My dad was an alcoholic. He was a very abusive man both physically and verbally. Many of you know what I mean. Many of you are living that right now. But it’s not your fault. He would hit my mom and many times he would hit my mom with the belt. He would push me; hit me, and my sisters. There were times he would pull our hair and I can remember when he got so angry with my sister that he was on top of her choking her. How could God, a loving God allow this to happen to my sisters and me? How could my mom be with a man like this I thought? My dad was a good guy when he wasn’t drinking, and I guess the best example I could give of my dad’s actions are those of Dr. Jekel and Mr. Hyde. I remember the time in high school when I was called to the counselors office. A social worker was there and my counselor was there. They both wanted to ask me questions about my dad. I guess my sister wasn’t scared to speak up, but the same couldn’t be said for me. They asked me if my dad was abusive, if he would beat us. The answer of course was “yes”, but I defended my dad and said we got spanked just like any other kid would if they misbehaved. I was sticking up for this man who would leave marks on me and who would leave the top of my head sore from pulling my hair and hitting me in the head. I regret not speaking up, because the abuse would continue. My sisters and me were abused, but sometimes I feel as though my younger sister may have taken it the worse. She robbed our neighbor’s house, and hid the goods under my parent’s waterbed. She was suspended from school for things like fighting and selling drugs. She attempted suicide, but failed. She would slash her wrists and finally ended up in a psychiatric institute in the Tidewater area. Our family was ordered to go to court appointed family counseling. Yet another outlet for me and my sisters to blow the whistle on my dad’s abusive behavior, and yet another time I did not speak up. My younger sister was the only one to speak up, but because of her actions, no one took them seriously. It took many years for me to speak up when confronted and not remain silent. I trusted no one.
I would graduate middle school with a 3.9 or so grade point average. When I entered High School that would all change. My dad was a smart man. He completed 12 years in the Navy as an enlisted man, and got a job with the Department of Defense installing computers on Naval ships and submarines. He loved math and solving problems. He expected a lot from his children especially in the area of academics. I prided myself on being like my dad in the scholastic arena, with making A’s and B’s, but something happened when I hit the 9th grade. All men who are a little older know what I am talking about. Girls. I began to notice girls. They were not just girls though; these high school girls were women in my eyes. I was 14 and there were these 17 and 18-year-old women all around me. I couldn’t contain myself, and this was the beginning of the end of the 3.9 G.P.A. In 9th grade I was enrolled in classes such as A.P English, A.P History, Algebra, and other classes of the sorts. After the first semester of high school my report card started to spell words such as D-A-D and C-A-B and B-A-D. I think Bad would be a good word to use. My grades were bad, in fact horrible. I was scared to bring it home to my dad. I was in uncharted territory and did not know how to respond. Was I going to have to be that one kid who beat his parents home to hide the report card? When I got home I walked in with my mom standing there looking at a piece of paper. I knew what it was. It was my report card. My dad would be home in a few hours and I just went straight to my room without saying a word. I began to plan my funeral. In my head I could imagine a great funeral with bagpipes playing Amazing Grace. I heard my dad pull into the driveway, and my palms were sweaty. I heard the front door open and close and my mom and dad talk. I heard the T.V. cause my sisters were watching it. After 20 minutes of wondering what would happen next, my dad came into the room with the belt. “Bend over the side of the bed”, he ordered. I got my spankings. Every time I tried to move the belt would move faster in the air. I got what seemed to be 10 spankings, but I knew it was much more then that. My dad was angry. After he left my room, my mom came in and told me to get ready to go to the Y.M.C.A. As a family we went maybe 3 times a week. My dad and I use to play racquetball, but I knew tonight wasn’t going to be a fun night. My dad and I played a game, but instead of hitting the wall, my dad would hit me with the ball as hard as he could. Some I would dodge, and others made contact. One hit me in the chest and it welted up. I couldn’t escape. I was trapped. I could have sought help with my grades, instead I entered my senior year with a 1.9 G.P.A. I was ineligible to swim had to take 4 English classes my senior year in order to graduate. I buckled down and graduated with over a 2.0 G.P.A and amazingly an Advanced Studies diploma.
A few years earlier, another defining moment in my life was one that I believe would cause more damage than being abused. It would play a role in my respect for women. I remember being about 10, but I cannot remember exactly. . I know it was before my Grandmother was murdered. I have always tried to block it from my memory. An elderly woman and two men occupied the house to the left of ours. I remember the guys name for it seems as though it is engraved in my skull. His name was Stan and it took me years to forgive him. Our family befriended these people, and there were times that this man would be at the house swimming in our above ground pool and having some beers with my dad. I remember my dad being at work and me and my sisters watching T.V. As a good nosy son I was I pushed my little face against the window to see what my mom was doing. My mom and Stan were standing on our side of the fence talking with the other man. The second man was standing on his side of the fence facing me, while my mom and Stan were standing with their backs to me. I remember this next action being in slow motion. This man, who was taller than my mom, turned to her, bent over and kissed her. WOW!! This man kissed my mom on the lips. I had only seen my dad do this. My heart sank and I sat back confused. I think my mom may have noticed me backing away from the window. I dashed to the kitchen sink to do dishes, the task I was given before my mom went outside. Minutes later my mom came inside and told me not to tell my dad, that this was our little secret. I was confused. Being secretive should not have been something that should have been asked from a pre-teen. I loved my mom, but I also loved my dad. What should I do? Later that night we went for a walk, and guess who came with me, my mom, and sisters? You got it. Stan. My mom and Stan held hands on our walk, and my stomach twisted in knots. I could not believe this. Weeks later, my mom went M.I.A after an explosive argument with my dad. I went to my best friends house to see if she was hiding there. My dad was crying and did not know where his wife was. The phone finally rang, and my dad answered it. He said “Where are you?” and with a hard hang up, he told us to get in the car. We drove for what seemed to be hours, but it was only 10 minutes. There was my mom standing by a pay phone in the Food Lion parking lot. Stan was in a vehicle a few spots from my mom. My mom got in the car and that’s when all hell broke loose. I don’t remember the entire conversation and for the sake of keeping this a PG rating post for now, my dad asked my mom if she slept with this man. She never answered, but later I would overhear a conversation she would have with my grandma telling her she had slept with this man. This was one of only 3 times I witnessed my dad cry. The other times were at the death mf my grandma and the third when I was brought home after threatening to commit suicide for a second time.........
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