iLoveYouWithaKnife
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2002
- Messages
- 8,351
inspired and written mostly for beanpoophead.
my story.
My first memory thinking what is going on, why is he acting like this? probably happened when I was around six years old.
SIX YEARS OLD.
Do you know how badly that emotionally scars an adolescent mind?
I've heard it said before,
that eventually the mind forgets all the bad.
We put it past us.
Perhaps that's true...
Because up until the time I turned about fourteen,
I have very, very faint memories of my childhood.
And the ones I do have,
that I had too dig up from the back of my mind,
were placed there for a reason.
A time when my grandmother came storming to my house,
and I tried so hard to tie my smurf shoes myself.
My father's distant voice in the background,
you aren't taking those kids anywhere.
A time when in one year
I had to have thirteen pair
of eyeglasses replaced.
And the voice that I hear to this day
She's just clumsy, I guess.
A time when I was about seven or eight years old,
and I packed a suitcase filled with stuffed animals.
It was my attempt to leave.
It was my bluff.
And standing in the front lawn,
all I could hear was the distant voice in the background
get back in here.
It's kind of wierd, I'll have you know.
But sometimes in relationships
that I have with people now,
I have that same attempt to leave.
I have that same bluff.
When I pack a bag filled with
useless things.
To get my point across.
But it never works...
It never worked.
I remember times when I would
have to sit at that fucking
piano bench... for hours... and hours.
As punishment,
for what I do not know.
And had to listen to that voice
you made a mistake.
START OVER.
Play it again.
and again.
and again.
There was a time,
when I was
kicked out.
And I didn't return home.
I was reported as a run away then.
FOURTEEN years old.
Some nights, I would sleep
outside of that house.
I would huddle in the corner
between the siding and the chimney.
And put my head in my lap.
One night, it started to rain.
So I peered in the windows,
until I saw my father passed out on the couch.
So I could sneek inside and sleep in a bed.
I think it was three oclock in the morning.
I set the alarm for five.
So I could sneek back out
and go to school....
and no one would ever have to know.
As long as I fixed myself up,
and put myself together
with that fake fucking smile
and fake fucking laughter...
no one would ever have to know
how dead I was inside.
And it's STILL a fucking front,
I put on til this day sometimes.
It was a few weeks,
maybe four,
that I had that routine.
Distant cousins of mine,
spent all that time looking for me.
They eventually found me.
And I stayed with them for
approximately three weeks.
My father had contacted them,
he wanted me back.
I gave him another chance.
This is what I witnessed in thirty-six hours.
I saw him go to an AA meeting.
I saw him get drunk.
Start of emotional and physical abuse.
I left.
I returned to the other family.
My father then tried to fight them,
in a custody battle.
He showed up in the Orphan's Courtroom
drunk. drunk. drunk. drunk. drunk.
I was sixteen when I recieved a phone call.
you should go see your father in the hospital.
he most likely won't make it through the night.
So I did.
When I saw him that night, lying there,
almost completely lifeless,
I was scared.
I couldn't go further than the
hospital room door.
He layed there,
mumbling words that no one could make out.
I've seen that so many times.
Visiting hours were over,
and his sister (who i downright decline to call my aunt)
was saying
okay joe, okay joe, we'll see ya tomorrow.
And he just shook his head,
from left to right.
And like that,
it was over.
Sixteen years old,
dealing with the what if i did this.
what if i did that.
What the fuck could I have done.
It was a disease, a sickness
he couldn't overcome.
Or didn't want to, maybe.
So what do I do now?
I tuck it all away
in a place in my mind,
where it can't haunt me
or hurt me anymore.
Because no one will ever
really know,
or ever really understand
how bad the
physical
emotional and
mental abuse
really was.
I don't want to remember it either.
I just keep in my mind that he
(and currents in my life)
don't know any better.
Sometimes you can't see the hurt
and pain that is conflicted on others.
And I leave it at that.
my story.
My first memory thinking what is going on, why is he acting like this? probably happened when I was around six years old.
SIX YEARS OLD.
Do you know how badly that emotionally scars an adolescent mind?
I've heard it said before,
that eventually the mind forgets all the bad.
We put it past us.
Perhaps that's true...
Because up until the time I turned about fourteen,
I have very, very faint memories of my childhood.
And the ones I do have,
that I had too dig up from the back of my mind,
were placed there for a reason.
A time when my grandmother came storming to my house,
and I tried so hard to tie my smurf shoes myself.
My father's distant voice in the background,
you aren't taking those kids anywhere.
A time when in one year
I had to have thirteen pair
of eyeglasses replaced.
And the voice that I hear to this day
She's just clumsy, I guess.
A time when I was about seven or eight years old,
and I packed a suitcase filled with stuffed animals.
It was my attempt to leave.
It was my bluff.
And standing in the front lawn,
all I could hear was the distant voice in the background
get back in here.
It's kind of wierd, I'll have you know.
But sometimes in relationships
that I have with people now,
I have that same attempt to leave.
I have that same bluff.
When I pack a bag filled with
useless things.
To get my point across.
But it never works...
It never worked.
I remember times when I would
have to sit at that fucking
piano bench... for hours... and hours.
As punishment,
for what I do not know.
And had to listen to that voice
you made a mistake.
START OVER.
Play it again.
and again.
and again.
There was a time,
when I was
kicked out.
And I didn't return home.
I was reported as a run away then.
FOURTEEN years old.
Some nights, I would sleep
outside of that house.
I would huddle in the corner
between the siding and the chimney.
And put my head in my lap.
One night, it started to rain.
So I peered in the windows,
until I saw my father passed out on the couch.
So I could sneek inside and sleep in a bed.
I think it was three oclock in the morning.
I set the alarm for five.
So I could sneek back out
and go to school....
and no one would ever have to know.
As long as I fixed myself up,
and put myself together
with that fake fucking smile
and fake fucking laughter...
no one would ever have to know
how dead I was inside.
And it's STILL a fucking front,
I put on til this day sometimes.
It was a few weeks,
maybe four,
that I had that routine.
Distant cousins of mine,
spent all that time looking for me.
They eventually found me.
And I stayed with them for
approximately three weeks.
My father had contacted them,
he wanted me back.
I gave him another chance.
This is what I witnessed in thirty-six hours.
I saw him go to an AA meeting.
I saw him get drunk.
Start of emotional and physical abuse.
I left.
I returned to the other family.
My father then tried to fight them,
in a custody battle.
He showed up in the Orphan's Courtroom
drunk. drunk. drunk. drunk. drunk.
I was sixteen when I recieved a phone call.
you should go see your father in the hospital.
he most likely won't make it through the night.
So I did.
When I saw him that night, lying there,
almost completely lifeless,
I was scared.
I couldn't go further than the
hospital room door.
He layed there,
mumbling words that no one could make out.
I've seen that so many times.
Visiting hours were over,
and his sister (who i downright decline to call my aunt)
was saying
okay joe, okay joe, we'll see ya tomorrow.
And he just shook his head,
from left to right.
And like that,
it was over.
Sixteen years old,
dealing with the what if i did this.
what if i did that.
What the fuck could I have done.
It was a disease, a sickness
he couldn't overcome.
Or didn't want to, maybe.
So what do I do now?
I tuck it all away
in a place in my mind,
where it can't haunt me
or hurt me anymore.
Because no one will ever
really know,
or ever really understand
how bad the
physical
emotional and
mental abuse
really was.
I don't want to remember it either.
I just keep in my mind that he
(and currents in my life)
don't know any better.
Sometimes you can't see the hurt
and pain that is conflicted on others.
And I leave it at that.
very emotional
