The Life of Elizabeth Ann King

The Life of Elizabeth Ann King, Barnhart, Missouri, USA.

By Sajjad Amin Bangash

Elizabeth Ann King with her daughter
Elizabeth Ann King with her daughter

Chapter#1: The Silky Color.

Life is a journey full of zigzag straddles, passages, paths, uneven pathways and all journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware. You feel like you’re not making any headway on reaching your desired destination. It could be that you’re in a destination you didn’t have in mind, and that you’re blind to how great it is just because it isn’t exactly what you wanted.

Walking down the life, traveling in this journey as time takes us ahead, our life events spontaneously make stories and become the part of memories. When you have an amazing story that could enrich the lives of others but are not sharing it out of fear or any other reason. It can be therapeutic to let your story out and see what other people take away from it.

Our mind always questions us start to think that there’s no way to see things other than the way you see them. Could help diffuse a big argument or even a minor disagreement with someone rather than trying to validate a misperceptions.

Every human walks around with a certain kind of sadness. They may not wear it on their sleeves, but it’s there if you look deep.

I have a friend Elizabeth Ann King from

Barnhart, Missouri, USA and she seemingly had no trouble telling her story, but she must have gone through a period of time when she had a story inside her that just needed to come out. She walked in life like every human being does but has lived her life on a variant sequences of her own. A life full of trauma, abused and the aftermath.

A woman with attributes, dreams, aspirations and desiring attitude to life similar to every girl of the world but traveled in life with different routes and passages on the ways of her. She never knew her destination to where she is heading forth.

I wanted to write on her and requested her for her cooperation which she sweetly accepted. On December 30th, 2014, Beth was traveling from Missouri to Rhode Island as she was moving to live there. The journey was long and she was laying in the back seat texting me. But our chatting stayed merely on life experiences and she said that we will start writing after a week as she needed to properly settled down in new house in new place. So I kept myself silent till she is practically ready for it and then the time came when we formally started to write.

She begins her life story with some purposeful questions as:

“My first memory of life was sitting on my basement steps wondering why this is happening to me,as I was pinching my skin to see if I was dreaming. Just wondering why my dad would hit me all of the time. Was I that bad of a child?

Why would god let this happen to his child?”

What was I being punished for since I was nearly five years old. I was too young to know what a alcoholic was. Mom always went to her room,or worked late. I would jump into the shower with my mom,and she would notice bruises. At night I would hear mom. I would sneak out of room only to find that she was dealing with the same.

I have two older sisters. They didn’t seem to get as much of it as I did. I was told I was a unplanned makeup sex baby. My dad didn’t like to go to bed on bad terms with my mom. When my parents found out I was a girl, my dad was disappointed. He thought he was cursed. So mad his last was a girl and wouldn’t carry on his name. He name has now died off,and I have paid for that.

Christmas morning my gifts would get broken. Pulling the heads off of my dolls,running over bike,and making Christmas not something to look forward to anymore.”

Telling her early childhood experiences she says:

“One morning, I accidentally left out my cup of milk. When I came home from school, he waiting with my cup for me to drink it. Still to this day I hate milk. It tastes sour every time!

Sometimes when it came time for a punishment, my sister’s would blame me. Two against one and I received some of which I didn’t deserve.

Hair being pulled,powerful hands,thick belt buckles,the paddle and more.

Putting a hot knife to my tongue telling me that if I was telling the truth, that god would save me.”

Recalling the worst memory of her parents split up, she said.

“After my parents finally split up due to my dad’s infidelity,and him blaming my sister’s and I for my parents breaking up he left us with nothing! ”

Another childhood memory she shares in her words as

“One more story that haunts me is if my room had even one toy left out he would lock me in the bathroom, make me sit in the bathtub without getting out,and say if I was going to be a pig, then I was going live like a pig. If I had to go to the bathroom, I would have to go all over myself.”

When I was old enough for school I started out in a Catholic one. Within my first two years, the nuns started to see a problem and said that the Catholic school did not provide services for that. I would struggle with my homework and ask my parents for help. My dad would make me sit at the kitchen table by myself, without getting up,until my homework was done. When I said I couldn’t find the answer, he would say the answer is in the book, while sitting in the family room with his beer. At this time in my life contacting someone about abuse was not really heard of. It wasn’t handled how any type of school does today. It used to be hush,hush, and turn your cheek approach. So I switched to a public school. Then I was tested for learning disabilities. After one year, I was put into classes where I could be in a smaller classroom setting. I need one on one learning, which I never got from being told the answer is in the book. I always wondered if I got the help from my parents that I needed, if I wouldn’t have developed learning disabilities. No blame, just a thought. Once I was doing well in school, and made a few friends, my home life started to get complicated again. My dad wasn’t living in the home again, but I developed two new abusers. One worse than the other. My two flesh and blood sister’s! I know now that they learned this behavior from my father, but as a kid, I did not!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s