Memories That Huant Me (Trigger Warning) in Reality is never really real.

When I was young, my father and only guardian was often gone for what seemed like weeks at a time. The only testament to him still living in the run down house we occupied, were the meals I had left in the oven being eaten, and his occasional appearence after we arrived home from school.

We didn’t have electricity, or running water, , but if you left the tap on it would slowly drip. I collected this in various pots and pans, and this is what I managed to use to make meals and drinks with, as well as take the occasional bath and hand wash laundry as best as possible.

We didn’t have any neighbors. In fact, we had a mile long drive way leading into a square fenced off area where our 2story, very old house sat. 3 sides belonged to numerous cows, and the other an empty, heavily overgrown feild. Our neerest neighbor was aproxomately 2 miles away.

There wasn’t much food in the house. If we were lucky: enough to make a very small meager dinner every night, half of which was sat back for my father. Me and my brother usually relied on school meals to feed us.

My father....well, my father was not the best, to say the least. Now that I’m older I realize he was often gone chasing his next high, and we were better off that way. When he was home, things were bad.

He was violent, paranoid, controlling, and a psycopath. He would often have us sit and watch, brag as he shot and splattered our pets brains across tree trunks. He would toss kittens under our riding lawn mower. A particular 6 toed kitten I had rescued, Sha-Tan. It had meandered into the living room and before I could get it and drag it back to my small bedroom, my father picked it up and threw it down the hall. It smacked the wall next to me, and tumbled into the floor twitching. I picked him up, and held him in my arms for the next 2 hours as he spasmed with seizures, and eventually died.

His violence wasn’t just directed at our animals. He would often come home in a rage and begin backing us into corners, hitting us, yelling, accusing us of not having tasks done correctly. I was 12, my brother 8.5.

He had a board, slightly thinner than a 2x4, about 1.5 feet long. This was the “paddle”. We would put our hands on a counter top. If our hands moved, or if we screamed, we got hit again. Until he was finished.

I remember when I decided I was done with that. I think I was 13, shortly after my father had started molesting me. I suppose with most people it may seem like that would be a breaking point, and maybe it was. But not in the way you would think.

He had messed up and given me power over him. The moment he touched me I knew things would never be the same. I had a secret he didn’t want to be told.he had handed me the power I needed over him. I had long ago since become pretty much immune to his beatings. I didn’t cry. I didn’t flinch. And with this: I started fighting back.

He then began turning his aggressions to my brother after I became his “favorite”. But I had already considered my brother “mine”. I had raised him. I signed his agenda, I made him meals, I taught him to read, write, and helped with his homework. I dressed him and got him to school. This man was not touching what was mine.

He had my brother on the ground, in a pile of shoes, hitting him. He had just recently moved to him after hitting me harder then he ever had in my life. I don’t remember him moving off me. In fact, I’m fairly sure he had managed to knock me out that specific time. But I woke up and witnessed this happening, and I remember not even being able to really walk well yet, but I launched all my body weight towards my father. It carried us both out the screen door onto our porch, where we traded a few blows before he tried to pass me to my brother.

I remember moving to stand above him, still crying in the floor among all those old shoes. “You won’t touch him”.

Those are the words I spoke to him, and I remember putting everything into my eyes. I would have killed him that night. There is no doubt in my mind, and he knew it too.

He left and we didn’t see him for days. When he came back, we seemed to have an understanding. He left my brother alone, for the most part. Thete was never anything as intense as that again, until much later when I was 16. There were still beatings, and molestation. but it became clear I wasn’t the same. I would ignore his insane rules, I refused to put my hands on the counter, however hard he hit me. And if he touched my brother, I would throw myself at him. At 13, I allowed the molestation to go on so I could build up evidence and take it to the police. My father was very charismatic, and I knew I didn’t have a chance just telling people “he hits me”. So no, i never told him no, to stop. Instead, I catologued the date, the place, the time. I recited it all in my head, every incident, every morning and night. My brother attempted running away many times, and at one point i dragged him home, and tied him to his bed until right before our father entered the home. I couldnt have him tarnishing our credibility. As kids, no one would want to beleive us any way, so i couldn’t have run a way charges against us. At 16 I finally had enough evidence, and set my plan into motion. 3 days later, we were placed in a new home.

I learned young pain doesn’t mean anything. And I learned how to play the game of maniplulation.

My brothers starting his own family now. And he’s mentioned how I did nothing but ruin his life. How I was always better then him. How he had it so much worse than me. I don’t argue with him. Maybe it was. Maybe it was all me just wanting to be a hero.
In the end: its what your fighting for. You have to put all emotions aside to achieve your goals. It doesn’t matter what you want. It doesn’t matter how it’s “supposed” to be. It doesn’t matter if you lose yourself. Just make it happen. There is no room for weakness in this world.

Just some of the memories I wake up and live through every morning. That I re-live every night before falling asleep.

Last updated March 02, 2018