Childhood abuse-part 1

Yeah~ someone commented on my blog! I guess I am not out here all alone after all. Something about the commenter said.. that I seem to have a depression.. has got me thinking what my shrink once told me when I was 20 years old.  He said I don’t seem to have a depression but rather, the life I know thus far is depressive. It seems the world actually is depressive through my lens and perhaps it should be! It would be abnormal to think otherwise, having been through what I been through. Now at 30 years old, I am revisiting my then shrink’s statement by exploring back into my childhood.

I have never written about my childhood experiences, down on paper, although, talked about it many times with many shrinks. I will warn you, it may be too dark and heavy for some to read. It has never bothered me at all to talk about it. I guess it can be a different experience to write them down in order. It may be significant for me to see on paper what they were.

I was born in USA and born into a high income class, well educated Korean family. My dad was getting his phD at M.I.T and my mom was finishing her masters in history at Columbia University in New York. I have 2 older sisters who are both 10 years older than me.  When my dad finished getting his phD and was working at a University in Upstate NY, the Korean government invited back to Korea. SO the whole family went back to South Korea when I was 3 years old. Then a year later, my parents got in a car accident and died instantly. My sisters and I were in the accident as well but we survived. Just us 3. We were all natural born US citizens and were suppose to go back to the USA once father’s work invitation ended. Now, we were stuck in South Korea, as orphans.


My father did well for himself. He had a huge life insurance policy for him and my mom. So when they died, all that became our inheritance- to be divided equally amongst 3 kids when we turn legal adults. And whoever take  custody of the 3 kids will get 20% of that . This gave an incentive for everyone in my extended family members to fight over custody of us.  In South Korea, back in early 80’s, Korea was a rapidly developing country where exposure to Western culture became like a cult and fast money was the key to everything. The law and policies of the government was much lacking behind the need of rising social issues. In Korea, male side of the family has foremost legal rights to everything family related. So my uncle Bob(my father’s older brother, who is a Korean citizen) insisted on custody of 3 kids. My mom side of the family fought(my grandmother, my mom’s mom) because they knew, uncle Bob, never liked his own brother(my dad), and he was always jealous of my dad’s money and education. My mom side of the family feared uncle Bob was just after the money. And oh, were they right.


Shortly after the accident, my oldest sister was sent back to the USA with my father’s younger brother(call him uncle Joe). This was all planned out between Uncle Bob and uncle Joe. They knew my oldest sister, Jen, was old enough to know about the inheritance money(she 15 years old). She was old enough to talk to others about it and investigate about her inheritance. Uncle Bob thought it’d be best to send her away with her portion of inheritance with Uncle Joe. That way, uncle Bob scored the big cash left for me and my second oldest sister(I’ll call her Feb). Feb was 12years old and I was 3 years old at the time. We were in Uncle Joe’s care from that day on.


I cannot remember my parents. I was too young to remember any of it. Furthest my memory goes back is when I was 7 years old. I am in my uncle’s yard. My left leg’s Achilles were torn. I was crying out of pain.



“whack”


a blow to my face, and my nose was bleeding. Uncle Bob told me to stop crying or he’d beat me more.  My uncle and his son had beat me to the ground and tied me upside down and while tying me up to a tree by one leg, they tore my Achilles. I was being punished for accidentally breaking a dish while doing the dishes. I tried to hold my cry. I didn’t want another beating. Oh how I tried. I bit down my tongue so hard I passed out. Don’t remember the rest.


So that was the beginning of my new life, life filled with fear- fear of surviving the next day and not knowing when the next beating was coming. Same was true for my sister Feb. I think I could take the beating better then the starvation they gave as a form of punishment.  If I didn’t pass the “chore test,” I was not allowed of next meal. Any breaking of dishes while cleaning, I was devoid of a full day, 3 meals. We lived in the attic with the house chef. She was an old lady and she seem to be on our side. Sometimes at night, when Feb and I could not sleep because of the hunger, I’d sneak into the kitchen to steal some rice. Not too much though, otherwise uncle Bob and his wife would notice it was missing. Just a spoonful. Sometimes if there were no rice, I’d steal powdered coffee cream. It was creamy and sweet. It was heavenly. I’d seak it back to the room and Feb and I would fight over her taking more than her share and laugh about it.


One night, we were devoid of 3 meals. I didn’t pass my mopping chore and Feb did not pass the laundering chore(they said the spots didn’t come out). You see, anything that costs them loss of money(here, money for having to buy new shirt because of the stain), was a “bigger” sin than the cleaning chore. We ruined 3 shirts doing the laudry improperly, they said and hence 9 meals as punishment. We were starving on third day. My hands were shacking from low sugar level in my blood(didn’t know why back then). The chef was nice in that she never told on us when we’d steal food from the kitchen but she never helped us with any food. I was too hungry so I grabbed my purple plastic cup headed for the kitchen( I loved that cup- it was my only toy I ever had). Lisa grabbed my hand and said “be careful okay? If you can, eat your share in the kitchen and bring a full cup back for me.”


Off I went. I was very skinny(like those children you see on “help the children” donation commercial in the Western culture). Being thin helped sneaking into the Kitchen easier. I didn’t make much of squeaking sound on the hard wood floor when walking across. I walked carefully, one step, two step…light as feather! I reached up for the coffee cream powder container. It was almost new- filled to the top! I could take more because it was more compact and the surface area could easily be fooled by shaking the container. I scooped with my purple cup and gulped it down. It was powder and I gulped it too fast. It went down my throat and up my nose! Ouch, it burned my nose. I couldn’t help but to cough! I was scared. I grabbed another cup and rushed back to the room.  My sister was waiting and she grabbed the cup and gulped it down. Oh how yummy. We were happy.


Shortly after, I heard a thumping sound. Someone was coming! Oh no! Hide the cup I said. We snuck under the blanket and pretended to sleep. I heard the door knob turn. It was Uncle Joe’s son(call him Young). “Who made a mess in the kitchen? There’s powder all over the counter!”  My heart was beating so fast. Oh how I was so terrified. I got up. He said “follow me to my room!” I was preparing myself for a beating. That was stealing, after all. That is a beating with a stick. At least 50 whippings on my back and my calves, with a thick bamboo wooden stick. I followed to his room terrified. I didn’t usually have many thoughts unlike Feb, before a beating. She always thought about why her life has taken such a turn. She had the good life before. She had everything a child wanted. She was a spoiled child and one day, her life is turned upside down! She hated it and couldn’t deal with it very well. Unlike her, I didn’t know any better. I just prepared for the beating, thinking ‘In what manner can I beg and confess my sin so I’d get 45 whippings instead of 50.’ I’d think about words and postures I should pose, to convey the maximum guilt as possible. I always thought I was a bit manipulative and evil to think this way. I was a child after all but I didn’t think like a child. I was kind of sneaky and fast thinking. But it helped survive the beatings best as possible. That’s all that it mattered to me.


I was standing by Young’s desk in his room. He sat on his chair. He told me to pour him a glass of water. I did. He said “do you wish that I’d forgive you? What do you have to say for yourself?”


“One, I am so sorry.

Two, I am a thief.

Three, I killed my parents for being born

Four, I should be grateful to uncle Bob and his family members

Five, I deserve to die at your hands.”


I reiterated the 5 statements of the ultimate confession. I was taught to state my guilt in exactly in that form of 5 statements from the day I moved in to Uncle Joe’s house.


Young grabbed my hand and said, “I’ll forgive you if you do as I say, will you obey?” And I begged I’d do anything. Please forgive me this once. He did. He took my pants off instead. He tried to force himself on me but I was too small he said. I was only 7years old. He said it won’t fit. He said we’d need to fix that. So he inserted the wooden stick instead.


I returned to my room and Feb asked if I was alright. I said I was tired and wanted to sleep. I cried myself to sleep. I didn’t really know what just happened other than that I was in extreme pain from waist down. I closed my eyes and held my hands tight, and prayed. “Dear God, please, if you are there watching over me, for whatever I did wrong, please forgive me and save me from this pain. Please…I will be a good girl next time so please help me and make the pain stop. Please……” I fell asleep short after that.


The next morning, I went to the bathroom and I couldn’t urinate. It felt like  my skin was burnt with some sort of strong acid. I saw blood on my panties. I had hard time walking. I was scared because I had a mopping chore and I could really walk. It was too painful. It felt as something was poking me inside. I told Lisa what happened last night and told her how I was going to tell Aunt (Uncle Joe’s wife). I said “she’d make her son stop and may be have pitty on me.” She was a female like me. She’s pretty so she’d help me(I don’t know what  pretty had anything to do with it… I guess I thought she looked less evil than uncle Bob). As I told my sister Feb all about this, she said Uncle Joe had tried to force himself on her but she started her menstrual cycle and he was afraid to get her pregnant so she recommend that he try me out! I was furious! I felt so betrayed by her.


“What kind of sister are you? You are suppose to help and protect your younger sister! You are a bitch. I hate you. Mom and Dad will punish you from heaven! I truly hate you with all my being! Do you know how painful it is! Don’t ever expect me to call you my older sister! From this day on, I will not call you my older sister!”


I was in rage. I rarely got emotional. It was not efficient to be emotional. I always thought things in a rational manner. I only think about the next step to survival. But this time I was losing it. I cried and prayed. Let this be a long nightmare. But I never woke up from it.


Few hours later, I went to my aunt for help. I told her about what her son did and how it was hurting and bleeding and I didn’t think I could mop because it hurts to walk. She made me lie down and she examined between my legs. She pulled a large spleen. She said it was fine and she poured some alcohol. She smacked me across my face and warned me to never speak of it. She said her son Young was to become a doctor and so he needs to study female anatomy(he was 22 years old at the time).  I begged for forgiveness and reiterated,


“One, I am so sorry.

Two, I am a liar.

Three, I killed my parents for being born

Four, I should be grateful to uncle Bob and his family members

Five, I deserve to die at your hands.”


That’s how my life changed forever. I’d endure this many times over from that day on. I  started to hate myself from that day on. I started see all humans as evil from that day on.  Why do they all hate me? I started thinking I should become smarter and more likable in my traits so that humans would like me. I thought to myself if I become likable and successful, pretty and smart, they’d all stop being so mean to me. Yes, that’s it. I’d become a good desirable child so that one day, they’d like me. And it’ll be easier to survive life. It was a test of survival until someone or something could come to save me from hell. I was 7years old and I didn’t know any better. I just accepted all things happening around me as a punishment for something I did. I had to find out what I did wrong and how I can improve. That was the start of my quest to becoming more “likable.” I thought if I just became a likable person, god will come and rescue me.


I feel exhausted from having to recall those events and write about it. It never bothered me to talk about these events in the past because I just never felt any emotions about it. It was in the past. Shit happens. So what? I shall move on. It is not efficient to be emotional about past things. It didn’t bother me. Or so I thought.  I will continue next time.