# Poisonous.  [language, abuse]



## Amnesiac (May 1, 2019)

The first time it happened, I was eight years old. My mom was doing her hair in the bathroom. I ran in to tell her that there was a black widow on the wall in my bedroom. Before a word left my lips, I was met with a slap, then another, and that was followed by another, as she yelled at me for running in the house. She slapped me down the short hallway all the way into the living room, where another slap set my ear ringing, and as I fell, my head banged against the hearth and the sky was screaming. She hit me again and again until my lip was split and my nose was bleeding. I couldn't understand what was happening. I told her I was sorry, and I remember feeling sorry that I couldn't stop my nose from bleeding. I was afraid it would make her mad. I got my nose to finally stop bleeding and I walked to the bus-stop, still unable to make sense of what had just happened. She never apologized, never helped me make sense of it, and I could only blame myself for having made her so angry. That day, on the way home from school, I picked some wildflowers and gave them to her. I told her that I loved her. I remember her pursing her lips, and for a brief moment, I was terrified that I'd angered her again...

A few weeks later, I'd gotten in a fight at school. I don't know what it was over. I didn't start it, but the two of us were rolling over and over, beating the crap out of each other. The principal called my mom, and when I got home, I got a two-hour lecture. When my dad got home that night, tired and angry from his job building oil rigs and the commute, we all sat down to dinner. Midway through the meal, my mom told my dad what had happened, and he looked at me, brows raised, the muscles in his jaw flexing. I tried, "Dad, I didn't start it. I..."
It made no difference. After dinner, I was in my room, and I heard him coming down the hall toward my bedroom. My spirit started screaming as the buckle of his belt jingled and the whip-snap of the thick leather being pulled through his belt loops sounded. He shoved me face-down on the bed, doubled his belt over, and proceeded to beat me until my ass and legs hurt so bad, they more or less went numb. I screamed so loud, no sound came out, and he didn't stop. I remember him roaring that he was going to kill me, and in that moment, I hoped he would. At least, if he beat me to death, the beating would stop, or I wouldn't feel it anymore. I cried myself to sleep. The next day, in the privacy of the bathroom mirror, I marveled at the incredible shades of purple, blue, and black welts on my ass and legs.

My dad told me once, that if I reported him and he went to prison for child abuse, that when he was released, he would hunt me down and kill me. 

I believed him.

I became quite the connoisseur of beatings, over the years. They continued until I was about sixteen. My mom went to hit me, only to realize that she was having to look up to make eye contact. About that same time, my dad seemed more content to say spiteful, hateful things to me that I will never forget, as long as I live. 

I guess it would all be easier to understand, if there had been some kind of alcohol or substance abuse on their part. I could even have some kind of compassion for them, but there was no such issue. The really grotesque thing, was that every Sunday, without fail, we'd all go to church in my little town and sit together like we were some kind of really together family, and my dad and mom would socialize with everyone. Everyone thought that my mom was so spiritual and that my dad was a really great guy.

In later years, when I was home on leave from the Army, both my dad and my mom would wring their hands and tell me how sorry they were. Basically, asking me to assuage their conscience was like being beaten all over again. It was all far more poisonous than the black widow crawling up the wall of my bedroom when I was eight years old...


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## Amnesiac (May 1, 2019)

God, Father God, father, dad... Loss of faith. "Fear the Lord." Yeah, if God is my father, I feared Him, all right. I was fucking terrified! God, to my child/teen mind, was the traditional Moses-like figure in the clouds saying, "I love you, but if you fuck up, I'm going to hit you with a stick!"

I spent nights crying myself to sleep, crying out to God, asking Him to change me, change my parents, or change the circumstances, somehow. Finally, by the age of 14, I began praying for a sign that God was even listening, that God even cared about a suicidal teenager. I'd tried to kill myself with pills, but I threw them up. I was going to slash my wrists, and even made some shallow attempts, but couldn't quite work up the nerve to cut deep enough.. I kept praying. "Oh, if I could only touch the hem of His robe, I would be healed!" and yet, there was nothing. No sign, no measure of comfort, no peace, nothing but the blackness of my room. I began praying not to awaken. I began to pray that death would take me. And finally, one night, in my darkest moment, I told God to get the fuck out of my life, that I refused to be a pawn in His chess match with Satan, and that I was going to live my life. If He chose to lend a hand, great! If not, great! And in return, I would no longer pray for God to help me, because obviously, He couldn't be bothered.

So much pain piled on top of pain... My mom is actually my step-mom. My mother actually left when I was 9 months old. She married some guy that was employed by McDonnell-Douglas. She never tried to contact me, and I never knew anything about her until many years later. My older sister remembered her, and with the help of my grandmother, managed to track her down. My sister called me and told me the news. I felt such a mix of emotion... I put in for leave and traveled from Japan, where I was stationed. My mother actually drove to my sister's town and stayed at a hotel, so we could meet. The meeting was, predictably, very emotional. I had so many questions... I was 22 years old. It was so strange, though. In her presence, it was like being a little kid again. We talked and talked and talked, until about 2 in the morning. We were both exhausted. She went in and changed into a flannel nightgown, and we were both lying close on the bed, talking and she was kind of... petting my head, rubbing my back, etc. At one point, she raises up and says, "Is this turning you on?" I didn't say anything. In fact, all of rest of it is pretty much a blur, except for the fact that we ended up having sex.

I was pretty weirded out, and my leave was up, so I flew back to Japan with all of this crap swirling around in my consciousness. I finally decided that after so many years apart, we were both reaching for a connection (no pun intended), and sex was the fastest way to establish that bond. (How naive I was!)

A few months later, I took leave again, and this time, I stayed with her and her husband for about a week. Every night, after he went to sleep, she would steal into my room and wake me up by fellating me, and then we'd be off to the races again. I told her, one morning, when it was just the two of us, that this couldn't happen anymore. Eh... but of course, it did.

Around Mother's Day, that year, I called her up because I was making plans to take leave again, hoping we could get things back on an even keel. During all of this, my dad and step-mom are going crazy because they are wondering where my loyalties lie. My dad doesn't want that woman back in his life, even peripherally, and of course, my step-mom is wondering where that leaves her, because for all of the abuse and crap she'd put me through, she was still the one that raised me. I called my mother and she was angry. She was accusing me of calling her and heavy breathing on the phone, etc. We fought, and I never spoke to her again. In retrospect, I realize that she was putting on a performance for her husband because she was terrified that her secret would be revealed.


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## -xXx- (May 1, 2019)

k.
this does not surprise me.
1) please clearly label this with *trigger warning*.
2) have you established repertoire with professional services?

i have very few minutes
of access today
and
lots of obligations
tomorrow.

*please consider contacting an administrator
to either delete this thread
OR
relocate it.
*
i will logout and verify public view.

-edit in here
yes.
visible to public.
have sent request
for <temporary> relocation.

be well with yourself(ves).
--all you--
thanks for the trigger warning
you will have to request change(s)
*if* that's more appropriate


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## Plasticweld (May 1, 2019)

Is this part of a larger work? Is there a beginning, middle and end to what you are sharing.  It seems like an introduction of some kind is needed to clue the reader in.  I did not see an spag issues, it flows well.  painful stories are always hard to tell. I would try to make some sort of connection with the reader.


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## Amnesiac (May 2, 2019)

It's not really part of a larger work, although I certainly could pen it as part of my personal memoirs...

Sorry to anyone who was bothered either by the language or content. I was just trying to get some things out, and probably made a dog's breakfast of it. There's so much more... I don't see how it benefits anyone, though. Mods, if you like, go ahead and just delete this. It's just pointless bleeding, really. I guess. /throwing my hands up...


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## -xXx- (May 2, 2019)

i have observed the presence
of workshop areas here at WF.
as many creative people find
expression to be helpful,
perhaps a request to relocate
would be true to your intent.
_(pm to specific forum staff,
 bottom of listings
would be form-i think)_

as OP, you can edit, change styles,
etc. 

there are many fine crafters
that would provide support
and where possible, feedback.

messes are often a point from which to start.

jussayin'

_*out for today*_


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## Amnesiac (May 3, 2019)

Thank you. I've actually been able to weave the beatings into a book that I'm working on, except that the kid decides he's not going to take it anymore, and hides a chain-type bicycle lock under his bed, and mid-beating, pulls it out and proceeds to beat his dad with it. The novel is called, "Punch," and it's a pretty rough read, but.... fun.


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## -xXx- (May 3, 2019)

sounds like you're working
your process.
best,


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## Amnesiac (May 3, 2019)

I guess the final part of the whole story, is the "happily ever after." Six years and two theaters of combat in the Army... Well, at least it wasn't personal, right? LOL

I came to terms pretty easily with what happened with my birth mother. Pretty obvious that she had the bonding capacity of a gnat. She was simply a predator. No more, no less.

As for my father, he died about two years ago. I kept waiting to feel sad. I never did. Oh, in his later years, he became the nicest man anyone could ever meet. He developed a sense of humor and even worked with kids for years in the boy scout program... It was always so weird, to me. He didn't have time for his own son, but he had all the time in the world for other people's sons. Meh... Anyway, it's all water under the bridge.

I was so angry at God for so long, and yet, I couldn't stop seeking God. And I did; with all my heart. One day, I came across Coleman Barks' translation of Rumi's poem, "Be Melting Snow," and a line of it read, "'Lo, I am always with you,' means that when you look for God, God is in the look of your eyes, nearer to you than yourself or the thought of looking." It blew my mind... Later, only a few days later, I bought a copy of Mother Theresa's, "Meditations From A Simple Path." On an otherwise blank page, "God is IN LOVE with you!" was written. (Later, I opened a copy of that book to try and find that page, but it was mysteriously absent. I promise you, it was there!)

(To continue the story) I thought, "God is IN LOVE with me! I will write love letters to God as though I were writing to a distant love!" only to realize in almost the same instant, that every word of love that I wrote to God, would be God's own message of love back to me! It was a "Road to Damascus" moment. I don't even know how to describe what was happening inside of myself during that week. All of the pain and anger just... dropped away. It was a miraculous, instantaneous, thoroughly amazing healing. If there is a such thing as being "saved," this was IT!

I still don't miss my father. My stepmom and I have a friendly, even familial, relationship.

In any case, life is always right. Rage against it, flow with it, choose to be victim or victor, captain of our respective ships, or simply a passenger, but life is a gift, and life, in all of its immensity and beauty and ugliness and tragedy, is always right.


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## Plasticweld (May 3, 2019)

Amnesiac said:


> It's not really part of a larger work, although I certainly could pen it as part of my personal memoirs...
> 
> Sorry to anyone who was bothered either by the language or content. I was just trying to get some things out, and probably made a dog's breakfast of it. There's so much more... I don't see how it benefits anyone, though. Mods, if you like, go ahead and just delete this. It's just pointless bleeding, really. I guess. /throwing my hands up...




Real life is seldom clean and predictable with happy endings, with all the pieces that come together.   I have written and shared many heart felt things over the years here in the non-fiction forum.  Sometimes I would like to think of them as teachable moments, other times they are a way to let others, that they are not the only ones going through tough times. 


I do like to come to some sort of conclusion when I write, while I don't always, sometimes I do not even have an answer, or an ending; I do try to draw some conclusion as to how things changed me, made me grow, be come more aware or a better person. 

I will pm you a few stories, check out the format, it may help you with yours.  

As the mod here I am glad to have your work up.  You may build from it, you may look back a few year from now and see it differently, time has a way of doing that. 


While your story is painful, it is yours.  Thanks for sharing...Bob


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