“What a little bitch…” this 6’4”, 250lb ex Navy Seal uttered the words to my mother, about me, I was 6yrs old. My mom, also a little bitch, nervous and desperate to not have a confrontation just brushed it off, “Oh whatever, let it go, it’s normal.” He wasn’t my step-father yet but he would be soon. I had put a note in my mom’s purse, scrawled in the handwriting of a scared kid that recently lost her father (he was murdered but I wouldn’t know that for many years). The note said, “Please, don’t marry him!” I was terrified of the seemingly giant, raging alcoholic that my mom had cozied up to. He made her feel safe, oddly, with not just his large stature but with his bravado, his big presence, loud, confident, a mustache like Tom Selleck’s and Burt Reynolds’ had punched a mustache into existence. She saw in him a protector, even if he wasn’t protecting us from anything with the murderer behind bars.
I knew he made me uncomfortable, scared, like a pest that he saw no use in. We had moved across the country and had initially been living with my aunt and cousin. It was a soft landing, I got to feel like I had a sibling for a minute, it was fun and hopeful while I processed my dad’s death - however it was that he died - my mom couldn’t keep her stories straight. Was it a car accident? A big rig truck? A drunk driver? Maybe in a big rig truck driven by a drunk driver? I wouldn’t know until I was in my twenties.
Eventually we moved into our own home and there was a moment of newness, I had my own generous bedroom, there was security in having our own space. I thought things could be really good, for a second. Then she started dating this guy. He was a lot, all the time, even his name was big, King. I had to be polite, I had to fetch him a beer like a good kid, I had to be seen and not heard so I did my best to stay the fuck out of the way. I hid in my closet sometimes, one time he found me and called me “Sick” he declared, “There’s something wrong with this kid…” because in fear, I’d made a safe little nook that I’d hoped he wouldn’t find, but he did. That initial note in my mom’s purse did not help the situation, it started us out as enemies. I was a little bitch when I didn’t smile when I brought him a beer. I was a bitch because I clearly didn’t feel grateful that he was inserting himself into my little life with my mom. She did marry him. She was also a bitch because to him, it was her fault at least partially, that I didn’t respect him.
I hate to give him any credit for the strength that came from his abuse but pretty rapidly I hardened to so many of his antics. I stopped crying at his yelling, I became a strong bitch. He would over-tickle me so I figured out how to not be ticklish, like a bitch that wouldn’t just give up and giggle for him. He thought it was fun to scare me so I developed nerves of steel and he couldn’t easily sneak up and scare me, like a goddamn bitch, why didn’t I jump? “You will fucking respect me!” is not a refrain uttered by people that understand how respect works. It’s a non sequitur that is shouted by unimpressive, insecure people that have no substance to draw from, no established character traits that have provided a landscape where respect could be garnered. It’s a demand that a giant toddler shouts as they stomp their indignant feet and when you stare blankly, or laugh, or roll your eyes accordingly, you will, sweet summer child, be called a bitch.