Crime and Punishment: Another Memory

I’m sure there have been more children who have found themselves in trouble for using inappropriate language than those who haven’t. I am also sure the majority received some form of punishment for their indiscretion.

The question I have had for far too long is what parents considered a fair punishment for a single word, (which to be honest, was repeated after being warned… once.)

I ask this because for far too long I thought what I received was common for the mid-70s but I now realize was possibly a tad excessive…

You see, in those days our families choice of soap was one containing lye. I don’t know about my step father but I know my mother not only preferred such soaps, there was a time when she and my grandmother made their own. I mention this because she should have been well versed in how dangerous such things were since she once explained a scar on her arm which she received when some of her own soap splashed onto her arm, leaving her with a constant reminder to be more careful. This is important because my punishment for using the word “damn” (twice) was to hold a bar of soap in my mouth… for half an hour. The result was chemical burns to my lips, mouth, throat, and vocal cords.

I can’t say if this was the reason my voice never changed a great deal, I do know I never experienced my voice cracking (which I feared and was relieved when it didn’t happen). Indeed, I’m sure it changed much more as a result of smoking than it ever did during puberty.

(Oh, I forgot to mention I was about 7 at the time.)



A number of times it has been suggested I write down the events of my life. What I remember, my thoughts, dreams, hopes and aspirations. What follows is the beginning of a journey I never wanted to take, memories I felt best left to the dust of time. Yet I have never been able to free myself from them and I know they have shaped me into who I am today. I make no promises as to when I will post one of these, just the idea of putting them into words, never mind sharing them, is difficult to say the least.


The beginning:

What is your first memory? Mine is of hiding in a mobile home with my mother while my step father tried to force is way in with a knife. For years I told myself it was just a bad dream, yet to this day I can still see his rage filled face pressed against the window screen, the glint of the knife when the blade caught the light. I remember being terrified and not understanding why and knowing my mother was every bit as terrified as me.


26 Things You Do As An Adult When You’ve Experienced Childhood Emotional Abuse

26 Things You Do As An Adult When You’ve Experienced Childhood Emotional Abuse:

“When growing up, the raising that we receive has much to do with our coping skills as an adult. And I have noticed that I, and other victims of emotional abuse, have certain behaviors that separate us from the rest. If you, or someone you know was a victim of abuse, then you may want to read through these. Just being able to understand where another person is coming from, or understanding yourself better, can make all the difference.”


Creative Writing, Writing

A Path of Irreversible Scars – Snippet: English Assignment

Sitting at her desk, looking at the assignment written on the board, she saw proof of her belief teachers had a morbid sense of humor. 

“Write your own eulogy.”

All things considered, it could be seen as an omen of sorts, how such a dark subject tied in so well with her own thoughts. She opened her notebook to a blank page; holding her pen over the page she thought about what to write. Truth or exaggeration? While she figured he classmates would write fanciful accounts of impossible deeds and accomplishments, she had no desire for such nonsense. No, something deep inside demanded truth. Raw, unblemished truth. The sort which didn’t bring comfort to the reader. Dark and sadistic, the words began to form before the pen touched paper.


“ Erin died today. One moment she was here and the second she was not. Few took note of it and fewer still cared. What she might have accomplished, what her dreams were, her hopes or fears went with her  as silently as she did herself.

There was no viewing, no pictures nor flowers, No one stood to speak of her or for her, the funeral hall was dark and silent as it should be. There was no funeral, no mourners, no priest to talk her into eternity. Only the cold dark of a grave no one would visit. No headstone or marker. Nothing to note her passage across this Earth. 

Only this eulogy buried in a stack of ungraded papers and she was fine with that.”


She doubted anyone really cared one way or the other, it was just a kid’s scribbling to fill a page and get a grade no one would remember.