Dared To Survive - Olya Mancuso

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breaking plates and throwing them over the floor or into the wall, claiming he provoked her and undermined her authority as a parent.

      During my childhood I could never understand why there was this constant raging battle over me. My mother always blamed me for «making a fight» between her and my Dad and ruining her marriage. She kept saying I was born to destroy her life, her marriage, and even her son. She would start shaking and beating me, yelling into my face that her son was on drugs because of me that I was the beloved child of my father. But, her son was fatherless. Every time she yelled, screamed, and cried she kept saying it was my fault and why should I continue living and destroying her life? Why couldn’t I die and set her free and let her live.

      I would press my hands over my ears and wet myself. This would bring on further beatings. «You bitch!» Mom would scream. «You did this on purpose, you disgusting piece of shit. You are bedwetting at night and you are scum during the day time. You shit. You slut. You imbecile. You retarded fucking freak.»

      Then she’d grab me by my pony tail and started beating me with the belt. I would scream at the top of my voice, begging and crying. But, I couldn’t protect myself.

      At one stage, I remember that, somehow, I crawled away and then ran to hide under the bed. She bent down and dragged me out by the hair. «How dare you escape,» she shouted. «Shut up, you scum!» Holding me by the hair, she punched me in the face and bit my arm, leaving a row of her teeth marks mixed with bits of blood on my arm.

      «Your fucking stinky father is not here to save you,» she screamed. «You will never see him again,» she threatened. «He will get killed by a car!» Mom yelled into my face.

      I collapsed on the floor sobbing in despair, terrified that Dad would not be back ever again. «Daddy… Daddy,» I sobbed. «Daddy! Come back to me. Daddy help me….»

      I had lost hope of ever seeing my Dad ever again. The doorbell rang. There was Dad back from work. As soon as I saw him I ran to him in tears and hysterically jumped into his arms, shaking with fear, soaking his uniform with my tears and clinging to his neck.

      «What have you done to her?» Dad shouted. She is wet and terrified.

      «I did not touch her!» my mother yelled. «She creates these scenes on purpose to cause us to fight. She wants to turn you against me,» mom accused. «She wants us to fight. She is evil.»

      My father looked at the bite mark on my arm. It was now swelled and purple.

      «What the fuck have you done to her arm?» he accused. «Those are teeth marks» Dad yelled, looking in disbelief at my arm and the bloody spot where mom had left her teeth marks.

      «This scum has tried to self-harm herself,» mom lied. «She does it often when she does not get her way.»

      «And what about the bruises on her face?» he asked.

      «She bumped into the wall when she tried to be violent,» mom lied again.

      «Don’t, leave me, Daddy,» I sobbed, «She is lying! Don’t believe her,» I begged.

      I sobbed hysterically unable to prove anything. I remember my feelings of despair and how I could not stop shaking even though I was in Dad’s arms. I knew the beatings weren’t over. As soon as my Dad left, she’d start in again.

      My mom has never felt remorse for the way she treated me. I’m sure she thought it was normal to bully and beat children. She often bragged to us that she was beaten by her parents. That’s how she became a «decent» person.

      Even today, she proudly describes how the «punishments» inflicted on her during her childhood helped to make her a great, decent, remarkable person. She was actually grateful to her parents for that abuse.

      The cycle of violence obviously commenced during her own childhood. It may well have been how her parents were treated as children. I remember my mom and my Grandmother always being enemies. Mom has always had fights with her, even physical ones where my Dad used to jump between them to restrain them from assaulting each other.

      Dad wanted to avoid physical fights with Mom because she was very violent. She tried many times to hit my Dad and chased him with knife. He used to call my Grandmother to come and calm my mom for him.

      My Grandmother lived in the same block a few apartments away. My Grandmother loved my Dad – even though he was her son-in-law. She tried to keep mom under control and to protect me and Dad. However even my Grandmother would rarely succeed. I think Mom enjoyed the drama and fights as much as anything else.

      However, my Grandmother was not scared of mom’s violence although Mom was able and willing to hit hard, she was capable of everything when it would come to win her point or get her way.

      I often pined for my Dad. He was the only source of love, attention and protection I would get. I remember Dad would hurry straight home from work. He never felt I was safe with Mom. My happiest times were when only he and I were home. I would then become his shadow. When I cried, he wiped my tears and promised me he would try his best to protect me from ever being hurt again. He tried his best. But, it was a promise he couldn’t keep.

      Chapter Two.

      I Need You

      My mother has always searched for ways to get rid of me. She wanted to devote all her time and energy to being there for my criminal brother, Zhenya, helping him with his problems, money, drugs and criminal behaviour. She was totally preoccupied with worrying about her son. She was always capable of being a nurturing mother to him – a blessing that was not extended to me.

      Zhenya was always – in my mother’s mind – the one who «needed» her most. She noted that Zhenya was always «in hardships». He was constantly in hiding from police, and on run from those people who were chasing him to pay up his debts.

      She was not wrong about Zhenya’s being «needy». My brother has always needed endless amounts of money. No amount of money was ever big enough to resolve his issues. He has never worked in his life. Even today, at fifty-two, he doesn’t lift a finger to help himself. Instead, my mother provides everything for him. She sends him her pension and her earnings. This money goes to pay for his alcohol, the drugs that he smokes, and makes sure he continues the elite style of life he is accustomed to. Zhenya would not settle for less.

      When I was growing up, I was always fed table scraps. I was last at the table to be fed and I was always given the least amount of food. I would watch my mother at the dinner table, serving the food. There was no particular order other than that I was always last. If there was a cake, I was guaranteed to be given the smallest piece. The best would go to Zhenya. My mother always used his «poor health» as the reason. The truth is: His health was damaged by his drug abuse.

      No rules had ever existed for Zhenya. On the other hand, there were too many harsh rules for me. I was only worthy of being last, getting the least, or being given nothing because she wanted to save the rest for her «unhealthy», «misfortunate» son.

      On most of my birthdays, she would basically ignore the occasion. I never had a party. At Christmas time, she would often buy Zhenya the best clothes and give him money because he had to look «good» as he had «many girls» chasing him. But, I would most often not receive anything.

      At a certain age, I outgrew the clothes that had been passed on to me by my mother’s friends’ children. The principal of my school had to call my parents and insist they buy me some warm clothes as I had hardly anything to wear to school.

      I went to school without lunches because my mother never made them but she would give my brother money to eat at restaurants

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