And So I Write...

I most often wake up with a heavy feeling of dread and gloom. I start my daily routine by going to the bathroom and I sit in there for a while thinking about my dreams. Then I start having random thoughts about my life and everything that’s wrong with it. People I have lost and how I wish I could run away from myself and my pain. I think about what mood Dave is gonna be in and I catch myself trying to be quiet around the house so not to be noticed. I worry that he thinks the house is too dirty and that my dog sheds way too much or maybe I am using too much of the air to breathe. He has a problem with everything I do or say.

I sit myself down in front of the computer and try to accomplish something, but never really accomplish anything…I get so overwhelmed by the things that I need to do…things that my lively hood depend on…and the thoughts of mom never leave my mind.

Then the fear and anxiety kicks in gear and it takes over…I panic and want to call someone to save me…but there is no one to call…I can still see myself being taken over by some mental illness…I don’t know why…I don’t know the name of it…but its carrying me away and I cant stop it by myself.

When I am having an episode like this or a “bad day” I actually worry that I will reach a point that I will no longer ask myself; “What is wrong with me?” and then I cry uncontrollably …sometimes just tears but mostly really deep cries that take my breathe.

I feel guilty that I feel so sorry for myself..but I don’t think I really deserve losing my family like I have…I still feel that I am worthy of happiness, but I can’t even see happiness….sometimes I fantasize about just being content.

I try and imagine what it’s like to have friends, real friends…kind people in my life that understand and like me without judging me

I read someplace that depression is not because you are weak, it's because you've been strong for too long..

Now after the feelings of fear and dread…I feel very heavy and very sad…even though I want to be inspired, all I can do is nothing. The reality is that my last days of my life are being pulled down into a black hole.

My father was a proud man, stocky built and stood only five feet, seven inches. Although if a man could be measured by pride he would be well over seven feet tall. Being somewhat introverted, seemingly shutting out the world most of the time. I wonder now if anyone really knew him at all. He was mostly scarce during my childhood, only seen coming and going to work, fixing things around the house or sitting on the living room floor watching television. A few evenings out of the week he would plant himself crossed-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table to watch variety shows of the 70's. That was normal for a father as far as I knew. A dad, according to my child’s mind was a man who worked hard everyday to provide for his family and spending hours upon hours building and fixing things in his workshop.

Dad was a drinker— beer days and whiskey nights were common place at my house, but his alcohol choices were unpredictable and seemed to change with his mood. Summer days weren't so bad, he actually came out of his shell after putting back a few. Cookouts and "family time", without fail, included: lawn chairs upon fresh cut grass, the smell of chicken grilling nearby and a case of Budweiser. Dad could be seen living in those moments; eating, laughing and marveling at grandkids. Those are the moments from my childhood that I cherish the most. For the most part I grew from those days and my true happiness can be found in those memories. Those were the good times and as much as I would like to forget, bad times soon would follow.

As the years went by, the atmosphere at home became heavy, outweighing the lighter more carefree days. Dad was starting to struggle with the family business; a plumbing and electric company that wasn't getting enough work to make ends meet and the strain was taking it's toll. The laughter faded and the tension grew while family cookouts were a thing of the past. Dad became increasingly distant, like a stranger to the rest of us. Supper time was especially difficult to handle while dad stayed in his workshop, refusing to have meals with his family. I always felt so unworthy of his time back then. The more often he isolated himself and tried to drown his sorrow, the angrier my mom became. Not once did she cater to his moods or tantrums. Instead she made herself scarce by going to play Bingo. Most nights that Dad came home with alcohol, she would take off before he broke the seal on the bottle. I would beg her to take me with her, but my tagging along was very seldom. Most times, as it were, I had to stay home and fend for myself. Looking back, I can see why Mom would leave. It was not that she loved playing bingo so much, but it was her escape, although, I'll never understand how she could just leave me there.

One particular night Dad was drinking his dinner out in his shop, the rest of us sat at the table in silence. The familiar tension was in the air that night. The feeling of dread came over me when my dad came through the back door and into the kitchen. Already knowing that Dad never let food interfere with his drinking, Mom asked,

“Are you gonna to eat?”
My dad’s reply was, “Let the hogs have it!”

His remark lingers in my heart. I still, to this day, feel sad when I think of how he referred to us and left me feeling guilty for being hungry. Mom got up from the table and headed out of the room as everyone else scattered to leave the house. Naturally being the youngest, I ran to catch up with my mom, but just as I reached the front door, I heard a terrible crash coming from the kitchen.

Normally it was my job to clean the kitchen after everyone finished eating, but tonight Dad decided to clear the table himself. With one swipe of his arm, the table was cleared. A few seconds later I heard the back door slam. I knew that Dad was headed back to his shop. I tip-toed through the hall to the kitchen to get a look. I will never forget how the ketchup dripping down the wood paneled wall looked just like blood, like something out of a horror movie. That's when I heard my mom start her car so I bolted towards the front door and out to the porch.

"Mom can I go?" I yelled to her.
"Please!! Can I go? I hollered desperately.

She just shook her head as she drove away down the long gravel driveway. I hopped off the front porch, ran to the side of the house and stood there watching her leave. Panic formed a lump in my throat, robbing me of my breath and tears welled in my eyes. At that moment I felt that was the worst day of my life. I sat down on the ground and leaned my back against the green siding of our house, wishing I could just runaway. Then I noticed my friend, Sissy as she rode her bike across the street. I got to me feet, pulled up the bottom of my cotton jersey and wiped the moisture from my face. I ran to my friend’s house and I didn't look back. After the hours passed and my ten o’clock curfew neared, I convinced my friend Sissy, who was also ten years old, to come with me to ask my dad if I could sleep over at her house. Regardless of the circumstances, I had to be home at curfew and I wasn't willing to risk punishment. We peeked around out back for my father’s whereabouts. The shop was all lit up and the radio was on, but Dad was no where to be found.

As we approached the back door of the house it was very dark. Sissy was squeezing my arm, reluctant to enter the house. So we hurriedly ran around to the front door to the hallway that led to the kitchen. I could hear George Jones singing a duet with Tammy Wynette on the radio, but the kitchen was pitch black. To us it didn't feel like just a kitchen, it was more like the den of an old grizzly bear waiting to feed on helpless children. I turned on the dining room light to illuminate the adjacent room where my father sat. His anger and the smell of alcohol filled the room.

“Dad”, I said, timidly.

We nearly jumped out of our skin when he growled and shouted,

“What!”

Sissy tightened her grip on my arm which actually made me feel less afraid. It was my job to protect her from the beast. For a brief moment I was more ashamed of my dad than I was afraid of him. I was able to blurt out that I wanted to stay the night at my friend’s house.

“There is no school tomorrow”, I said.

As we stood there waiting for a response, I could feel the heat in my face as the blood rushed to my head. Feeling a mix of emotions; anger, shame, fear, I repeated my request again. Finally he mumbled,

“I don’t give a God-damn what you do”.

We turned-tail to get out of there as fast as we could, practically tripping over each others heels, but we made it out alive!

Trying to hide my embarrassment, I tried laughing the whole thing off when Sissy described the frightful scene to her older brother. I think it was right then I realized how dysfunctional my family really was. Before then, I never questioned my home life it was just life the way I knew it.

“Come on, let’s play records”, I said, as I plopped myself down on the shag rug and reached for a stack of 45's.

A short time later, Sissy's mother came into her room to say that she is not allowed at my house anymore. Apparently Sissy's brother reported the ordeal to their parents. The feeling of doom came over me. I felt as though her mom thought I was dirty or that I had some contagious disease and her daughter was not to play with me anymore. Even worse, I worried that she might send me home, but she turned to walk back downstairs. About an hour or so later, my brother, Brad came to her house. He said that I was in big trouble, actually his exact words were,

“Your ass is grass!”

His friend Gary standing beside him on Sissy’s front porch,
“Yeah, ass is grass, heh, heh” he mocked.

“What did I do?” I asked, not having a clue as to what they were talking about.

“Go home and you’ll find out, all I know is it’s passed your curfew and they’re lookin’ for ya”.

As I walked slowly up the long narrow sidewalk that led to my house, I could feel my heart beating in my throat. ”Oh, shit”, I thought as I came closer to my front porch. Both of my parents were standing there glaring at me. Mom with her arms folded in front of her chest and Dad leaning on the post,

“Where the Hell have you been?” she yelled through her teeth.

I quickly began to ramble in my defense, as I tried to explain that I came home at curfew to ask dad for permission to be at Sissy’s house. My dad pulled off his belt.

“You’re a God-damn liar!” he growled.

I knew then I couldn't say or do anything to stop what was going to happen next. As he swung his belt at me over and over, I looked at my mother pleadingly. But she only pointed her finger towards the stairs. With each step I took up the stairs to my room, his belt thrashed my skin. The wide leather strap didn't miss a spot from my back to my thighs.

During this vicious attack, I could smell the vulgar fumes of alcohol coming from his heavy breath. That familiar scent repulses me still. When I reached my bedroom he ordered me to lie over my bed so he could continue beating me. After a few more lashings, my mother then decides to intervene, by shouting,

“That’s enough!”

Maybe she figured I got what I deserved already. Although my father continued his wrath until my brother jumped on his back and brought him to the floor like a champion wrestler. That was my chance to flee to the far corner of my bed. I made myself as small as I could, with my knees drawn up to my chest hoping he couldn't reach me with his belt. I felt as though there was a monster in my room that wasn't my dad and I was trembling with fear. For the next few moments my dad and brother struggled on the floor as my mom yelled for them to stop. Finally dad got to his feet, with a slinging motion that caused my brother to release his hold. The chaos came to halt and the air was uncomfortably still and dense. My dad, with his belt in hand, lifted his arm to wipe his brow and made his way out of my room. Mom followed a few steps behind him.

Brad stood there breathing heavily from wrestling with the monster. The demeanor of my brother is forever in my mind. At thirteen, he was stocky, quickly catching up to Dad’s size and strength. I believe Dad felt the presence of a man on his back when his son came to my defense. Brad looked angry and confused and for the first time ever I saw a "don't hurt my sister" look on his face. Despite his tremendous sibling rivalry he had towards me since the day I was born, that night he protected me.

"Are you alright?" he said between breaths.

I managed a faint nod, despite the traumatic experience I just went through. All I remember from that point is crying alone in my dark room and thinking how much I hated my dad. I wasn't exactly pleased with Mom either; how could she leave me there knowing he was feeling mean that night? How could she let him punish me for telling the Truth!? I tried to make sense of it all. I thought about all the other times I got the belt when I did something wrong. I remembered those hard slaps in the face for being disrespectful that taught me never to do it again. This time was different, this time I was innocent. That night was a pivotal moment in my life. The resentment grew inside of me and slowly my fear evolved somehow. Anger molded and shaped me in someway as I entered my teenage years. In my mind, I was now on my own. Being so estranged from my family, I vowed to find people I could trust and who would love me and never hurt me.

Four years later, in the middle of the night, I ran away from home. I had a strong will and a way, but soon learned that the world is riddled with monsters.

To Be Continued...

There are many more stories to tell and shall be told in my tell-all book. My Trials and Tribulations might be a good read to some. The preceding story is just a mere glimpse of my life. Would you like to know how my father, nine years later, offered me a shot of Jack and an apology for the way I was raised?

And So I Write...

Pages

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Have You Seen My Life?

My Prison

My Mind's Eye

A Day in The Life of My PTSD

Friday, July 15, 2011

The Truth Hurts