as possible. We’ve taken our children cross country four times in our camper. This is an absolutely beautiful world with extraordinary surprises around every corner if you turn off the television

This is the first time Lori Childs has told her story outside of her circle of friends. She doesn’t get caught up in her story, she says, she is a joy seeker and looking forward. Lori is a board certified Structural Integration practitioner and lives in Massachusetts with her husband and children. The seek out joy through adventures around the country, as often as possible.