Note: Supplemental materials are not guaranteed with Rental or Used book purchases.
Purchase Benefits
What is included with this book?
Foreword With Gratitude | |
Rescued by the Cross | |
Butchered Dreams | |
Broken Homes | |
Brand-New Life | |
Living Proof | |
Stepping Out of Your Past | |
LSD (lies, Sex, & Death) | |
Home Wreckers | |
The Sting of Rejection | |
Breaking the Mirror | |
And into God's Purpose | |
No More Excuses | |
Move Past Your Past | |
Don't Walk Away | |
Renew Your Mind | |
Prepare for Battle | |
Notes | |
Table of Contents provided by Publisher. All Rights Reserved. |
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The Used, Rental and eBook copies of this book are not guaranteed to include any supplemental materials. Typically, only the book itself is included. This is true even if the title states it includes any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.
Butchered Dreams
The blade must have been a foot long. Grasping the thick
wooden handle, my mother wielded the knife with a threatening
swoosh as she hovered over our bunk beds. My sister, Donna, and I
had awakened wide-eyed when she stumbled into our bedroom. The
sickening, stale odor of alcohol lingered in the air.
You were a mistake, she declared in a menacing tone.
The darkness hid her face from me. A very costly mistake.
Youve cost me way too much money. And for what? Youre
worthless, you know that? You came from hell. Youll never
go anywhere. Youll never amount to anythingjust like
your worthless father.
Mommy, whats wrong? I asked, trembling.
Im tired of living, she mumbled, looking over
my shoulder as if she were talking to the wall. She paused. I
stared at the knife, each second a heart-pounding test of my will
to survive. At nine years old, I had already experienced enough
physical abuse and emotional trauma to last a lifetime. Would
this night be the end of my tortured life?
Ill kill you both, she sneered after staring
into space for what seemed like an eternity. Then Ill
kill myself.
No, Mommy, no! I pleaded. Stop! Please!
Dont do it! Please, Mommy! Dont hurt us!
A flood of tears poured from my eyes. My cries soon escalated
into hysterical sobs and screams, which sent Donna into spasms. I
couldnt understand her indecipherable babbling, but I
remember Donnas shoulders heaving as she shook her head
back and forth. The sight of us wailing and begging for mercy
must have snapped Mom out of her liquor-stained haze. She sank
slowly onto the edge of the bed and began to cry. The knife slid
from her grasp.
Its all right, Mom choked. Im not
going to kill you. I was just a little upset.
My heart pounding, I lay in my bed for hours, unable to sleep. As
I stared at the dark ceiling, I wondered why my mother was so
angry. She had been born in South Carolina to hard-working,
church-going parents. She told me they never drank, smoked, or
cussed. A straight-A student through the eighth grade, my mother
took her first drink at a party when she was fifteen. That one
drink apparently touched off her love affair with booze.
Her alcoholism drove her to wander chaotically from place to
place. Living first near the East Coast, she wandered to
California where she met and married her second husband (my
father), who was serving in the navy. Then she drifted back east
and on into the Midwest. I was born in Virginia; two years later
my sister arrived while we were living in Kansas City, Missouri.
During my childhood we roamed through North Carolina, South
Carolina, Tennessee, Kansas, Illinois, Arkansas, Washington,
Michigan, Texas, and several other states. Our longest stay in
one place was in the Saint Louis area. Even there we bounced
around like pinballs, moving from suburb to suburb.
I never understood why my mother grew to hate my father with such
a passion. They met when he was in the navy. Both of them were
heavy drinkers, which marred their hopes of a long and happy
marriage. Deep wounds inflicted by her miscarriage of twins a
year before my birth were salved with more alcohol. But booze
didnt cure my mothers pain; it only numbed her for a
few hours.
I was only four when my parents divorced. Though my father
initially secured visitation rights, Mom pumped us so full of her
venom toward Dad that we complained and asked embarrassing
questions whenever we visited him. Finally he put his foot down,
telling my mother, Either you take full custody of them, or
Ill take full custody. Im tired of dragging these
kids back and forth between the two of us. We never went
back to Dads house.
The Abuse Begins
The end of our visits to Dad didnt bring Mom much
satisfaction. Though she occasionally smiled and even laughed,
these brief moments of normalcy didnt make up for her
frequent dark moods. I was barely five years old when the abuse
began, intensifying as we grew older. She regularly cursed at us
and frequently beat us or banished us to our bedroom. Her
fearsome eruptions were capped off by screaming commands. Donna
and I never knew what to expect from Mom. We might come home
after a pleasant day at school, only to be greeted by flying
fists, a dinner plate sailing through the air, or a stream of
profanity that punctured our spirits like a dagger.
But Moms physical and verbal attacks were not our only
problems. A recurring pattern of neglect left us frightened and
confused. She would vanish for several days at a time, wedging
toothpicks in the front door and warning that any broken pieces
would alert her that we had left without her permission. It never
dawned on us that, with her thinking clouded by liquor, she would
forget leaving them there.
A steady stream of parties passed through whatever place we
called home for the moment. Even in the rare times when nobody
drifted by for a snort, Moms fingers would be curled around
a shot glass filled with amber-colored liquid. After emptying it,
she would take a swig from a glass of water, which sat next to an
ashtray that held burning cigarettes around the clock. Her eyes
were continually bloodshot.
While somewhat stable during the week, on Fridays she would often
disappear, leaving us with whatever bar buddy she could sweet
talk into baby-sitting her little brats. Sometimes
her flings would move in for a while, compensating themselves for
their services by dipping into Moms stash of liquor. Most
of these baby-sitters werent dependable, dashing out the
door moments after Mom left us in their care. Our temporary
guardians included ex-boyfriends or new lovers whom she lured to
the task with the promise of sex or other favors. The latter led
to one of the most humiliating incidents of our lives.
This traumatic event occurred the first night an ex-boyfriend
stayed with us while Mom took off for three days of drinking and
waiting on tavern customers. I remember crawling up the ladder
into the top bunk, laughing, and making playful remarks to Donna
before we drifted off to sleep. I awoke to terrible noises.
Looking down, I saw our baby-sitter on top of Donna, but at seven
years old, I had no idea what he was doing. Scared and unsure of
what was happening, I pretended to be asleep. But after she
screamed twice, I yelled at him. I had already learned how to
cuss, so I used a few choice words.
Since he had finished raping Donna, he reached up and pulled down
my pants. Though he didnt rape me, I dont remember
much about the molestation; I think my mind has blocked out the
trauma. But I do remember having to spend two more days with him
until Mom returned.
When I finally told Mom what had happened, she went crazy.
Im not sure who she called, but the police showed up and
asked me a string of questions. Later they returned and took me
to the police station, where a cop hoisted me up so I could see
through the lockup window. I pointed out the attacker, but he
never looked up. Later I had to repeat the experience in a
courtroom. Fortunately, the lawyers didnt ask too many
questions. I swore to tell the truth, pointed at the defendant,
and said he was the one who had done those terrible things to my
sister and me. We never saw him again.
Still traumatized from the molestation and angry at the wild
whippings from my new stepfather, I tried to commit suicide two
years later, when I was only nine. Before going to bed I managed
to sneak a bottle of aspirin out of the kitchen and swallow all
of its contents. I had seen someone do that in a movie and
thought it would take care of my problems. Going to sleep and
never waking up seemed much better than living. Im not sure
that I really wanted to die; I just wanted the pain to stop.
Living in Denial
Those who think booze is harmless seldom acknowledge the squalor,
wasted lives, and broken homes left in alcohols bitter
wake. And they do not like to hear the truth that countless
parents haul their children into bars. As a boy I spent hundreds
of hours in smoke-filled taverns. Donna and I would play
shuffleboard and pool while my mother and her partner downed
another drink.
Depictions of harmless, fun-loving, tipsy drunks have long been a
staple of American cartoons, movies, and television shows. Such
humorous characterizations reflect societys ingrained
philosophy that overindulging in alcohol is a carefree way to
have a good time. But after witnessing my mothers violent
behavior whenever she was drunk, I know there is no such thing as
harmless drinking.
Citizens in the United States live in constant denial of the
seriousness of the damage caused by this harmful drug. Alcohol is
the leading cause of domestic violence and highway
deathsapproximately three hundred thousand between 1982 and
1995, more than five times the number of Americans who died in
the Vietnam War. The estimated social costs of addictions to
alcohol, cigarettes, and other drugs exceed 240 billion dollars a
year. A recent study projects that by the year 2010 the combined
costs of depression and alcohol dependency will outrank cancer as
the worst burdens on Americas health-care system.
Over the years I have heard too many stories of people whose
descent into despair, further drug abuse, prison time, or
unwanted pregnancies originated with their first drink. If more
people would have spoken out against booze, maybe my mother
wouldnt have taken her first sip at age fifteen. That
seemingly harmless act not only destroyed my childhood but
ultimately led to her premature death at age fifty-two. That one
sip also made those intervening thirty-seven years a time of
misery for her and for those closest to her.
Fight to Survive
Hey, mister. Can ya spare a quarter? Gotta make a couple of
calls.
The man had just stumbled out of one of the dozens of taverns
that covered our suburban, blue-collar neighborhood. Every few
blocks sat a pool hall, lounge, or beer gardenusually next
to a convenience store that dispensed additional beverages. If
barflies didnt get enough inside, they could carry more
home.
He looked over his shoulder and blinked a couple of times. Though
I tried to look innocent, my faded jeans, grubby T-shirt, wiry
frame, and hardened countenance labeled me a twelve-year-old
hustler out to support my favorite habit. But my request was
innocent enough this night: I hoped to gather enough spare change
for a couple of burgers and cokes for Donna and myself.
Uh, yeah, he nodded slowly, fumbling in his pockets
before fishing out a couple of dimes and a quarter. A
beer-stained odor colored the air as he leaned over. Here,
kid. Enjoy yourself.
Thanks, mister, I nodded, trying to project the cool
manner that helped me survive on Americas streets in the
sixties. I preciate it.
Got enough, Ken? Donna asked as the man hobbled down
the street, muttering to himself.
Think so. Lets check out the grill.
Scoffers may joke about greasy spoons, but those
modest diners were the highlight of our childhood. Donna and I
wolfed down our burgers with as much joy as if Mrs. Cleaver had
placed them gently onto our plates in a scene from Leave It to
Beaver. Our mother rarely served a home-cooked meal: her idea of
cooking dinner was plopping a box of carry-out food onto the
kitchen table.
The house in Saint Louis where we were living the night we
panhandled for our dinner was the closest we had ever come to a
real home. The single-story frame dwelling was nothing fancy: the
living room measured about twelve-by-ten feet and contained a
nondescript couch, two chairs, and an old television set. The
house also contained a pair of sparsely furnished bedrooms and a
tiny strip of a kitchen with a small table. Donna and I slept in
one of the bedrooms in sagging bunk bedsthat is, when we
could sleep amid the drunken, profanity-laced revelry that
continued late into the night.
We never knew when Mom would burst through the door in an
unexplainable rage, grab a broom, and whack our legs with the
handle. After we burst into tears, she wouldnt let us go to
bed until we stopped crying. We often slept by the front door so
we could hear her drive up, and then wed hide downstairs or
in a neighbors backyard until she passed out.
Since we never knew when Mom would erupt in another tirade, Donna
and I spent many hours in the basement. In this safe place away
from Mom, we often tossed around a rubber ball, sometimes
grabbing a mop handle and pretending we were playing stickball in
the alley of our neighborhood. But we mainly liked staying out of
Moms reach. She couldnt maneuver the stairs very well
and usually forgot we were there. Donna and I would play until
Mom left for work, then wed watch television or roam around
the neighborhood.
We never had to worry about returning at a particular time since
Mom usually stayed out past midnight. After our impromptu burger
feast that evening, we wandered through the streets like a pair
of juvenile hobos. Passing most of the time under the
streetlights, we also loitered at the homes of a couple of
friends whose parents lived similar lifestyles. Donna and I
finally drifted home, hoping to avoid another beating.
Whats that smell?
Donna wrinkled her nose as we slipped through the front door
after midnight. Mom had arrived home first. Crumpled on the floor
and lying on her side, she was clad in dingy shorts and a worn
blouse. She was sleeping soundly next to a pool of drying vomit
and an empty whiskey bottle. In the shadows cast by the dim
streetlight, we could see two strangers sprawled on the couch,
snores bubbling up from their drunken bodies.
Suddenly a surge of hatred pulsed through my veins. I impulsively
walked into the kitchen and grabbed the butcher knife lying on
the counterthe same one she had held over my head three
years before.
Thoughts of revenge filled my mind as I dangled the blade over my
mothers body. How I wanted to strike back at her for all
the wounds she had inflicted on me! I slowly moved the knife up
and down my mothers lifeless frame, starting at her stomach
and grazing it along her torso until I stopped at her neck.
Finally I pointed it at her face and pictured myself slashing it
across her throat.
To my youthful mind, it was a game. I could pretend to attack her
and get even for all the insults and injuries, and she
couldnt do anything about it because she was asleep. Take
that, Mom! How does it feel to be on the other end for once? Are
you scared? Are you sorry for all the times you hurt us? What did
we ever do to you to deserve this? Huh? Cmon. Speak up.
Ive got the knife right here in my hands. Youd better
be scared. This could be your time.
Strangely, this vengeful daydream didnt bring me any
satisfaction. I was overcome by emotion and began to cry. Soon my
whole body was trembling.
Do it! Donna urged from between her teeth, which she
had clenched to stifle her sobs. Go ahead! Do it!
I paused for a moment, still holding the knife over my
mothers still body. I had the motive and enough hatred
inside to finish the task. I was tough too. I had become so
hardened by years of abuse that by now I could take Moms
fist to my mouth without crying.
For protection, I had developed a shell that enabled me to hide
as easily as the Invisible Man. But this night exposed raw
feelings and years of pent-up emotion. To this day I dont
know what stopped me from using the butcher knife. Maybe my tears
relieved the stress. Whatever the reason, Im glad I
stopped. Living with the guilt of murder would have created a
lifetime prison, one that would have outlived temporary
confinement behind bars. Despite what my mother had done, I
realized that I didnt have the right to take her life. No
matter how badly she had hurt me, retaliation wouldnt solve
a thing. Even the temporary satisfaction of hurting the person
who had hurt me so deeply couldnt reclaim my lost
childhood, wipe out bitter memories, or force my mother to become
responsible.
When the tears stopped and my body quit twitching, I shook my
head and slowly stood up. Walking into the kitchen, I flung the
knife on the counter.
Cmon, I said to Donna. Lets go to
bed.
Excerpted from Rescued by the Cross: Stepping Our of Your Past and into God's Purpose by Ken Freeman
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