Olya Mancuso - Dared To Survive

«Yes, mother, I am pathetic,» I whimpered. «I am a bad child. I am a worm. I am an insect, a flea. I am less than that. Perhaps, I am an „It“. Maybe I deserve what I got.»

When mother beat me at home I bit my lips and tried not to scream. I didn’t want anyone to hear. I was ashamed to let the scream out, to let others see my pain or suffering. In time, this grew into an adult habit.

Everyone outside always heard mother screaming and calling me names. Other kids stood below our balcony and laughed at what they heard. This was an unbearable humiliation. I hated to show my face outside because everyone would mock me, using the words they heard mother calling me.

As soon as I went outside, children threw stones at me. Sometimes, they threw eggs; sometimes they’d throw rotten tomatoes. Mother made sure that no punishment went on without other people listening or watching. She made sure I was humiliated and degraded publicly, and then she was satisfied.

Mother shamed me to people to turn them away from me. She claimed it was so I could become a better girl. She said that if I was, people would accept me. She said «evil» must be exposed and therefore she «revealed me» to others so parents they could protect their children from me.

I had given up trying to make friends because I knew that, sooner or later, mother would make sure no one would hang around with me, the «evil child», unworthy to have friends.

My mother humiliated me everywhere to «protect» other «good» children and keep them away from the «evil girl»: ME.

She humiliated me on the bus, at the school, in the shops – anywhere outside in front of people. She said she was trying to save the mass of people from ME…. She said that people needed to know as much as possible about my inadequacies. I had so many. I bed wet. I smelled. I was dirty and ugly.

She never washed me, so I stank. She had no time for my personal hygiene because she needed to be there for her son who was always walking on the edge of jail time. She was busy with him as he needed lots of money to dress well and afford a lifestyle most Soviet people cannot afford and are not allowed to have. Mother, therefore, was too busy for anything else or anyone else. She had to make as much money as possible to be able to let my brother have what he wanted so he could enjoy his life. She said he needed to be happy as he was the misfortunate one in our family – due to her divorce with his father.

For my mother, my brother was and is the centre of the universe and the sole meaning of her life. Her life and ours revolved around him. Moreover, she believed that was the way things should be. Her mind focused mainly upon him and whatever he wanted. To her, my brother is her number one priority, the yardstick that measures her life, the reason for breathing.

In her mind, my brother’s crimes, his deceptions of innocent people in order to gain money was not «criminal». It was just a sign of his unhappiness. We were all supposed to acknowledge this and feel sorry for him and help him to be happy.

She made us all do everything possible to make Zhenya happy. In fact, she forced us all to make him happy. She was so pre-occupied settling his life, happiness, and crimes with police that she often forgot I even existed.

This is why I always smelled so bad. She never had time for me… «You are in the way,» she’d yell ....in her way to be there for Zhenya. She called me «IT». That was because, she’d insist. « It is not a human being. It is less than that. It is a worm,» mother said to me. «People need to squash IT,» Mother would threaten. She told me that I didn’t deserve to be around normal people and I should be kept in a cage.

My mother always forbade my friendships with anyone. She always made sure I was alone, having only my own company and my home chores.

«You are a yaki ,» she’d shout at me. «A shameful creature that turns people off,» she’d shout. «Therefore, you don’t need to have friends.»

Loneliness was the bitter reality of my existence and I accepted it. I learned to make something out of it. I read books and talked to myself, pretending I was a princess or someone else, acting in front of the mirror, when I was alone at home.

Acting can be a refuge for those who are emotionally broken. You can act like you want and no one can judge you. Once in a rare while, when I was lucky, I’d get outside to play. It didn’t happen often.

However outside was a dangerous place for me as well. All the neighbours and children around avoided me because mother had instructed everyone she could to keep rejecting me. For some reason, everyone shunned me in order not to mess with my Mom.

At home, if the balcony door was open when mother beat me, I tried not to scream. I held it in to retain a sliver of dignity. I couldn’t stop my eyes from watering up with the pain. But, I found that, if I just clenched my teeth and stared at my mother, I could stop myself from crying.

In fact, it made the beatings worse because it drove mother mad. She thought the punishment was not working and should be increased to teach me a lesson. She, therefore, kept on going with the belt or invented something more «effective».

Her methods varied, fuelled to heights of cruelty by her imagination. I never know what to expect next. Every day was unpredictable. All I knew for sure was that every punishment and every day of my life was a painful battle to survive. Mother never ran out of energy and new ideas for how to punish me «effectively».

Some of my crimes led to a repetition of punishments. I could be punished – for instance – a few days in a row for the crime I did previously. My bike was an example of this.

«Your bike MUST BE found, you little scum,» mother yelled the morning after it had been stolen. She grabbed me by my hair and yelled in my ear. “ You need to find the fucking bike, scum shit,» she shouted. «Don’t you get it? It costs fucking money!» My mother’s spit sprinkled on my face.

«Find the f…..ing bike!» she yelled. «Find it…!!!!»

«I will!» I cried. «Just let me go.»

«Let you go? You rotten bitch… You’ll have to be punished!!!» mother

yelled, twisting my ear as roughly as she could.

Tears blurred my vision and blood spurted out my nose.

Mother grabbed the belt. «THIS» will teach you to look after your toys…»

My whole body writhed in pain. I crawled away, trying to escape. But she grabbed me tightly by my hair. The agony of pain burned my body. Mother kept on striking me with the belt. The pain was unbearable. «I must hold in my tears of pain. I must not scream,» I told myself. I kept on biting my lips.

«Just hold on in there,» I kept repeating to myself. «Just don’t scream. The windows were open deliberately so other kids could hear and laugh. And this was exactly what mother wanted. She wanted people to laugh at me. She wanted me to feel degraded…

«I must NOT SCREAM…» I kept repeating in my mind. «I MUST NOT SCREAM………»

«Scream, louder, louder,» begged my mother hysterically while hitting me with the belt. «When are you going to scream???? You are a fucking dirty bitch,» my mother repeated screaming in my ear.