I feel I should start with a disclaimer. I've never claimed to have a great childhood. I knew it was fucked up, however I think most people go through a certain amount of shit. They deal and move on. Some how I did too. So my childhood sucked. Whose didn't?
The truth is I didn't just go through a certain amount of shit. I went through hell. I grew up in a house of rage, violence and psychological terror. I had no one to turn to for help. I tried many, many times to find help but no one came to my rescue. I've never used the term "traumatic" before to describe my life, but it is applicable.
I am told that it is remarkable that I survived without a) killing myself or b) killing someone else. Honestly, I have never really thought about it like that, but I coming to believe it is true. Somewhere inside there was a strength that I never knew existed and I somehow made it through.
I share this story not as a "feel sorry for me" kind of thing. But instead as a "this is a part of me". I learned many years ago, that as much as my childhood sucked, it is okay to have had it because without it I wouldn't be me.
I have never told this story to anyone.
It was a Sunday evening in April. My mother and I had finished our dinner. The rest of dinner sat on the stovetop waiting for him. We learned not to wait for him to come home for dinner. We never knew when he'd show up.
I started watching some crappy movie on TV when I heard the sound of his truck coming around the corner. I hated that sound, an engine growling, announcing its arrival long before it was in sight. He parked next to the side of the house, next to my bedroom window. The sound of his truck always woke me up every time he came home, no matter what time of night it was.
He walking in the door, drunk of course. My father never got drunk in front of us. He always did that some place else: his favorite dive bar, at a buddy's, sitting in his truck alone on an empty acre of land he own on the outskirts of town.
My father freely admitted he was an alcoholic. He wore the distinction like a badge of honor. "I know I'm a god damn alcoholic goddamnit! No one has to tell me I'm a god damn alcoholic."
Most nights when he came home, he'd keep me up late, lecturing me. If I came home with anything below a B, he'd grill me about my report card. I'd sit with a piece of paper and a pen in front of me. "I want you to write me an essay, explaining why you made a D in History." This was perversely humorous because even if I had written anything, my father wouldn't have been able to read it. He dropped out of school in junior high. He was what they call functional illiterate.
For hours I'd sit staring at a blank page. I'd say I was sorry and I'd do better. This would lead to another lecture, the one I hated the most. The "Real Men Never Apologize" speech. My father believed real men stand behind their actions, regardless if they be right or wrong. If you are wrong, you never admit. "Saying you're sorry is a sign of weakness, boy. Don't ever let me hear you say you are sorry."
On one hand, I was a fuck up who can't do anything right. On the other, I couldn't apologize for it. It was a classic lose-lose scenario. Most nights he just talked and talked, keeping me up all night. It was exhausting but at least I could sleep during History class.
The moment he walked in the door that night, I knew something was different. The air in the room seemed to changed. There was a heaviness that came in with him. My mother and I could usually navigate through an evening of dealing with his drunken tirades, but this night was more tense than usual.
He took off his hat and boots and sat in his chair. His "throne" he called it. In every castle, the king has his throne he'd say. Apparently even in a run down two bedroom/one bath desperately in need of repair. He got up to go the kitchen. He took a glass from the cabinet and opened the refrigerator.
Oh shit, I thought.
He took out the iced tea pitcher. He inspected it carefully. There was maybe only enough tea in it to fill his glass half full. He slowly turned his head. His face turned red. His voice crescendoed from a normal volume to a loud shout.
"Why is there never any god damn tea in this house?"
My mother and I sprang in to action. We had gone through this before, having to calm and soothe the beast within. I ran into the kitchen, reaching for the canister that had the tea. I said I was sorry and would make more. It would be ready in no time. My mother tried to get my father to sit down. "Brian's going to make more tea," she said hoping to distract him.
"A man comes home and all he wants is a glass of fucking tea to quench his thirst! And he comes home to this," he yelled, holding the near empty pitcher high in the air.
I reached for the pitcher, but he held it out of my reach. "Dad, please give me the pitcher and I'll make more," I said trying to sound calm. He kept it from me. "Dad, if you just give me the pitcher, I will make you some tea."
He opened the back door and held the screen door open. "You want this?" and then he threw the pitcher on the porch and it shattered.
He looked back at me. "There. Now no one gets tea."
I just looked at him feeling helpless. I had no idea where to go from here.
He looked at me. His eyes burned. His glare shot right through me. I felt something I had never experienced before: complete fear.
He started moving towards me. I backed away. His steps were heavy and forceful and I scurried around the living room, looking for something to get between us. A chair. A table. Anything.
I backed into the hallway. He followed me. My mother was behind him calling his name over and over.
I went into my bedroom. I looked around. I had no where to go. I should have ran for the front door, I thought frantically looking for a place to hide in my room.
I backed into a corner cowering. He never yelled or screamed or said a word. He just towered over me as I huddled in the corner. My mom was yelling at him, trying to get him to calm down.
I looked into his eyes. They were wide open and wild. A crazed man's eyes. I knew my father was an angry man, but I had never seen such rage before. It took him over. There was nothing but hate inside. His stare pierced through me.
He cocked his fist and drew it back. I saw it, tight and steady. I could feel the power that held it back. I could hear him breath heavy and grumbling, like his engine. His breath reeked of Crown Royal and was hot. I winced and turned around with my face to the corner whimpering.
"Turn around," he demanded. I could hear my mother, still pleading. She knew not to grab his arm. That would most definitely detonate his rage.
I slowly turned around, my arms covering my face in defense. Tears streaming down. Trembling. "Put your hands down." I didn't. "Put your hands down now!" he yelled.
I lowered my arms. My eyes darted between his fist and his eyes. I was hyperventilating - heavy gasps and sobs. I saw his fist aimed at my face, ready to strike.
In that moment a realization washed over me. I knew if he hit me he wouldn't stop with just one punch. He would hit me again and again, until every drop of once of rage was forced out of him. He wouldn't stop until he killed me.
I am going to die, I thought.
By now my mother was screaming his name and crying too. "Look at your son! What are you doing?" His eyes broke away as he walked out of my room without saying a word. My mother ran to me and told me quickly to go to bed and left my room, closing the door behind her as she turned out the light.
I was shaking as I lifted the covers and crawled into bed. Trying to stifle my sobs. Trying to keep quiet for fear he might return. Curled on my side, I held my knees to my chest and rocked myself to sleep after a few hours.
I left for school the next morning without seeing either one of them. Once in class, everyone knew something was wrong. I was visibly different. I was prone to moodiness and angry outbursts, but no one had ever seen me so sullen before. A few friends asked what was wrong, but I said nothing. I told them to just leave me alone. All my classes that day were a blur. I couldn't concentrate or focus.
During lunch time, I went to my friend T, a quiet, reserved boy. All I said was, "I can't go home. Can I stay with you tonight?" He didn't ask why or say he'd need to check with his dad. All he said was yes.
After school, I walked to where my mother worked. She asked how I was. I said I was staying with T that night and I needed money for the next day's trip to a band contest. I wasn't asked for her permission. I was telling her. She looked at me and said that would probably be for the best. She gave me some money and I left.
I walked home to get some clothes. Inside I grabbed things as quickly as possible for fear of him coming home while I was there. I needed dress clothes for the band trip, but they were all in the hamper. I took out a sweater and slacks, got some other things from my dresser and stuffed them in a duffle bag. I left the house quickly and walked to T's.
I don't think I had ever met T's father before that night. He ordered pizza for dinner and we ate it in the kitchen while my clothes were in the washer. I found it hard to make eye contact at T's dad. I thanked him for letting me stay there while staring at my feet. I felt shame and embarrassment. I felt unworthy of his kindness.
I watched T and his father interact. T's dad had a reputation for being very strict, however he wasn't intimidating or a brow-beater. He treated his sons with respect. He treated T as an adult. I listened to them talk about things T had going on in his life with band and his church. Responsibilities and expectations T's father had for him. I never had a conversation like that with my own father. I don't think I ever had anything that could be considered as a conversation with my father.
After my clothes finished drying, I held them in my arms and followed T outside. T lived in a studio apartment separate from the house at the end of the driveway. We had to get up early the next morning for our band trip. We changed into our sleep-wear and I climbed into his bed. I lay there for a long time staring at the ceiling. I turned over and looked at T and thanked him for letting me stay there that night. He said it was okay.
Then I lost it. I started crying uncontrollably. He reached over and took me in his arms. I held him tight and pressed my face against his chest and bawled. Between sobs I kept repeating "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He just shushed as he held me and rocked me back and forth. Eventually I fell asleep in his arms.
When I woke up in the morning, I was alone. I got dressed and went into the house, finding T in the kitchen eating breakfast. His dad came in and wished us good luck on our contest. He asked if I would be staying another night. T looked at me and I said, "no, but thank you." I had to catch an earlier bus for the contest than T, so I said goodbye to him in the kitchen. I grabbed my things and walked to school.
T never asked me why I needed to stay with him that night.
Throughout the day, miles away from my little hamlet, my mood started to break and slowly I returned to a version of my usual self, managing to smile occasionally, laugh and even crack a few jokes.
I came home that night. My father was sitting in his chair, his throne, not drunk but probably not completely sober either. He made small talk, asking me about my trip. I gave brief short answers, not making eye contact. He said something along the lines of "Sometimes I get angry, but I wouldn't actually hurt you."
I excused myself and went into my room closing the door behind me. He never said he was sorry.
I
