Wha, wha! Whoa, is me. Persistent, irritating and debilitating health issues refuse to release their mighty grip, and my beloved writing must take a backseat, but an idea came, Why not use this time to post excerpts from my book?
In, A Good Little Girl, I provide room by room descriptions of the tiny domicile I called home, as well as the memories associated with each. These insights are essential to understanding how the lack of parental love and care negatively impact a child. Self-esteem was non-existent, and I feared everything.
In addition to my bedroom closet, the one, and only bathroom in our home presented as my preferred safe place on the occasions I found myself alone because the door had a lock.
The Lavatory Sanctuary
(From the pages of, A Good Little Girl by Kenzie O’Hara)
Before the beautifying demands of teenage life, as an innocent four-year-old, this room intended for the elimination of bodily waste, bathing, and hygiene would become my go-to place when by myself without supervision.
Not yet five, far too young to be on my own, but the abandonment occurred with frequency. Mom, Dad, and Katie all disappeared, and their whereabouts remained a mystery.
Terrified, I grabbed a pillow, blanket, perhaps a plush animal or toy, and secured myself in the tiny toilet room. My dependable ole’ safety net. Inside, I curled into a ball and cowered in the farthest corner from the door. The light switch would stay in the off position, as I feared illumination would draw attention, and during daylight hours, sun filtered through the frosted window.
My sheltered environment would be akin to solitary confinement, yet the latched wooden door gave me a barrier between me and whomever, or whatever, might be lurking on the other side. Another no-no would be crying, for to do so emitted sound, a dead giveaway of my presence. No. Be still, suck my thumb, and wait.
In efforts to thwart my digit-sucking habit, Mom tried terrible concoctions, including Tabasco sauce, but her attempts failed, and much to her chagrin, I continued the stress-relieving practice until the age of eight. “Should you keep this up, you’re going to end up with buckteeth.” Well, my pearly whites never protruded. No orthodontics needed here, which would be a welcomed blessing, as my father wouldn’t have considered paying for this unnecessary expense.
Many times, while holed up in the potty room, I fell asleep by the light of day and awoke when darkness surrounded. This gave me a lot of time to be inside my head. Perhaps my creativity derives from this fact. Upon their return, relief swept through my soul, and though I approached them for comfort, I received none.
Way back then, when doctors made house calls, I sought refuge behind the locked bathroom door, suspecting the physician’s arrival. A sickly child, plagued with hacking bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia, I often required painful injections. My hatred of shots was well known, and everyone in the immediate vicinity conspired to subdue me, and their voices became a chorus. “You’re not getting a shot. Promise. You can come out now.” The sneaks tricked me by opening and closing the front door, and I thought, Hurray! He’s not here. Dumb little girl; I always fell for their lies.
The moment I unlocked the door, everyone wrestled me to the floor. With overpowering strength, they pulled down my pants, exposing the target. After the not-so-kind jab, I would be released. “Ouch! Liars. I hate you.” The deceitful episodes always left me feeling empty, alone, and distrustful, but my behavior didn’t leave them with much recourse.
At age eleven, facing the fact that I might be getting too old for such childishness, I quit using the restroom as a protector.
One evening, the phone rang. “Are your parents’ home?” Without thinking, the words rolled off my tongue. “No, they aren’t.” “Well, you’d better tell your parents they are stupid for leaving you home by yourself.” Click.
A sense of dread welled, and, believing the stranger would come and harm me, I dashed for my lockable powder-room door. The second Mom and Dad walked in, I told them what happened, but of course, this news didn’t exact a response. A waterfall of angst fell over me when I spilled my guts about the things that frightened me, and my family ignored me. No one listened. No one cared. Talk about sadness and loneliness. Their unresponsiveness solidified the fact that, indeed, I was a mistake, unwanted.
NOTE: Future excerpts will appear at random.