Richard

 

     My mother abandoned me when I was three. She took me to my aunt and uncle’s house and disappeared with her other three kids.

     My alcoholic uncle sold or traded everything in the house to feed his addiction — even the food. When my aunt got food, she hid it bit-by-bit all over the house so she could feed us kids.

     I remember sitting on the couch and feeling a bump under the cushion. I pulled out a jar, unscrewed the cap, and smelled -- peanut butter. The way my empty stomach hurt, I just dug in my fingers and started eating handfuls.

     Angry cussing interrupted the feast when my uncle caught me. He stormed into the kitchen and lit into my aunt with a ferocious beating.

     I ran up the stairs and sat by a window as the fighting continued. I found a bottle of whiskey. Understanding it had something to do with my aunt’s screams, I dropped it out the window hoping it would hit a passer-by below. Fortunately, my timing was off and it shattered on the sidewalk in front of the man.

     The police soon arrived, saw the neglect and notified the authorities who dealt with such situations. They removed me from the home and my eight-month stay ended.

     My next home was an orphanage. The people in charge beat me regularly and made me wear a dress when I misbehaved. I was a mean, angry kid and I fought a lot. After seven months, they located my grandparents and told them to come and get me.

     Much to my grandparents’ dismay, I was left-handed. They slapped and whipped me whenever I used my left hand and tied my left arm to my body to train me to become right-handed. Even at sixty-seven years-old, I feel stressed when I write with my natural hand. In spite of their best efforts, I’m still left-handed.

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Out of the frying pan . . .

     My mother consented to take me back when she remarried. I was six. My stepdad chose me as the scapegoat to take beatings for the nine children in the combined family. These were not small beatings — he beat me up!

     One day my stepdad noticed footprints in his strawberry patch. He accused me of the crime. I refused to confess because I hadn’t even been in the patch. My stepdad thrashed my butt, trying to beat a confession out of me. He eventually got tired of whipping me that day, but told me the beatings would resume each day at 4:30 when he got home from work. The routine would continue until I admitted doing it. Every day I told him, “Dad, it wasn’t me,” but he wouldn’t believe me. I tried avoiding the pain by staying after school until after the designated beating time, but my stepdad proved flexible with his schedule. He kept up the practice for six months.

     My stepdad choked me with an inner tube when I was 11. Hearing my sister screaming and begging him to stop were the last things I remembered before blacking out.

     At 13, I found a rifle when my parents went shopping. I plunked a few birds on our 13-acre farm. To show his displeasure, my stepdad put me in bed and bound my wrists and ankles tightly with baling wire. Tension from the wires pulled my arms and legs toward the four corners of the bed. When I tried to move my hands or feet, wire cut into my flesh.

     Whenever my stepdad went to town with my mom, he secured me to the bed in this manner. Just in case I might manage to escape, he sprinkled flour on the vinyl floor in the hallway to record my footprints. I considered attempting to wriggle free from the wires and jump out the second-story window, but couldn’t figure out how to sneak back into the bedroom and rewire myself spread-eagled to the bed. Fear kept me from struggling — even if I could manage to free myself, I knew there would be a new level of hell to pay once my stepdad returned.

     When my parents were home, they required me to lie in bed from the time school let out until the next morning. Weekends, I had to stay in bed 24 hours a day, except for a supper break. If they left, I got wired to my bed. This routine lasted for five months.

     Although my mother didn’t intervene during the abuse, she hid my bad behavior when she could. In one instance, I broke a light fixture and she diverted her husband’s anger by claiming she did it.

     During my years on the farm, I tried to appease my stepdad by working hard. None of the other eight children worked on the farm, but no matter how hard I tried, I could do no right in his eyes.

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"I thought I was a bad person."

     I left home to join the Navy. I found a temporary outlet for my anger by boxing. I didn’t use much finesse — I just overpowered opponents with an aggressive, brawling style.

     After a stint in the Navy, I started a family. My wife condoned my rowdy, rough behavior because her brothers behaved the same way. I loved my wife and kids, but lived like my friends at the sawmill and brothers-in-law: drinking, using drugs, fighting and staying out all night. All the police in the small towns in my area knew my car and were on my tail within 15 minutes of me entering their territory. I think they knew they would be on the scene for the inevitable trouble or hoped I would take the hint and leave town.

     I didn’t really understand why I took drugs, drank and fought. I thought I was just a bad person because my stepdad had convinced me that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do anything right.

     I figured I would soon be divorced, in prison or dead. I wanted to change, but had no idea how to do it.

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"It will never happen again."

     I was working on something in the living room and my three year-old daughter got in the way. I threw her across the room. She landed on the sofa, but that action shook me terribly. I told myself, That’s the way I was treated as a kid. It will never happen again. I wasn’t going to tolerate that behavior from myself, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do to stop it.

     Not long after that incident, my sister called me and told me, “Richard, I got saved today.”

     I asked her, “What do you mean ‘saved?’”

     She said, “I gave my heart to Jesus.”

     I hung up and headed to work.

     This guy who always saw me in the parking lot at the mill told me (like he did every day), “Richard, you know Jesus loves you.”

     Every time he said it, I threatened him, but that day his words struck a different chord. Even so I told him, “I don’t want you talking to me about that stuff.”

     Trying to find myself, I drank more and took harder drugs. I wouldn’t come home after work Friday until Sunday morning.

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"Yes, I'd like to do that."

     One day, lying around the house with a horrific hangover, I asked my wife, “If I decide to go to church this Sunday, would you go with me?” She agreed to go.

     Without any idea what to expect, we drove to a church on Sunday morning. All I knew was that I needed something to happen in my life. The pastor told how Jesus loved us and died for us no matter who we were or what we had done. He said, “Jesus is no respecter of persons — what he’s done for others, he will do for you.”

     As I pondered those words, I thought of my brother. He had been an alcoholic, like our biological dad. When he got saved, he gave up drinking and smoking instantly.

     The pastor continued, “The Bible tells us, ‘Old things are passed away; all things have become new.’ Would anyone like to accept Jesus as his personal Savior?”

     I said out loud, “Yes, I’d like to do that.” Both my wife and I accepted Christ that day.

     I’m not sure you would call it a miracle, but there was a drastic change in my life. I immediately stopped taking drugs and drinking. I haven’t touched either in the 40 years since.

     I realized I abused drugs, alcohol and people as a result of my anger because of the things that had happened to me. I prayed, “Lord, take this impulsive reacting away from me. Take away my bitterness, anger and frustration.” Because the love of Christ filled me, I could release my rage. That prayer began an experience of a personal peace which continues to this day.

     I started reading the Bible regularly and ended my pattern of reacting to people with anger.

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"I don't have a past."

     Christ gave me a new life so I don’t have a past. My new life began Feb. 21, 1974. The only things I brought over from my old life are my wife and kids — the other stuff is not there. Until it’s happened to you personally, you don’t understand what it means to be “born again.”

     The only reason I even think about my past--the period prior to being born again -- is to give others hope. I can show people, who struggle to come to terms with their pasts, a living example. Other than that, I gladly forget about my old life.

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"People don't have to continue being victims."

     Even people with pasts similar to mine, or worse, can change their victim status. People don’t have to continue suffering: they can choose to stop that way of thinking and change their lives. For me, the change came through Jesus Christ. Without that decision, my story would have ended years ago with an early death or lengthy prison sentence.

     When I gave control of my life to Christ, my behavior stopped being controlled by my anger. Christ’s Spirit calmed me and kept me from hurting others, but I struggled with confusion and resentment when I’d see my mother and stepdad.

     A back injury resulted in my taking course work to learn a new vocation. I took a writing course and poured out my whole, sordid story on paper. That act of removing it from myself and putting it on paper gave me a new level of release.

     I had already left behind alcohol, drugs and violence, but it was like I still carried around my anger in a suitcase. Sometimes, when I’d see a child being treated harshly, the suitcase would open a little — not enough for me to become violent, but enough to bring back pain and resentment toward those who hurt me. Writing it down disconnected my past far enough from me so I was able to release my suitcase and leave it behind.

     Instead of focusing on my negative feelings when I’d see my stepdad, I focused on positive thoughts. He taught me how to work hard and it served me well throughout my life. I learned how to fish, hunt, work with wood, garden and how to do those activities well. He treated my mom like a queen and I modeled that behavior with my own wife. My stepdad even pressured me into asking out the girl who became my wife. I could choose to relive my victim status and carry a bitter attitude, but I choose instead to credit my step-dad for the positive impacts he made.

     Even though I came to terms with my emotions, my stepdad and I never became close. If fact, I haven’t seen him since my mother died 17 years ago. I have to accept that we never really bonded in a relationship. That’s just how it is.

 

Advice for Kids

●If you are living in a physically abusive situation, don’t fight back. My stepdad would have killed me.

●Get help from an adult you trust: counselor, teacher, pastor, police officer. If you don’t get help, the abuse will affect you as an adult.

 

Advice for Adults

●You do not have to be negatively affected by your past. Get help. Agencies who deal with problems can help you sort it out.

●Give your life to Jesus Christ and turn it over to him.

 

If you met Richard today, you would have no idea of his past life. Richard retired from careers as a plywood mill worker, heavy equipment operator and maintenance supervisor. He and his wife of 51 years enjoy close relationships with their three daughters and their families.