…The Abuse…
More than likely, abuse existed in my dad’s family. He must have learned his punishing behaviors by watching his parents. They must have modeled something unhealthy.
One of his sisters was constantly anxious; I picked up on it when I was a kid. She had this nervous laughter and the same kinetic energy I’d seen in my maternal abused grandmother.
She never appeared calm.
Mom also told me about two of my dad’s other sisters; they left that farmhouse for the West Coast. Having once made my own escape to Portland, Oregon, years ago, I saw the appeal; there’s nothing like a lot of geographical distance.
I got the impression that these West Coast-bound sisters were judged as being crazy, having something “wrong with them” to make the decision to leave and live so far away.
I always felt they were looked down upon. My dad didn’t stay in contact with them.
That was, until once, one of those “crazy aunts,” visited us; I was eight and that was the first time I met her. She lived in California, and, during the entire visit, she never seemed to be comfortable in the house.
Too many painful memories, perhaps?
She never visited again; that was the last time I saw her.
Again, referencing my own abuse experiences, it had to have been excruciating to be female in that house.
What did they have to look forward to?
Being an abused female until they are old enough to be an abused wife and mother to other people?
Mom shared another supposedly true occurrence with me; again, I have no way to know if it really happened.
My mother knew about it because my dad, I guess, told her; I certainly didn’t hear from him. The recollection was painful. I’m heartbroken by it.
Supposedly, the story goes like this.
My paternal grandmother was stricken with Diabetes and subsequently, had to have one, or both, legs amputated. Therefore, she was wheelchair-bound and could not go anywhere without help.
Apparently, one day, she asked my grandfather if he could take her into town.
She pleaded, “So I can just watch the people go by.”
He refused.
My grandmother had no choice but to remain in the house; she was trapped.
I’m sure my grandmother was probably abused. I don’t know if it was ever physical.
But the verbal and emotional abuse?
Those conditions were probably there, creating a fearful and sad life.
My grandfather probably saw a woman’s only purpose was that of being a wife and mother.
Beyond that, females were useless.
My mother once made the comment, “Everyone here knows who beats their wives.”
If not a physical beating, then certainly, an emotional one.
I know, I know. I’m interjecting my thoughts here.
I’m far from objective.
“What mean ye, that ye use this proverb concerning the land of Israel, saying, ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge?’”
Ezekiel 18:2
(Yes, I have tasted sour grapes. Yes, my teeth have been on edge).
But really, how could my paternal grandmother be anything except unhappy?
An immigrant, intimidated by this strange new country, saddled with nine children, plus any other possible miscarriages or stillborn babies?
No real opportunities for her to be fulfilled existed: no autonomy, no career, no educational pursuits, no money of her own.
Dependent upon and at the mercy of abusive people, especially, abusive males?
It must have been stifling…
Copyright © 2026 by Sheryle Cruse
