Sarah Burleton - Why Me?

I was born in Melrose Park, Illinois, on a cold day in November 1978 to a young woman not ready or willing to have a child. I would be told later in life that I was supposed to be an abortion, but the hospital called my grandma instead of my mother to give her news of my pregnancy; thus, my mother was forced to have me. Looking back now, I think I spent my childhood paying the price for a hospital nurse dialing the wrong number.

I wrote this book after debating over it for a decade. I didnt want to insult anyone or make anyone mad by telling my storyI was worried about how my mother would feel about it if she read it and how my sister would feel. But in the end, I feel compelled to share my story with others. I know that there are other abused kids out there, kids who on the outside may just seem weird or who maybe dont have the best haircut or the best clothes, who are facing the same teasing at school and torture at home that I faced.

Abuse for me was something that happened on a daily basis. It might have been a hair-pulling, a punch to the kidneys, a kick down the stairs, or Moms other favorite activity: name-calling. Over the years I have been called Thunder Thighs, Nigger Lips, Kidney Kate (because I had kidney problems when I was younger), and Anorexic Annie, just to name a few. Ive been beaten with brooms, whips, extension cords, beltsbasically, if it was in arms reach, I was getting hit with it. I spent nights awake in a bathroom, hovered over a tray table writing I will not lie until the wee hours of the morning, and my hand would cramp up so badly I couldnt move it the next day. I never fully understood why I was beaten so much. Some days it was because I didnt do a chore properly; other days it was because I took too long in the bathroom. A lot of the time, after my sister was born, it was because Mom thought I was being mean to my sister.

Another reason I avoided writing this book for so long was that I didnt want to play the victim. I wanted to just suck it up, take my knocks, and learn from my experience. Yet I dont believe I am playing the victim in this book. If anything, I am releasing years of hurt and anger that I have been harboring.

I had a tough time figuring out exactly what to include in the book. Should I detail every single abusive experience I had growing up? That seemed silly and outlandish. What seemed right for me, and I hope will feel right for readers of this book, was to write about what first popped into my head when I thought of my childhood.

What childhood events and experiences do you remember the most? When many people think about growing up, they remember events and experiences such as birthday parties (and even I can say that was one thing my mother didgive me great birthdays), sleepovers, and family times together. But when I looked back, seriously sat down and looked back on my childhood, certain traumatic experiences came to mind. These are experiences I can never block out and have never forgotten. These are the experiences that I believe shaped me into the person I am today. These are the experiences I wanted to write about.

I want readers of this book to know that Ive been there and Im still alive and Im happy and there IS light at the end of the tunnel. No matter how dark it may seem some nights when you are lying in bed, sniffling because you have just been beaten again, it WILL get better. Abuse is not acceptable in any form, and if you are being physically or mentally abused, please tell someonea friend, relative, teacher or neighbor. Its not right! You deserve better!

Thank you for loving me so much.

Where were you that day?

Do you remember where you were the day the space shuttle Challenger exploded? I will never forget. I was sitting in my first-grade classroom trying not to pee my pants. You see, I had already been to the bathroom three times that day, and Mrs. Slagle had told me that I was not allowed to go anymore, I was just messing around. To my mind, that was absolutely absurd.

How does she know how many times I have to pee? I drank two huge glasses of juice this morning!

Two glasses was a lot of juice, and Mrs. Slagle was a brilliant teacher. She should have realized that a little girls bladder couldnt hold that much! But I couldnt tell Mrs. Slagle that I had drunk so much juice because then I would have had to explain why.

I had been bad again that morning. I didnt finish my oatmeal because it tastes like glue, and Mom got mad. Sometimes when Mom got mad she would just yell and scream and push me around a little bit. But a lot of the time when Mom got mad things went very, very badly for me. This morning was one of those mornings.

I had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. I was dreading school because Mom had just cut my hair... again. This time she had not only cut my hair, she had Ogilvie-permed it, and now I looked like a French poodle. Mom wasnt the best at perms. She rolled the rollers so tight that the little needles cut into my scalp, and she layered on the stinky perm solution so thick that it dripped down my face and left red marks wherever it touched.

I knew the kids at school would make fun of my hair that day. I already got teased on a daily basis because my family was poor. We didnt live in a cardboard box or beg for food, but we were poor enough that, for some reason, the local paper had done a cover story (with a full-color picture!) about how poor my family was and how we were struggling in the current economy. That newspaper article provided the kids at school with enough ammunition and jokes aimed at me to last until middle school.

This hair is going to really get them going today, I thought to myself as I looked in the mirror that morning. I wrapped my bath towel around my head and swirled around, pretending that I had beautiful, cascading black hair that streamed all the way down my back. As I swirled, I imagined myself dancing in a ballroom in a beautiful blue gown.

SARAH!

I jumped and snapped out of my daydream. Mom was at my bedroom door, and she had the look. It was the same look people get when they have just stepped in dog droppingsa combination of disgust and sickness.

What the hell are you doing in here?

I quickly pulled the towel from my head and acted like I was getting dressed. Nothing, Mom. Im getting ready for school.

Mom looked at me and didnt say anything for a moment. It was as if she was waiting for me to say or do something wrong. A knot grew in my stomach.

Quit messing around, said Mom. Come out and eat. Its oatmeal.

Awwwww... oatmeal? Come on!

Moms eyes seemed to glaze over. In two swift steps she was at my side. She grabbed me by my newly permed hair and dragged me out of my room. The pain was excruciating; my scalp was raw from the perm the night before, and my hair was still wet from my shower. I screamed and cried as Mom pulled me down the hallway, but fighting only made my head hurt worse.

Shut up! Mom yelled. Do you want the whole building to hear you? Im sick of you! I didnt want you in the first place!

I didnt want you in the first place was a phrase I heard often. For a long time, I didnt understand what Mom was saying because the idea that a mother wouldnt want a child was foreign to me.

Mom dragged me to the dining room, where an extremely unappetizing bowl of gray oatmeal sat. I should have been grateful; a lot of people would absolutely love a bowl of hot oatmeal in the morning. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people. I sat down, sniffing and sobbing, and picked at the bowl of oatmeal.

Sarah, Im not going to tell you again. Eat your oatmeal! You have school in half an hour. Moms voice had gone from angry to pleading, but I was already too upset to buy into her up-and-down games.