Chapter 1 (Intro) My Initial Thoughts Here I am, born into this world as equal as the baby next to me. Perfect, untainted by the corrupt society we live in. Or am I? With all these new scientific discoveries in DNA and our genes, how can I be equal with anyone? With hundreds of generations behind me making me exactly what I am and what I will become. Or is that the case? Just because my father, and my father’s father, and my great grandpa all chose to become alcoholics, does that necessarily mean that I’m going to become an alcoholic? Scientists have “scientifically” proven that it’s more likely that you will become an alcoholic if someone in your family is an alcoholic. Religions have come up with a “religious” pointof-view stating that you make your own decisions and basically that the only thing that should affect those decisions is what the Holy Bible says. That because your father was an alcoholic, that means he was not right with God and that you have the option of becoming an alcoholic. Is that true? Who’s to say that it isn’t a combination of the two? I mean the Bible clearly states in Romans 3:23 that “for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” So maybe it is in our genes. Maybe there is no way around it. After all this time of countless sins and countless sinners, maybe there’s just some wiring that needs a little tinkering to get us on the right track. A track that, unfortunately, we have strayed so far from that it’s not even imaginable or plausible. It's funny how from the days we are children we are raised to be selfish. To think only about ourselves and to only focus on what we want and how they we can get it. “It’s all about me.” Even when a child does unimaginable acts, someone out there understands them. My parents never take me to church, as a matter of fact, I don't even know what a church looks like. I'm just a little child learning that when everyone does everything for you, life is good. I don't have any responsibilities, I don't have any knowledge of God or religion, I just have my instincts and feelings. I don't really understand the meaning of a higher power or the difference between right and wrong. Up until kindergarten, life was great. It's the first day of class I realize that I am no longer the center of attention. There are only two ladies watching 20 children. Talk about a culture shock at such a young age. I'm having trouble figuring out how to cope with it. I usually spend my recesses alone in the sand or stay in the classroom while everyone else is outside playing on the playground. For those first couple of weeks, nobody really talked to me or bothered me. And if someone tried to talk to me, I was
pretty good at ignoring them. Teachers approach me and ask me if everything is alright and I just nod my head. Children come up to me and try to be my friend but I usually just push them away. Chapter 2 The Young Days It's the fourth week of kindergarten and I’m already sick of getting picked on for my size. I can’t understand why people can be so mean. Everything, and I mean everything I know I’ve learned by watching, listening, imitating, and that little thing inside of me that tells me what I’m doing is wrong. I suppose now would be a good time to tell you a little about my father. My father was an alcoholic. My father was abusive. My father was a real man. At least in his own eyes he was. In mine, he was a soleless, selfish, coward of a man. He was a monster. My father didn’t care how old I was, what I did, or what I didn’t do, he beat the snot out of me for looking in his eyes, and not looking in his eyes. I couldn’t win, I couldn’t do anything right. I’m constantly going to school with bumps and bruises. And I'm constantly going home with the idea that the world is against me. There was no break, no rest, and no time for my soul to catch up and recuperate from what it's going through. I was slipping, my instincts were starting to get distorted. I lost my sense of direction, if I even had one, and I didn’t even know where to turn or where to hide. I want to remind you, I’m in kindergarten. I spend most of my classes thinking about how I can get out of recess. I hate going to recess. Unfortunately I had used up all my free passes for the week. I was sitting at the edge of the curb, throwing rocks into the parking lot. Not aiming at anything but just thinking about that kid that won’t stop picking on me. Pebble after pebble goes launching from my hand and crashing down on the hot cement, skidding and hopping its way across the parking lot. Steam is rising from the ground it’s so hot. Kids laughing and crying, none of them having any real purpose or direction in life. Except that one kid. His sole purpose was to make my life a living hell. Not that my dad hadn't been doing enough of that but he decided to take it into his own hands too. This kid, his name is Charlie, he's the first one that really took notice of my odd behavior. He noticed that I didn't have or want any friends and that I was pretty much always alone. That third week of kindergarten couldn't have passed by soon enough. Charlie was the “popular” kid in the class. He was a few inches taller than me but weighed about 30 pounds more than me. For a kindergartener, this
guy was a beast. The Monday of the third week of class, while taking my lunch tray to the garbage, I accidentally bumped into him. Nothing spilled from my tray until Charlie took the remainder of the potpie and smashed it in my face. I dropped to my knees and immediately began to cry. A teacher came over with a wet rag and wiped my face off and asked me who did it. I couldn't answer her. She insisted on asking me and even threatened to take me to the principal's office if I didn't tell her. Next thing I knew, I was being literally dragged across the hall, with all the students laughing at me, all the way to the principal's office. He asked me the same question that the teacher did. I wouldn't tell him either. It's almost the same situation as with my father. I would never tell anybody what he does to me for fear of what would happen to me. Charlie knew once he didn't get in trouble that he was basically given a free pass to do whatever he wanted to me, at least while there were no teachers around. Day after day of being abused in my own home and day after day of being abused at school. Iâ€™ve had enough. I can't take it anymore. I can hear him talking about me to all the other kids. The teachers are just standing in the shade away from any windows trying to sneak in a smoke without being seen. The anger is building inside of me. The tension is almost unbearable. The frustration has got to come out. I search around for the most jagged rock I could find. I pick it up and place it in the palm of my right hand and wrap my fingers over the top of it. I begin to grip it as if I'm trying to use my palm to force the rock through my fingers or use my fingers to force the rock through my palm. I continue to grip until the blood starts to drain off the back side of my hand. I pause for a moment. Flashes of my father's fists, my spit, my blood, my tears, my fears, and his beer go racing through my mind. It was almost like all that anger that built up inside of me from my father, just got instantaneously released in one single whip of the arm. Like every cell in my body just took a deep breathe and unleashed hell for that split second. I turned before I saw what had happened. I heard yelling, I heard cries for help, I felt empowered, I felt like my father. So much for getting your morals and values from your parents. Chapter 3 After the Incident I was obviously suspended from school, in kindergarten, bet there aren't too many people in the world that can say that. When the rock hit the kid it put him in a coma. Doctor's explained that if the
rock had hit him a quarter of an inch to the left it would have killed him. A quarter of an inch and I'd be a murderer. A quarter of an inch and at the age of 5, I would have already broken one of the ten Commandments. But since he was just in a coma, I didn't? If I had told the principal and cops the truth about the rock, I have no idea what would have happened to me. At the age of 5, I have now learned that drinking is okay, disrespecting is okay, violence is okay, and now lying is okay. How much more screwed up could one kid get? Chapter 4 Remainder of Elementary School These were the worst years of my life. Both my father and my mother thought it would be good for me to stay at home and be home schooled. What kind of mother forces her child to stay home all day every day with their abusive father? How could this be good for me? My father decided that he would be the one to stay home and school me. My mother just wanted to get out of the house. My father told me that classes would begin at 8:00 a.m. I walked from the kitchen trying to figure out what I did to deserve this in my life. I went into my bedroom and set my alarm clock for 7:45. I figured that would be enough time to get up and walk to the family room. I also figured that would be early enough so that my father wouldn't feel the need to yell at me. 7:00 AM I hear the creak of the door hinges slowly opening. I look into the shadows but can't really see anything. I lay my head back down on my pillow. I hear a few clinks and what sounds like a belt being ripped from the jeans. I laid still. Now I can hear the sounds of the belt being stretched as if they are being wrapped around someone's knuckles. I laid motionless without a breathe entering or leaving my body. I heard the first step towards me followed by a floor creak. A light in the hallway suddenly flicks on. I can now clearly see my father as he is stumbling trying to turn around and see what happened in the hallway. I can hear my mother's shrieks coming from the bedroom as she's racing down the hall. “No!” she yells. “Don't do it,” as her head is now visible in the doorway. “Don't you dare hurt him.” My father straightens up as if he is magically sober now. He looks at her as if she was in the wrong, as if
she was the one that had done something terrible. Without giving her another moment, he grabs her hair from the back of her head and he takes a look at how neatly wrapped the belt was around his hand. My mother continues yelling and now she's kicking him and screaming but she can't break free. I saw my father's arm tense up and bend back like he was pulling a bow and arrow. I quickly pulled the blanket over my eyes so I wouldn't have to watch. I heard the sound of his fist crashing into my mother's face and immediately the crying and yelling stopped. I pulled the blanket down to see what had happened but my father was already hovering over the bed. He said, “Do you know why I'm doing this? Do you know why this happened?” He answered before I had the chance, “You should have been ready by 7:00. I'm not raising a kid that procrastinates like every other kid on the planet. So I'm going to make this very clear to you, you will not procrastinate again.” I felt myself wetting the bed but I didn't want to take my eyes away from his. He paused for a moment so I took that chance to look over at my mother. She had not made it fully into the room before my father got a hold of her. I could tell that she was on the ground but leaning up against the wall. Her right hand and right foot were the only two things that were visible. Her hand was resting on the ground but her palm was facing up. I could tell she had an outstretched leg because her foot was almost touching the wall on the other side of the hallway. She still wasn't moving or making any sounds. As my father grabs my face to force it back at his, I see a small pool of blood forming by her hand. “You need to look at me while I'm talking to you son.” I look back at my mother to see if she's moving. He grabs my face again and says, “Apparently you haven't learned your lesson yet.” He tightens the belt around his hand, looks me in the eyes, and throws a punch hard enough to knock me out of my bed and up against the wall three feet away. My head crashes through the wall and knocked me unconscious. I awoke in the hospital and overheard my father telling the doctor that my mom was carrying me down the stairs and tripped over one of my toys. Obviously the doctor didn't believe the story so he looked at my father as if he could come up with a better story than that. My father then leaned over and whispered something into the doctor's ear. The doctor looked him in the eyes, nodded, and walked away. I rested my head back on the pillow while they wheeled me into the emergency room. Three days later and I'm finally regaining consciousness but with a strange tightness in my chest. I reach my arm up to feel what was restricting my movement and realize they placed a wrap around it. My vision is also a little blurry. I slide my hand up to my head and notice there is also a
wrap around it. A white blurry mass is approaching my bed. He tells me I suffered a Grade 3 Concussion and asked me if I knew what that meant. I shook my head no. He said basically that a concussion is when something impacts your head so hard, that it forces your brain to crash up against your skull. He said this is usually caused by car accidents, sporting events, and then he winked at me and said, “or falling down the stairs.” He explained to me that they were going to keep me in the hospital for a couple more days and then I would be re-evaluated. The doctor smiled at me and said, “Everything is going to be alright son,” and then walked away. My mother walks in shortly after he leaves with bandages covering the majority of her face. My mother doesn't say a word, she just walks up next to me and puts her hand on my cheek and her eyes begin to water. I try to talk but nothing comes out. We both just stare into each other's eyes and knew that nothing could be said of this situation. We also knew never to speak of this again. After three days they released me to go back home. A place I definitely did not want to go. I had high hopes that my father would realize what he'd done to me and my mother and acknowledge that he was wrong. That definitely did not happen. Not only did that not happen but literally every single weekday until I reached high school I was abused. It became almost a game to him. One morning I was supposed to wake up at 7:00 to be ready for my 8:00 AM class. My father would come fumbling into my room at 6:45 and literally push me off the bed. The next day I'd set my alarm for 6:45 and by 6:30 I'd feel myself being picked up, only to be dropped onto a hard wooden floor. I'd set my alarm for 6:15 thinking that I would beat him this time. He'd already be in my room waiting for my alarm to go off with his belt wrapped around his hand. Earlier and earlier until I was almost too scared to even go to sleep. Eventually it got early enough that my dad would either be just passing out or already two hours into his sleep. I would take advantage of this time and get some rest but never for very long. It was almost a guessing game for me on when he would wake up. I knew no matter what I was going to get hurt in some way but I liked to know when it was coming. We went on like this every day for almost five years. My mother learned to mind her own business after what happened last time she intervened. She realized it wasn't worth it because it would only end up getting us both hurt. Usually just before I had to be in my seat for class, my mother and I would sit down at the breakfast table and act as if he wasn't doing anything wrong. I would act as if he didn't hurt me or I'd act as if I agreed with what he was doing. My mother just wouldn't talk about it. Meanwhile my father was usually in the living room “preparing” for class. By that I mean he was usually sipping on some Jack Daniel's and looking at
naked women on the computer. I despised this man. If not for what he does to me every day, then for what he does to my mother. I'm not saying I respect my mother very much either. She does, after all, just sit back and let him do these things to me. I'm not going to lie, when it came time for class, at precisely 8:00 a.m. every morning, my father knew what he was doing. He was a very intelligent man despite some of his actions. I knew that once I did get out of the house that I would be able to handle my own. That nothing out in the real world could be worse than what I experienced every day for five years. This fear could not be handled by everyone. I don't think this fear could actually be handled by anyone. I did try to run away a few times. But being in a small town and having never really been outside of the house, it was never very tough for my father to find me. I learned real quick never to attempt to run away again. Feeling my father's bare knuckles hit the middle of spine eliminated the thought of ever wanting to run away again. Most of the time when he did physically beat me, it was some place that could easily be covered up. It was only when I really screwed up that he'd take it out on my face.