Just a quick rant... My life story reads something like a Saturday After school Special. My mother had a child to keep her husband. My father wanted a boy to carry on the family name. Both were heavy drug users and thought being a responsible parent meant their child didn't see them use. In early childhood both of them were sexually abusive. My mother used to scream, hit me, sometimes lock me a basement room because my father wanted me more than he wanted her. That went on until I was 9 1/2. We moved to Garden City and everything was great for about 6 months. I couldn't figure out why they were paying so much attention to me. Then mom rediscovered speed and dad went on midnights. Mom was always angry, violent. At first she took it out on my dad. When he changed shifts, the only person left was me. Its a hell of a thing to look in a mirror at 10 years old and know the reflection is the face of an abused child. That is about the same time I consider my childhood to have ended. I found out first hand at 11 what it meant when someone was broken. To tell the truth, I think its poorly named. It feels more like endless falling. In one of my classes in 3rd grade I wrote an essay about it. Even drew pictures. When she asked me why I did it I told her that I wanted someone to know. Later, she said she was sorry but she couldn't do anything. Told me not to say anything about it again. By 4th grade I was suicidal, constructed my first plan half way through the year. I saw plenty of shrinks. Only once was I foolish enough to say anything. It was brought back to my mom and she beat the hell out of me for it. I was making her sound like a bad parent. She preferred head shots. The only thing anyone knew was that I had a LOT of headaches. My life was a nightmare. I spent countless nights on my knees, begging and crying that whatever being there was would kill me. Most of my teenage poetry is about wanting to die. It got bad enough that my HS principal was calling me into his office a few times a week to check on me. Hell, I was called in by the school social worker at least once a week for months. She hid her marks well enough that no one could do a damn thing. Because that fucking nut job had a child to keep the guy that paid her rent, I have the pleasure of living with DID & PTSD on top of the Bipolar type 1. It would have been nice to be able to entertain the idea of having a family of my own. All of my ideas on parenting come from a twisted place. I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt if I created another life like mine. Jude thought the fear alone would keep her from becoming a monster. I'd be an idiot to believe that I could do better. The only way to ensure the end of the cycles of abuse is to let the bloodline die with me and keep as far away from children as I can. |