Even though I remember feeling emotions deeply as a child, no grownup nearby was interested in what I felt. If I did express myself it usually got me into trouble of the sort that included a belt or willow switch. In the house I grew up in no adult cared much about what a kid felt or thought. So I learned to hide my feelings and emotions by stuffing them deeply down inside.
Where I grew up to need medical attention brought grumbling about how much it cost the adults responsible for me. Seeing a doctor or dentist was considered unnecessary unless something very serious was going on like when I broke my arm. Even then I was reminded repeatedly about the charges at the town clinic.
When I was in 6th grade I got some sort of infection down inside my left hand. My fingers and palm to my wrist turned deep red and blew up like a balloon to be at twice their normal size. I was scared about it but did not dare tell anyone. Hiding my infected hand in my jacket pocket kept others from noticing. It hurt badly. Paying attention and sitting still in class was very difficult during the worst of it. I was afraid for the teacher to find out what was going on because there was no doubt she would tell my parents. I was lucky and my hand started healing on its own in less than a week.
Growing up in the country, there was no fluoride in the water and I don’t recall being taught oral hygiene. Brushing was an inconsistent practice and at twelve years-old I ended up with a huge hole in one of my back bottom teeth that resulted in a massive tooth ache. I begged to go to the dentist for several weeks but the adults around basically ignored me.
Every day after school and all day long in the summer my brother and I were made to work at my stepfather’s store. We were free labor and made to stock shelves, run the register, pump gas, sweep floors, clean windows, sack coal and a hundred other tasks we were responsible for. We rarely got to play, never got visit friends or have them over and our only time off was Sunday afternoon after church.
My brother and I were literally worked like beasts of burden six days a week from the time I was ten until I was sixteen. To our stepfather we were unnecessary baggage that came with our Mother when he married her. There is no purpose to me writing about the punishment we often endured as his hand, often for very minor infractions, except to say adults go to prison today for such treatment of kids. My evil stepfather threw me into the street the day before my 17th birthday. With no other place to go, I called my Father who I hardly knew that lived several hundred miles away. He took me in.
I remember vividly while I had the bad tooth when an old woman I was hand pumping some kerosene for noticed I had a toothache. She said “boy, get you some cotton and put a drop or two of this kerosene on it. Then stuff that cotton down in the hole in your tooth. It will stop the pain”. I’m sure it was toxic, but she was correct about it stopping the pain. Every day for a couple of weeks I carried a little bottle of kerosene to school with some cotton in my pocket and became accustomed to the taste. Eventually the tooth abscessed and my jaw became swollen. Only then did I get to go to the dentist to have the tooth extracted. I was 12 years old.
None of what I have shared is a plea for pity or sympathy. Rather I wrote it to openly express why for decades I could not let anyone know what I was truly feeling most of the time, especially any sort of pain or emotional hurt.
Having worked my way past the majority of the uncaring nature of my upbringing, I now find I am ultra sensitive emotionally. Mostly this is a blessing and I find richness in the abundance of my feelings. Joy is greatly enhanced, but so is pain. This is especially true of anything having to do with children. I can become inwardly very emotional when I see kids not being cared for or being mistreated. I feel what I imagine they are feeling. The most difficult part at such times is remembering the hopeless fear I felt as a child and the aching desire inside to be loved and wanted.
I have written this sordid and sad tale to be able to point a reader toward two videos on YouTube.com that move me deeply when I watch them. The first video reminds me how inseparable my little brother and I were growing up and the care I took of him. Things were bad, but at least we did not have to beg on the street. The location and narration are foreign, but I doubt you will have any trouble understanding it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHt0NkZT6LM
The second video is presented here as a reminder of how children emulate what they see. There is much regret for me in knowing in some ways I did end up just like my parents, but thankfully I dearly love my son and never abused him. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7d4gmdl3zNQ
I am grateful for so much this morning! For my recovery and growth the last five years, I am very thankful. For my younger brother and my son, whom I love dearly, and to my dear friends who have been there when I needed them, I have bountiful grateful. And up near the top of my gratitude list is my ability to feel and express my emotions openly. It took about 50 years, but emotionally I am almost grown up now.
Don’t worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you. Robert Fulghum
Good Morning Gratitude 
So much of your childhood sounds like mine. I did not have to work in a store for an evil stepfather, but rather I worked at home…caring for my three younger siblings because my mother was either working (to help support us because my father was a drunk, womanizer, and gambler) or she was out looking for my father in one of the many bars he frequented. I remember how scared I was so much of the time because one of the children was ill…or they were fighting and I didn’t know how to stop them…or it was late at night and they were asleep while I sat in a corner in our tiny living room standing guard. I remember I was literally curled up in a little ball on the floor…frightened and sometimes crying. I had to clean and do laundry…things no seven year old child should be responsible for doing. I often stood by, screaming at my father when he was beating my youngest brother or my mother (for some reason he never touched us girls). When I was 11, my parents divorced and I went to live with my father…having blamed my mother for the divorce. At 14 he assaulted me in a drunken rage and at 15 he threw me to the curb because he decided it was best for him to leave the state with his new wife. I had no home…my mother did not take me in…she never even offered. Thankfully, I had a grandmother who did. From that time forward, I worked to support myself. Except for the roof over my head, I paid my own way and have been doing so ever since. I too have horrible childhood memories that haunt me. My childhood has been responsible for a lot of hurt…my hurt, as well as hurt inflicted on others by my own doing. But, I loved my children and have always been a good mother…determined to be the opposite of my own parents. Thankfully, I succeeded in that arena and can say my children are thriving and love me…I have a wonderful relationship with each of them. My mother has taken responsibility for her part in my upbringing and we now have a relatively normal relationship. My father, on the other hand, is still in denial. I am sorry to say I care very little for him. Children, even adult children, should have good parents and, no matter what, I think we all wish we had loving, caring parents. Even adults sometimes need the support of a mother and father. Of course, I could go on and on, but there is no need. What’s done is done and it is what it is. Now, I try to take it one day at a time. I have sought help from a therapist, as well as having attended a 12 step group. I even checked myself into Laureate at one time. In short, I finally recognized my destructive behavior and took action.
Thank you for today’s writing…for your truth and your honesty.
To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children…to leave the world a better place…to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Childhood- Great topic: I was raised Catholic and out of 7 children was punished for everything. I was the black sheep. I never felt wanted or loved. As an adult it takes much effort to get over the past drama’s I endured. I love your honest story and personal experience as it helps to know I am not alone. Thanks so much ♥ Jackie Paulson
Thank you for sharing your haunting childhood story James… no child should be made to endure such horrors… I am glad you pulled through and are helping others do same. Blessings!
Eliz