Adolescence

I remember the day that I became a prefect, I was 11 years old, my mother worked very close to my school and could have come to the assembly to watch but of course she didn’t.  A few months later, we had a swimming gala at school and I received a trophy for the winning house, as I was house captain, they weren’t there either.  I do however remember walking passed my uncle who was there to support my 3 cousins, and he said “well done my kid” when I walked passed.  I have never felt more proud, nor more unwanted in that very moment.
At the end of my grade 7 year we had a special assembly.  I was in the choir and was part of the entertainment section of the final assembly.  I was told by my class teacher that I was receiving a trophy for something.  I remember begging my parents to attend.  They didn’t.  I received the female “Victrix Ledorium” trophy for 1988. My name is still on the board in the school hall.  When I came home with the trophy I received a few minutes of praise.  It still amazes me how you can feel so lonely in a room full of people.  It frightens me that I already knew this at the age of 12.

One Sunday afternoon, I was watching a TV programme in the lounge with my sister and her boyfriend who was visiting. Our day was ruined all because she had not done a basket full of ironing in the morning.  She had planned to do it when her boyfriend left the in the afternoon but this was just the reason my father needed for his outburst. My sister was always feisty and would not keep quiet when my father went on a rant.  I suppose that happens when you no longer have respect for a person.  My father was screaming and shouting and then grabbed my sister, pulled her off the couch and threw her into the glass coffee table that broke underneath her. He then went upstairs and smashed everything in her bedroom. Everything that was on her dressing table, everything that was on her walls and shelves, everthing inside her cupboard. He smashed her guitar, her love palm plant that she was growing, the boom-box radio we shared as a Christmas present the year before.  My sister’s boyfriend got up and left straight after my sister landed and cracked the glass coffee table.  He knew that if he didn’t leave that very second, he would do something he regretted. I was stunned. Never had my father ever gotten that physical with either of us.  Yes he had always smashed and broken and torn things, but never intentionally hurt us. Was this normal? Surely every family has these issues?
I remember my sister grabbing her bag, shoving some clothes in it and standing outside in the garden crying.  I think she was so shocked and probably hurt from landing on the table, that she didn't know what to do.  It was late afternoon now and was getting dark. 
I remember feeling terrified.  I didn't want my sister to leave because then I would have no-one.  I remember feeling selfish for wanting her to stay with me in that house.

My sister married my brother-in-law 6 months later.  That is how desperate she was to flee our home.  It was a difficult time for me because my sister was no longer there to protect me, I was all alone.  They moved to another province straight away and I thought that I would never see her again.

At the age of 12 in my first year of high school, I participated in a school play.  My parents said that they would attend the production. I put on my best performance.  Perhaps they would notice how good I was and feel proud of me, maybe love me a little more.  At the end of the show, I climbed into the car with my dad and asked him what they thought of my performance (I noticed that my mother wasn't in the car and feared what his response would be).  I was told that they didn’t watch.  Apparently when they arrived (late) there were no more seats and they left.  They could have asked a teacher for an extra 2 chairs or asked pupils to give up their seats as that would have been something that the teacher’s would have insisted upon anyway, but no, it was just easier to leave.  I was gutted.

In grade 11, at the age of 16, I co-directed a school play for our “house”.  I stood in front of the jam packed hall and said a speech regarding the directing process, and introduced the "Perils of Prince Percy of Pomegranate" play without cue cards.  It was a proud moment.  My parents were actually in the hall watching.  My sister was there too.  My sister was so proud of me and was the first to come up and congratulate me on the win for our “house”. I was thrilled.  The hard work had paid off and my parents were there to witness it. 
This was short lived by another escapade whereby my father decided to smash every single item in the house. A temper tantrum, a mood swing, an alcoholic on a binge.  This time it was my turn to feel his wrath.  He ripped every picture I had on my bedroom walls.  It was like they were my friends, my confidents. He relished in destroying simple things that meant so much to me. As the tears streaked my face and I begged him to stop, he just kept on ripping up my prized possessions.
There was nothing I could do to save my teddy bear or my birthday presents from my school friends.  And of course, after every rampage, there's the quiet in the house.  Where no-one talks, tears flow from your puffy eyes and you don't dare make a sound.  You quietly tip toe around the house and pick up all the glass and broken pieces.  Try to separate what can be salvaged and what has to be thrown away.   The cleaning up task would take hours.  Every piece of furniture would have to be put perfectly back in place, because you didn't want to suffer another episode if it wasn't done correctly.

Again, I think to myself, where was my mother throughout all of this.  I never recall her trying to comfort me.  Why didn’t she stand up for her children?  Why didn’t she leave with us?  Surely my grandparents would have taken us in? Or my aunts and uncles?  Why did she subject us to a life of torture and pain? 
I remember my sister being the one to comfort me when I was scared.
I stopped going to my mother because she would just shout at me for waking her in the middle of the night.  I would have nightmares and I was terrified of the dark (I probably suffered from PTSD).
I would walk to my sister's bedroom and wake her up and tell her I was scared.  She would just roll over, lift up the duvet cover as invitation for me to climb in bed with her and then I would fall alseep hugging her.  I think it was the only time that I ever felt safe when I was at home.

It’s actually pretty sad when you think about your parents being your biggest foes.  It is a parent’s responsibility to keep you safe, to keep you fed and cared for.  I think that somewhere along the line they never grabbed this piece of knowledge. They live in a dream world where they are right and everyone else is wrong.
Every tantrum can be justified by something you did or said or didn't do or didn't say.
Almost thirty years later, I can still see these vivid images in my mind when I close my eyes.  Reliving every detail and every time I think of it I cry.  There is so much hurt there under the surface and I don't know if I will ever be able to recover fully from this.
They are one of the reasons why I chose not to have any children of my own, for fear of becoming just like them.  Too many times have I seen it for myself, where history repeats itself.  It stops with me! I would never subject a child to this kind of behaviour, regardless of the situation. I would do everything in my power to protect that child and keep them safe and most of all make them feel loved. 

Growing up with an alcoholic father was never easy.

One of my oldest memories was waking up in my bed with the sound of glass being smashed. I must have been about 5 or 6 years old and as I sat up in my bed, startled by the noise, I could hear my 10 or 11 year old sister shouting at the my father, “what about Angie?”

Obviously hearing my name got me out of bed and had me walking towards the chaos and sharp noises from the kitchen and lounge area.

My legs felt like lead as they carried me slowly across the floor. My heart was beating in my chest and my throat was constricted through the fear that was flooding my veins.
I came to a halt and saw all the glass that was shattered across the floors and walls. What had happened? Why was my sister crying and so upset with my father?
It didn’t take me long to put 2 and 2 together.  He was drunk again.  He came home late, my mother and sister argued with him.  He decided to lash out by smashing everything in sight.  This made him feel better.  Then I heard him crying on the phone with a friend, justifying himself and his actions. He didn’t like being called a “drunkard” – the truth hurts a lot!

On another occasion, Christmas this time, we went to my aunt and uncles flat for lunch.  They had invited an English couple to the luncheon as they were new in South Africa and didn’t have any family.  My father didn’t like them – perhaps he felt intimidated by actual decent people? Who knows?  From the time we entered my aunt’s home, you could feel the tension….I couldn’t have been more than 10 years old.  My mother spoke to my uncle in the kitchen and promptly told him that “next year, it’s our place” to which my uncle responded with a cheeky grin, only if he received a “golden invitation”.  This was just what my father was waiting for!  Ammunition!

Of course he now started telling my uncle off and what a crappy person he was for saying such a thing and insulting my mother.  He then turned his anger on “Mr and Mrs Booth” and told them what dirty pommy’s they were.  Swore everyone.  Disgruntled and disgraced my sister and I hung our heads low and followed our parents out the front door.  Happy Christmas everyone!
My mother’s younger sister came by our flat an hour or so later and dropped off some food for us. She took pity on my sister and I and I recall her saying to my mother, “It’s Christmas, they haven’t eaten anything yet”
By this time my mother and father were already tucking away in to their alcohol stash so clearly they were now the victims. They had been attacked and insulted!

A dinner at the local restaurant with my parents, sister and sister’s boyfriend.  My father had far too much to drink as per usual and his personality changed from jovial to demonic in less than 5 seconds.  One minute we were giggling at him skipping down the corridor to our flat, then he was screaming and shouting at my grandparents who lived next door, saying that they “were shit”  My sister was a teenager at the time so she must have been so embarrassed at this behaviour. I remember feeling so grateful that none of my friends were around to witness his behaviour.

A Friday night after going to movies with my boyfriend who they didn't approve of, coming home to my parent's flat in town.  My father standing with a gun in his hand as I said goodbye to my boyfriend.  Threatening to shoot him and telling me to get upstairs.  We were just saying goodbye. Once upstairs I had to sit in the lounge (my "bedroom") for about 4 hours listening to him rant and rave about what a whore I was and that I just wanted to "fuck" him.  I was 17, still a virgin with no intention of having pre-marital sex.  I hated my life and I hated living in that tiny flat with my parents.  I was forced to leave my sister's house where I had a bed in my own bedroom.  Now I slept on the floor in the lounge, not even a mattress.  The couches were not suitable for sleeping on.....well, put it this way the floor was more comfortable.
It was one of those nights where I thought, tonight I am going to be thrown out of the window and I am going to die.
My mother sat in the chair in the lounge, drink in hand, and barely said anything.

The weird thing is that I never remembered what my mother was doing during all the dramatic times when my father was flipping out and smashing furniture, screaming and shouting.  Surely if she was there, trying to protect my sister and I, or calling us to a bedroom or bathroom where we were safe and no longer witnesses of the behaviour, I would have remembered….but I can’t.  Clearly she didn’t even think about the safety of my sister and I.  And when I say safety, I mean physically and emotionally.  Only once, did I hear her say something to my father about his bad behaviour.  Maybe she was too scared to say something?
And I should probably forgive her if that was the case, but I can't.
Maybe there is something wrong with me?
Maybe I expected too much from her?
Maybe I expected her to be brave and caring and responsible.
She is the type of person that drives passed a road accident, and then tells my nieces to “look” - yup, true story!  What kind of a monster does that to small children?  Is she that stupid?  Is anyone that stupid?

Throughout my schooling years we moved at least 18 times that I can remember, one of those being from one province to another. I changed school 12 times by the time I started grade 8 in high school. When we had to move again, I refused to change schools, life was hard enough than to continue to make new friends each year. I travelled an hour on a bus every morning, leaving home at 06h15 to get to school on time.  The problem with travelling by bus meant that I couldn’t always compete in sporting events or extra mural activities.

On one occasion I had a netball match (an away game at another school) and we ran late.  By the time we arrived back at our school it was after 17h00 and I had missed the last but home.  I was stranded with nowhere to go.  I decided to walk to my sister’s house in the middle of winter and it was already dark when I left school.  I got to my sister's flat about 45 minutes later but she wasn’t home. My heart sunk. It was dark. Now what.  As I was plotting my next move, they arrived home, obviously shocked to see me at their doorstep this late at night.  I explained what happened. My sister telephoned my mother and her response was to just make me spend the night.  I had no clean clothes or underwear for school the next day. I did not have all my school books for the next day’s classes either. I had my period and no extra sanitary items for the following day.  My brother-in-law took pity and said that he would drive me home to my parent’s house (It was near the end of the month and petrol money was tight so I felt extremely guilty).  Of course, my mother reminded me over and over again how it was all my fault and I was such an inconvenience. Why didn’t I make sure that the netball match finished on time?  I must have dawdled and that is why I missed the last bus to town. Why couldn't I just have stayed at my sister's flat for the night? Why did everyone have to rearrange their lives to suit me.......
I wanted to ask her if she was worried because I wasn't home from school at 15h30 like normal but I decided to rather go cry in the bath tub.  I wonder what would have happened if I just disappeared that day.  Would anyone even care? How long before anyone noticed I was missing?  I was 15 years old.