If you haven’t read part 1, please go back and read it for continuity. As there is a lot of ground to be covered and that has been covered already.
I thought of another “abusive” instance, though this one was my own fault. My real father use to shoot his dogs with air soft guns for fun. It bothered me greatly, so when I was there I would try to put myself between the dogs and him whenever we were outside. I can’t tell you how many pellets I took to my little legs and body.
For 5 years I was bounced between two abusive homes, that is until my 10th birthday when my biological father called me to wish me a happy birthday. Except he didn’t wish me a happy birthday, his words ring true and clear even 20 years later.
“I am calling to tell you that I don’t want to see you anymore, I am tired of beating on you and I don’t care what happens to you”
That was it, no goodbye or anything. Just the sound of the other end hanging up. I was crushed, yeah I was beaten, molested and mentally trampled by this man….Yet, he was still my dad and if it didn’t sink before that he didn’t want me it sure as hell did then. All I wanted was for my dad (either of them) to love me and want me around, unfortunately that wasn’t in the cards for me. I was seen as a burden, something that got in the way. Something, not a someone. That was one of the hardest things to deal with as a little kid, one: that dad never wanted me and two: I wasn’t even a person in their eyes. I felt like I was little more than furniture, hell not even that because at least it serves a purpose.
My relationship with my mother was strained, she was confused and hurt that she couldn’t help me. I was lashing out at everyone and everything. I had severe anger and emotional issues that nobody knew the full extent of. What made matters worse is that I believed blood to be thicker than water….ergo the man she married should mean less than the boy she shared DNA with. My mother stood by her husband, he manipulated her to do or believe as he desired. I was at the mercy of fate, if I made it through each day it could be counted as a miracle.
I was taken to psychiatrist after psychiatrist, psychologist after psychologist and prescribed a cavalcade of medium to high dosage psychotropic drugs. The drugs made me feel unlike myself, there was no control over my actions. Often it felt as if I were staring out at myself through a window. Not able to do anything except watch myself. Like being stuck on autopilot and not knowing how to turn it off. I was scared, scared of myself and the drugs. It get’s even worse when you factor in that I was on both uppers and downers at the same time. So any emotional breakdowns or rage outs were amplified, think of you emotions as a gate, they swing normally. Mine were more like an over oiled gate on a windy day. They would swing wildly at the drop of a hat. Of course, childhood beyond the parental abuse was no picnic.
I wasn’t a very popular kid. I was the weirdo, quiet kid that had emotional outbursts. My quietness was perceived as a weakness and I was a fairly scrawny child, so that means I was a target for the bullies and the bastards who much like me had heavy issues weighting their motives. I think back to what we could have accomplished if we had banded together and worked out the pain collectively. Of course we would to have had much more knowledge, some of which was well beyond our collective coping skills and years. Anyways, I was picked on quite a bit. Then again, who wasn’t in grade school? The difference being that they knew what would happen, I think they saw me as a roman candle of sorts. Light the fuse and stand back because it’s going to erupt into a fiery display of color and power. This was mostly fueled by my own self hate, rage and chemical mixture more potent than a cocktail containing one shot of everything from behind the bar. Oh and I wasn’t even a teen yet.
Most of the teachers didn’t want me in their classrooms, they didn’t want to have the ticking time bomb sitting there. Especially after an incident in 3rd grade. I was having a particularly rough day/week (who knows), but never the less I was having a bad day and didn’t want or need any more crap. My teacher noticed my shoes were untied, I hadn’t mastered the bunny ears yet and it was something that kind of bothered me. She proceeded to lay into me and make fun of me for not knowing how to tie my shoes. She did this in front of the whole class which as kids do, they all started laughing and pointing at me. This is the point wear I checked out, I would “come to” later in the principal’s office with no knowledge of what happened. It was explained to me that as the classroom laughed and jeered, I snapped and beat up the teacher with a broom that was leaning up against a wall in the classroom. No charges were being pressed (it was prior to the “zero tolerance” area) and my parents weren’t being called. I believe that was more to save their asses than mine, since the teacher was harassing and humiliating a child for no good reason. I was given detention for a week and that was that. I think I was even transferred out of that classroom.
The detention room was one I’d come to know so well, that eventually I was on a first name basis with the various supervising figures. Mostly it was lunch ladies trying to pick up extra money here and there. I actually usually gravitated towards adults, even in kindergarten I was more interested in the grown ups than I was my peers. So much so that they felt the need to call in my mother and express grave concern over my developmental status. I wasn’t normal, I shouldn’t be gravitating towards the adults. It was unhealthy and a great cause for concern. Blah blah blah, it boils down to they didn’t want me to be on their level. It demeaned them somehow to have a child on their level.
Most of elementary school is a blur, I wasn’t really good at making friends and most people were afraid of me thanks to my outbursts. It sucked, we were poor so it wasn’t like I even had things to escape into. No the only solace I was able to find was in books, so I read everything I could get my hands on in order to escape the reality of my situation. This would have both good and bad effects on me later in life.
Sixth grade was the worst though, between 5th and 6th grade PUBERTY smacked my ass like a ho who showed up to her pimp $200 short on the night’s take. I gained so much weight over the summer between 5th and 6th grade. So much that my yearbook photo look like my head on a giant green shirt blob. The bullying ramped up to high gear that year and I was really having issues controlling the rage from my at home life, and the school life mixed in with the pain and torment my mind was putting me through.
Another nail in my coffin was the fact that one, I was bored in school because I was further ahead than what they were teaching and 2, I was on meds that made me “zone” or “zombie” out and made it harder for me to care about school work. I was placed in the “slower” kids tract, which meant I was pulled from the classroom in order to cater to whatever perceived learning disability they thought I had. This is something that would dog me til high school.
I am going to end here and pick up in the next part. FYI….I am giving a lot of back story so that when we get to what I am feeling, there is an understanding of where these feelings and thoughts are coming from. Again, commenting is disabled. If you want to ask anything or say anything. Contact me directly.