It Never Took: A Memoir

By Tarrah Hancock

Beaten and Bruised, But Not Broken

 

Terrah Hancock suffered a childhood of pain, manipulation, and abuse at the hands of her parents and uncle. Refusing to submit to their cruelty, Terrah rebels as a teenager, puts herself in dangerous situations, and is raped. At seventeen she leaves home, gets pregnant, and makes the impossible choice to give her baby up for adoption.

 

Barraged by relentless challenges, tumultuous relationships, and another pregnancy, Terrah saves her second child from a rare illness through her own tenacious research, giving her the confidence to enroll in college. But with fragile mental health, Terrah would need to summon strength she didn't know she had in order to uncover the truth of her past and overcome deep wounds of generational abuse.

 

In writing this raw and poignant personal narrative, Terrah Hancock speaks out against the shame of keeping secrets and the stigma against seeking care for mental illnesses, such as bipolar disorder and complex PTSD. Her journey of self-discovery reveals deeply observed lessons about valuing mental health treatment and how to thrive after abuse with courage and grace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peacock Proud Press
• Release date: May 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733871099

Book preview

Part one

Childhood

A Hurricane’s Yellow Light

My first childhood memory is colored with muted shades of yellow and whispers of birds’ frantic chirping. We lived in southern Texas, and as my parents boarded up the house windows to protect us from an impending hurricane, I stayed in my room, straddled atop my next-door neighbor girlfriend, playing my favorite game, "Marriage.’’ I always wanted to be the husband because it felt the best.

As an adult, I wanted to have a greater understanding about this moment. I know that masturbation is normal. Still, I extensively researched the subject of childhood masturbation and learned that there are many reasons a young child might engage in this activity. For me, I sought pleasure from masturbation. I needed this activity to relieve the incredible stress and anxiety I experienced at home. However, in the research I read, psychologists warned that normal childhood masturbation becomes worrisome when a child engages another child in this activity. Mutual masturbation is an indicator that someone has taught the child to masturbate.

Breaking Tea Sets

My dad worked as a welding supervisor for Ebasco, an industrial construction company. We lived in a trailer in Veracruz, Mexico and moved each time they completed a nuclear power plant, which meant we moved a lot. I loved to tease my mother about our situation. She knew she deserved a better home than a trailer. To make herself feel better about it, she often said, I’ll have you know that trailer was on a third of an acre facing the beach, Terrah.

It’s still a trailer, Mom.

Oh, shut up.

When they brought me home from the hospital, she put me to bed in the bathtub. Where did my parents sleep? Where did my sister sleep, the treasured child, so easy to love, the good girl who followed the rules? I have no idea.

One incident is so vivid that I feel like I remember it, but I know that I don’t. In my life, I’ve heard this story hundreds of times at family get-togethers always held at my mom’s older sister’s house.

At Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by her family consisting of two sisters, their husbands, and all her nieces and nephews, my mom would sit at the dinner table, prim and proper, to tell it once again: Veronica just had her fifth birthday, which made you three years old. She had gotten a tea set for her birthday, and you were out front playing with it. Mom pauses for effect.

Veronica came in and told me that you had thrown a piece of her tea set into the road, and it broke. I called you in and spanked you. ‘Don’t break your sister’s tea set, Terrah!’ I said and sent you back out to play. Then my mother would take a deep breath, feigning exhaustion. My aunts and uncles nodded in sympathy with my mom, knowing I was a difficult child.

A few minutes later, Veronica came in again to report that you threw her tea set plate into the street and broke it. I hollered for you again and spanked you harder this time, knowing that you hadn’t learned your lesson the first time. I told you again, ‘Don’t break your sister’s tea set, Terrah!’ and sent you out to play again. You played out front without incident for a while. Then in came Veronica in a rage that you had AGAIN thrown her tea set in the road and broke it. I couldn’t believe it, she said, heated at the memory of my disobedience. Veronica sat on the couch nearby, listening and smirking at me during the whole telling of the story.

I went outside, snatched you up by your upper arm, dragged you inside, and gave you the spanking of a lifetime. When I finished, I sent you back out to play. She paused, out of breath. A few minutes went by, and it came to me that I should probably look out the window, and there was Veronica, throwing her own tea set into the road. That little stinker. At the end of the story, hoping for some acknowledgment from my dad, I glanced over at him and saw him wink at my sister.

Her story hasn’t changed in the decades that she’s told it, and I’ve always had questions that she’s expertly avoided: Wasn’t this trailer facing a beach? It seems dangerous to let two small children play outside next to the ocean without supervision. Why were we playing so near a street at ages three and five that we could throw toys in the road? If her story is true, she didn’t even have an eye on a window. Lastly, and most important to me, why did she believe Veronica? Why did she just take the word of a small child and physically punish me without a passing thought? Why did it take three whoopings before it dawned on her that perhaps she should see what in the world was going on?

Sipping Whiskey

My dad, a real-life, horse-breaking, bull-riding, horse-shoeing, hat-wearing cowboy, stood five feet, eight and a half inches—and always mentioned the half inch. He had dark hair, almost black, and a black, bushy 80s mustache. In photos from my childhood, his body looks tight and solid, like he felt uncomfortable in his own skin, but I didn’t know that then. I knew him as huge, strong, scary, and mean.

My grandparents’ first child, a baby girl named Jill, died in infancy. I’ve only heard the story of her death a few times. On a cold, and snowy night in Colorado, my grandmother put the baby to bed in her crib, cuddled up in a heating pad to help keep her warm. I’m sure about that part of the story. The rest is conjecture: Was Grandma Mickey drinking and forgot to check on the baby? Did she find the baby dead in the morning? Did Grandpa find the baby dead? How did the baby die?

According to all the stories I heard, the baby’s wet diaper held enough moisture to trigger her electrocution. Everyone said, after Jill’s death, that Grandma Mickey was never the same; she drank more than ever.

Their next baby, Reed, was born with cerebral palsy. For most of his childhood, Reed lived at home with the family. Then, all of a sudden, my grandfather sent Reed to live in a group home for handicapped kids. When Grandpa removed Reed from her care, Grandma spiraled further downward. Unfortunately, all we know about these events is hearsay and rumors between generations. The people that knew what happened are dead or won’t say a word.

Sue was the next child born, then my dad, and finally the baby of the family, Wendy. They were all born healthy.

My dad’s alcoholic parents, Dr. Richard and Mildred Hancock, raised their four kids on a ranch in Colorado, then moved to Arizona. As the middle child, my dad was left to do his own thing, living his life without much parental supervision. At the age of five, he broke his first horse. At seven, he carried a gun and wandered out in the wild on his own. As a teenager, my dad became a champion bull rider. He didn’t barrel race or rope calves. Those are for girls, he said. Only a real man can ride a bull.

In addition to being a rodeo star, my dad lived life as a true adventurer. He loved to hike, camp, backpack, and rock climb. After moving five times in my childhood, we settled down in Arizona during my teenage years, living in a house that my grandfather gave my dad. As soon as we got there, my dad bought several mules and went on pack trips to the Superstition Mountains as often as he could. He ended up taking many trips because he worked for himself and could create his own schedule. As a world-renowned master blade-smith, famous for his hand-forged Damascus knives and swords, my dad won prestigious awards for his work. He also gained acclaim through the knife competitions he hosted on our property.

Many students begged to work with the master, so my father mentored them. I grew jealous of the relationships in the shop that my dad had with his students. In those interactions, I saw his diligence, patience, focus, and attentiveness, wishing he could have acted that way with me.

A hard man, my dad sipped whiskey instead of coffee from his mug and often talked about his death. From his seat at the kitchen table, he’d say, If I ever get sick, I’m gonna kill myself. I’d turn to look at him as he continued. I won’t die a vegetable; I’ll just kill myself and get it over with. One day, you’ll see, I just won’t come back from the mountains.

By my teenage years, I wasn’t even affected by this rant anymore. I’d heard it so many times that it didn’t seem weird for a father to be telling his daughter about his future suicide. I did wonder what his death would mean for the mules.

Don’t come lookin’ for me, he’d say with authority. I’ll be where I want to be—alone and out there. I’d rather die out there all by myself than anywhere on the planet. You girls just know that, if I ever get sick, I’m not gonna die in some hospital. I’ll just go out on a pack trip and won’t come back.

Remembering these conversations now, I can see he was an irresponsible father. But at the time, I knew it was just how he was. He was serious. He’d die at his own hand, and it didn’t seem strange for me to know that.

Fences

I spent a large portion of my childhood seeing psychiatrists and psychologists. With grace and concern, my mother explained to me, There’s something wrong with you, Terrah. I don’t want you to worry though. I promise I’ll find out what it is. Years later, I asked how she knew something was wrong with me.

Well, Terrah, you didn’t cry when Grandma Mickey died. That’s not normal behavior.

I was four years old when she died and had only met my grandma twice. Her name was Mickey, short for Mildred. I knew her from family stories as a sinewy, alcoholic cowgirl who smoked several packs of cigarettes a day. What I can actually recall myself is very limited. I remember shade covering the front porch of her house, extending out to the small goldfish pond next to her front door. In my young mind, the sun only shone in the backyard.

Over the vast expanse of the sunny backyard, I saw a lot of fences—fences made of chicken wire, hot fences made of metal pipe, and splintery wood railing fences. I remember horse stalls made of fences, horse pens enclosed by different fences that ranch hands sat on, a chicken coop made of plywood and chicken wire, and tons of chain-link fence. I remember feeling very small and peeking through chain links at all the activity of the workers, horses, dogs, and chickens.

As a four-year-old, I knew Mickey was my father’s mother, my grandmother. That was about it. We lived in South Texas, and she lived in Phoenix, which meant we didn’t spend holidays together. She didn’t bake cookies, and she didn’t send gifts for birthdays or Christmas. Like everyone on my dad’s side of the family, she lived her life, and we lived ours. Other than the shade, the fishpond, and all the different fences, I remember her prescription pill bottles splayed out on a coffee table, her very shiny belt buckle, and my own reflection in a sliding glass closet door.

Both Lids Were Up

When I was very little, I remember going to the bathroom to pee before bed. After finding both lids up with foamy, strong-smelling pee in the toilet, I turned quickly and went to the living room wearing my dad’s big T-shirt that I wore every night. I found my mom sitting on our corduroy couch, chatting with her beloved younger brother. Then I walked over to her, keeping a side-eye stare on the man I despised as far back as I can remember. Cupping my hands around my little mouth, I leaned very close to her own mouth and whispered with our lips almost touching, Uncle Keith didn’t flush the toilet. Then I cupped my ear and placed it up to her ear, waiting for her response.

My uncle laughed and said, How stupid do you have to be to not know how to whisper? Leaning forward and lifting his bushy eyebrows, he stared deep into my eyes and slowly said, I just heard everything you said, Terrah, and I did flush the toilet, which only leaves you. You didn’t.

But both lids were up, I insisted, trying to defend myself. I don’t do that.

Don’t sass Uncle Keith, Terrah, my mom scolded.

I knew I had flushed the last time I went to the bathroom. I knew because my parents stressed the importance of flushing, and I often forgot to do it. Earlier that week, I had vowed to myself that I would remember to flush and make my parents proud. I left the room scowling the most brutal look I could muster at age four. My uncle winked at me.

Much to my chagrin, Keith lived with us everywhere we moved. He stood six feet tall, had a medium build, sandy brown hair cut into a shaggy mullet, and an unkempt beard. When I was a child, Keith had a long mangy mustache that covered most of his teeth; the hair got stuck in his lips when he talked. My dad hired him at every nuclear plant and oil refinery site he managed. Keith would always stay with us while he got on his feet. In Texas, he bunked up in the spare room on an air mattress, just down from my room.

At age five, I had a big, fluffy orange cat named George who I loved. I became even more devoted to George after hearing Keith yelling and screaming one day from the spare room. That fucking cat pissed on my bed! Everyone knows male cats are notorious for having strong-smelling urine. I went quickly to my room, found George sleeping on my bed, scooped him up, and kissed him a million times for defending me against Keith. What could have happened to a little girl at such a young age to be thrilled that someone’s bed had been peed on?

Once, as an angsty eighth grader, I came home from school, walked down the