Chapter 4

Did you ever see the movie “The Kid” with Bruce Willis?  Don’t deny it, Demi, you know you saw it!  I came across it channel-surfing one night about 10 years ago and had a very strong reaction to it.   Bruce’s adult character was able to talk to himself as a kid.  I suddenly had a longing buried so deep I could hardly contain it.  I so desperately wished I could’ve met my adult self as a child.  “You’ll be okay” the adult me would say.  “You’ll have everything you’ve ever wished for.  Just hang in there.  Stay strong.  You can do this.”  That would have been very comforting.  But the adult me never showed up.  I had no comfort.  I had no end in sight to my silent torture.  I’m not exactly sure when the abuse began, but let’s put it this way, I have no memory of a time when I wasn’t afraid.  Would he come into my room and wake me today?  Would my mom maybe stay home today to protect me with her presence?    How can no one see what is happening to me?  Clearly I was a great actress long before my days in the actual theater.  Just to inform you, I’m not going to get excessively graphic in the description of my abuse ~ I’m saving that for the book!  Let me start today by introducing you to my stepfather, Phil.  Phil was an uneducated man, so uneducated that he could not read a word.  Phil’s life’s work was for Blackhawk Foundry where he was a manual laborer.  Phil stood about 5 feet, 2 inches tall and could swing a belt with such force it could take down an elephant.  All that manual labor was not lost on his upper body strength.  I have no idea where he met my mother and I have no idea why she chose him to be her husband and father to her only child.  A little more about my mother, Martha ~ she has never worked a day in her life.  I’m certain anyone with a job and a car would have sufficed.  So she chose Phil.  She unknowingly married a pedophile.  A pedophile who now had 24-hour access to a sweet little girl.  And from what I remember, there were few hours a day when I didn’t have to service him in some way.  To be honest, one of my least favorite services was rubbing his feet.  I had to rub each foot for one hour each night while we sat and watched TV.  Now, I understand that this may be starting to sound a bit unreal or overdramatized.  Believe me, I have no intention of going through what James Frey went through on Oprah when his writings in “A Million Little Pieces” turned out to be “less than true”.   I’m here to write my truth and share it with you.  See you soon…