Continued, part 4:

I was a child, she washed me in the bathroom, scrubbing me, pressing her fingers deep into my scalp and rubbing it so hard that it hurt, pressing and massaging the soap deep into my head. I was an object to be cleaned, and cleaned hard. She didn’t trust that I could do a god job cleaning my.. (I was going to say my body, but it was not mine), so she cleaned it when I was 5, all the way to 15 or so. I don’t remember when it stopped. I clearly remember her entering the bathroom this one time when I was maybe 8, I was naked in the bathtub, and as she entered, I turned around quickly so that I was lying on my belly, so that she wouldn’t see my front. By the age of 15, she allowed me to wash some of “my” body, but insisted that she washes my back and my head (because she said I wouldn’t do a good job on my own). Every shower time, the shame of being seen by her naked, particularly post puberty, was INTENSE. I tried to hide myself with one hand or the other, but with very limited success. My shame was visible and audible, but she didn’t care. The cleaning job needed to be done, and that’s all that mattered to her. Every time, when it was over and I was in my pajamas, I felt a relief.. finally it was over. Until the next time.

My life with my mother was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. It was a nightmare in so many ways, and in so many contexts. I can feel it, the nightmarish factor right now, as I type. It feels like a pressure in my head. I can feel her big hands, big fingers digging into my sore scalp.. so hard, is she trying to hurt me..?

To be continued.

anita