I posted an article on Facebook today about the Holocaust and its 75th anniversary. 

“And they said, ‘From now on you do not answer by your name. Your name is your number.’ And the delusion, the disappointment, the discouragement that I felt, I felt like I was not a human person anymore.” —Lilly Appelbaum, Auschwitz survivor

I must say that I am in no way trying to compare my life with those that survived the Holocaust; I cannot compare my experience at all. But, I was however triggered and thrown into memories of when I too had no name — when I too felt discouraged and not like a human person. 

I no longer remember the specific reason this came about except that I had angered my abusive stepfather in some way. It wasn’t difficult to do. He demanded to the entire household that I should no longer be called my name. I would be referred to “it” “thing” “that”. My name was not to be spoken by my mother or my brothers, lest they then find themselves as targets. He barked orders to my mom “make thing … ”, “tell it ….”, and when he spoke to my mom he referred to me as “it”, “that” or “that thing”. He never spoke my name, and when he spoke the alternate words,
it was like poison coming from his lips — from his soul. He made me feel like I was poison — as though I had in some way deserved this. I felt isolated and alone and inhuman, all in the place where I should have felt safe and loved. I don’t remember how long this went on, but I do know that in my young mind, it seemed like a lifetime. I think I may have been 10 or 12 years old at the time (it’s a bit blurry now). Time has smoothed many edges of these memories over the years.

My mother never came to my defense and I resented for her this, as well as well other things that happened between us. We were estranged on and off throughout my life, and were estranged at the time she died. But I do wonder if perhaps she felt she was poison too? Perhaps she could no longer speak her truth. Was this really her truth too? Perhaps he had stolen her power and made her feel worthless? He certainly knew how. She was young, a mere 25 or 26 years old with a 14-month-old baby when my father died. She was vulnerable. Did he use her vulnerability against her as he did me?

I’ll never know for sure I can only speculate. 
I was a child and still a person, but I didnt see so clearly then. I felt powerless, helpless and alone through much of my childhood. Though I now know I was none of those things, and they were simply situations, feelings and perceptions.

I would eventually find my strength, my power and even some love along the way.