Religion

I prayed to Mary every night that she would speak to Jesus, who
would speak to God, who would take me away.

And I cried and cried until my bedsheets were soaked and I lapsed
into sleep. Every morning it was with wonder I awoke. Why was I
not taken away? Was is because God wanted me to suffer? Was it
because he believed I hadn't suffered enough? I thought of
saints and martyrs I'd read about and imagined the daily beatings
inflicted upon me and the lack of love or affection and name-calling
I endured were God's ways of testing my love for him.
Perhaps in her bouts of madness, my mother would kill me and send
me to heaven. I would be one of God's little angels. My mother
told me that a person could be canonized at eight so I hoped I
would live till eight and have the chance to be a saint.
Somehow, in my child's eyes, a saint held more value than an
angel.

My mother continued to beat me, pinch me, call me names. She
withheld her affection and purposely showed it all the more to my
brother and sister. She would tuck them in at night, smothering
them with kisses. I felt no jealousy, but a great want. It was
like a pain in my gut, the need to be held, to be called sweet
names, to be cuddled and told I was adorable, to make my mother
laugh, just for the love of me. Sometimes, I gathered my courage
and asked: "Can I have one too?" Most often, my mother ignored
me. Sometimes, she straightforwardly told me I did not deserve
one as I was a heathen child.

I regretted having asked. I searched my soul for the sins I'd
committed and begged God's forgiveness.

Some nights, I twisted my arms, my legs, in the hopes they would
break. They would have to take me to the hospital, for a while
at least, or so I thought, and I would escape this dreadful home.
At the hospital, perhaps they would care for me, love me and
maybe, my real father would come and get me and we would live
happily ever after.

I would awaken, my limbs intact, to another day. "Goddamn
stubborn mule! imbecil! hypocrite! pig! filthy slut! The list
went on and on. I walked to school, alone, dreaming of a better
life.

I believed in fairy tales and saw myself in the ugly duckling and
in the story of Cinderella. One day, my cruel mother would be
punished, I would forgive my sister and brother their cruelties
and would live happily ever after. I read sad orphan stories and
wondered if I shouldn't run away like the children in these
books. I knew however that our Canadian winters were much
crueler than the ones in England and France and that was I to run
away, I would surely die or be picked up by the police. No one
would believe my mother beat me. She seemed like such a generous
woman and to others, she was.

When she threw me downstairs to sleep in the dark, without
mattress or blankets, I sat on the first step and begged in tears
to be allowed to return to my room. "Please, the wolves will eat
me!" I would cry and I was sure they would. The dark brought
visions of wolves with sharp teeth and gleaming eyes and I peed
in my pyjamas, sure I was near certain death. Nothing moved my
mother. After a long while, my sobbing died down. I grew used
to the dark and huddled in a ball. In this position, I began to
hate and curse her. "Witch", I thought, "you pipi, caca, you
dirty old toilet, you stink! I hope you die and go straight to
hell!"

Then, all night long I lived in fear of death; of dying with
mortal sins on my conscience. I had broken the commandment:
Honour your father and mother. I had used filthy language, had
had filthy thoughts. Surely I was doomed. Surely God would not
forgive such sins.

On the first Friday of the month, I hesitated before entering the
confessional. Would I be able to confess such horrid sins to the
priest? Could I repeat the awful things I had said about my
mother to a holy man? I could not. The priest would surely
condemn me to eternal hell.

"Bless me father for I have sinned:" I recounted how I had
squabbled with my brother and sister, how I had loitered on my
way to and from school, how I had lied to my mother about the
loitering, how I had failed to listen to my mother's orders...
In my head, I added the mortal sins and hoped God would
understand. The priest blessed me and granted me absolution.

Back in my pew, I bowed my doily covered head and fervently
whispered an entire rosary, a penance I inflicted upon myself,
far more severe than what the priest had prescribed.

My soul somewhat cleansed, I skipped back home, vowing that from
now on I would be a good child.


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