General Non-Fiction posted July 10, 2022


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I have no more words to say.

Oh, My

by Carolyn Dooley


The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

At six years old, my mother forced me to sit at the kitchen table daily. In her opinion, it was important to learn how to take care of myself.

Each time she stepped into the kitchen, she grabbed a five-pound bag of Colonial Sugar.

She went through that word letter by letter. The instruction took considerable time. It was an unacceptable period.

My mother would yell and become angry. Afterwards, she made me feel useless. It was a struggle to remember those letters that spelled,

"Colonial."

Every night, I wet the bed and sucked my right two fingers. During sleep, my dad poured hot sauce over them.

My level of annoyance reached a boiling point. There were many walks along the adjacent railroad tracks, behind our house. Walking daily helped clear my mind for a while.

In addition, she slapped the table of angry reprimands. My mind was made up, this

old gal could not do anything.

Throughout my teenage years, she refused to let me wash my hair. She claimed I was unable to

wash my hair in a suitable manner. She told me to come get her if someone wanted to fight.

She made me feel like a coward.

Once
I began dating, she said,

"No one will marry you. It would be too good to be true." No person is interested in marrying a

poor girl. She said,

"If you do get married, the only thing you can do is have children or become a babysitter."

On several attempts to instruct me on how to wear high-heel shoes, it did not work.

My first task was to learn how to wash dishes at four years old. Chairs put me to the level reaching dishes.

Next, she made me babysit for my younger siblings. Mom claimed we had a babysitter. I never saw one. And if so, why did I take my siblings behind the couch until she or dad came home from work?

As the years passed, my daily task included cleaning the house. Mom made me take our

clothes in a grocery cart to the laundry mat monthly. Every day, she sent to the grocery store for cigarettes, canned milk, and a pound of dry beans.

Despite this, she made me believe there was no chance of succeeding.

When my first period arrived at age twelve, it terrified me. Questioning myself,

"What was wrong with me?

She was asked to come into the bathroom to check. She said,

"You have haemorrhoids."

Afterwards, she said,

"You had better not have sex before marriage, or you will bleed to death."













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