This one is going to be ROUGH, folks. Fair warning, most of it will be a recounting of the abuse I endured as a child. “The Plague” is the (very apt) nickname I’ve given to my biological “father” – because he doesn’t deserve to be called a father/dad, or considered anything but a toxic Monster (like the actual plague).

*deep breaths* Whew… it’s difficult to even know where to begin, honestly. There is just… SO MUCH to cover. But, I suppose I’ll start with something that happened to me when I was 6 months old, as told to me by my mom on the cusp of her escape from The Plague almost a year ago. It makes sense, chronologically 😀

Babies (generally) put everything in their mouths as a way to explore their world, learn about textures, and self-soothe (like with teething discomfort). This behavior is part of their natural development and helps them learn about their environment. I was no exception. The problem is, apparently, when I chomped on The Plague’s finger at 6 months old, this elicited a severely reactive anger (?!) and he proceeded to flick my lip so hard that it bloodied it.

Now… with the knowledge I’ve gained about the effects of trauma on the brain (highly recommend reading/watching Gabor Maté in all his professional glory!)… 6 months old is a shit age to learn that I’m not safe to “explore my world” or “self-soothe.” When my mom told me about this, she also said, regretfully, that she should have left him right then and there. I mostly agree, but then… my brother would not exist. This could be seen as both a blessing (he is an alcoholic, suffering from the same traumatic abuse as I did) and a tragedy (I love my brother very much).

Chronologically, my entry titled “Ch’Komi” (FYI: animal abuse) and the traumatic event I relayed there would be next. I will just reiterate that it was SO traumatic for me (at 5 years old) that my brain deeply repressed it until a therapy session in my late 30’s. *shudder* I also remember telling my mom about it in the car, driving home from wherever one day. She had NO idea that it had happened… which tracks, because she wasn’t there (in my memory of it). She seemed fairly horrified by it, but for me it’s like… why?! Given the extent of what she alone witnessed happening to my brother and I (and various pets) as we were growing up, how would THAT be a surprise, ya know? *le sigh*

The irony is… I used to be a “daddy’s girl”… I loved him deeply, because I was only 6 months old when he bloodied my lip (no recollection whatsoever) and because of my brain’s repression of the Ch’Komi incident. I remember being SO proud that my “dad” showed up to a 2nd grade playground fair and was manning the see-saw, that I pointed him out excitedly to my classmates, “Look! That’s my dad!” Fucking amazing the things we remember, huh?

So… I’ve mentioned elsewhere about how moving to Arkansas (when I was about 7) is considered “Hell” in terms of how drastically my life changed because of it. And boy did the “daddy’s girl” shit end REAL quick.

There are varying degrees of memories I can share now, that paint a basic picture of what “existing” was like from age 7 on. Like the many times in the car that my brother and I would horse around and – whether he was driving or not – The Plague would reach behind his seat and violently hit whoever was within range, yelling furiously at us to shut up and settle down or he would pull the car over. Or, any time we were in public and acting like any normal kids would, and he would get pissed off and either give us “the look” (terrifying foreshadowing, let me tell ya) or yank an ear and lean in to whisper that if we didn’t behave we’d be punished when we got home (and we usually got it anyway, despite correcting our “embarrassing” behavior immediately). Oh… and then there’s that one time when The Plague trapped me inside a sleeping bag, laughing at me as I was kicking and screaming to be let out, sobbing the entire time because I was trapped… which, naturally, resulted in being told, “Quit crying or I’ll GIVE you something to cry about!” and a lifelong claustrophobia focused around my legs – meaning, I freak the fuck out if both my legs are immovable for ANY reason… even if The Boyfriend just rests one of his legs over mine… and not just ONE leg, mind you… one leg trapped is fine, but both? Instant terror.

Ugh… it’s STILL hard for me to talk about these things, because of how vivid the memories and feelings are. I was recently diagnosed with PTSD, but… whoever is in charge of the DSM needs to get their shit together and put cPTSD in as a valid diagnosis already.

Aaaanywaaay… lol. This next part is… well… I suppose it’s the “worst” of the experiences. It’s the one I usually start with when anyone (especially therapists) asks me about my childhood and why it was so toxic. The saddest part of it is that this event isn’t an isolated one. It happened frequently. But… I tell it as a story, because this particular time is etched so deeply into my psyche that I expect it will never disappear, no matter how much therapy I get. So… buckle up (and I’m sorry)?! Oh… and keep in mind that I was around 10 or so in this story and it was the early 90’s (shit was different back then).

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As the school bus came to a slow stop at my driveway, I grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. My brother was already sprinting out the open, folded bus door, always in competition to be home first. I stepped off and started walking, smiling at how Jack (the family donkey) was braying and racing my brother along the fence-line. It was a nice afternoon, not too hot, everything green and flourishing with life. As I passed our grandparents’ house and our trailer came into view, my gut sank. Brief thoughts of running away entered my mind, as they did every day when I got to this point. Begrudgingly, and out of sheer terror of the consequences, I plodded up the concrete path that led to our house, climbed the wooden porch steps, opened the screen door, and walked inside… my eyes adjusting to the darker environment.

As usual, my brother was zipping around like an ADHD squirrel, gathering snacks and rushing to beat me to playing on the Nintendo. I tossed my backpack on the couch and grabbed a butterscotch button hard candy from the coffee table bowl, popping it in my mouth as I passed between my brother and The Plague’s lazy chair. I bent down to toss the candy wrapper into the empty, gallon-sized, plastic ice cream container we used as a trash underneath the side table. We had an hour or so before mom got home, so this was OUR time to just breathe and enjoy the peace and play-time. Homework be damned!

Once mom got home, it was time to clean. My brother and I would frantically put everything of ours away in our rooms and proceed to do whatever household chores needed done, while she prepared dinner. We never knew what time The Plague would get home from work, since he owned his own construction business and did contract work. The hours depended solely on whatever work he had to do that day.

On this particular day, it was getting dark by the time he arrived. Instinctively, we knew this meant it was a longer day for him than he would have liked, and thus he needed the ultimate peace and quiet upon walking in the door. I.E. Make yourself scarce until dinner was ready. From my room, I could hear him go straight to his lazy chair and plop down with a heavy sigh. Holding my breath, I listened intently, my blood going cold when – instead of the familiar sound of the TV being turned on – his angry voice bellowed out for my brother and I to come to the living room immediately. Panic set in as I quickly got off the bed and met my brother in the hallway, both of us confused and terrified. We’d done all the chores, everything spick and span… what the actual hell could have happened?!

We walked out of the hallway, past the front door, and obeyed his angry, “Come. Here. NOW!” as he pointed to the floor directly in front of him. We shuffled quickly. He was seething as he slowly brought his hand up. My eyes widened as I saw what he was holding… the candy wrapper I’d tossed earlier. Fuck. My mind raced back in time, repeating the steps in my head… I was certain that I’d thrown it IN the trash bucket, but… given his reaction and my previous inattention to this detail? I was dead wrong.

(Momentarily breaking the 4th wall… what happens next involves a lot of jumbled memory as to the “exact” spewed words from him, but for posterity’s sake, I will fill it in as I can, because no matter what he DID say, the underlying sentiment is there)

“Who the fuck left this trash lying on the floor, hmm?!”

I was already shaking in abject fear, but this elicited tears as I raised my hand and admitted fault. There was NO way I’d ever blame my brother and put him in harm’s way. Not that it really mattered, at that point. Once he got like THIS, we both got punished. And, of course, mom was staying as quiet as possible nearby in the kitchen, finishing up with whatever dinner she was making and staying WELL out of The Plague’s purview.

As he angrily threw the wrapper into the trash bucket, he proceeded to yell at both of us and, after some time, announced that it was “Family Meeting” time. He stood up, grabbed both of us by the back of our necks, and forcibly pushed us into the kitchen, demanding that we sit down. We were both crying at this point, as mom joined us. The Plague’s face was red and contorted as he screamed, yelled, and belittled us about “responsibility” and whatever other nonsensical things our young brains didn’t fully comprehend. This went on for HOURS, until he wore himself out and started pulling his leather belt off.

“Both of you get up and go to your fucking rooms, NOW!” and we RAN.

I threw myself on my bed and covered my ears, already hearing him stomp into my brother’s room. But… I couldn’t cover them hard enough, my brother’s screaming, sobbing, and begging piercing my ears and sending waves of guilt and fear throughout my body. My heart pounding and tears streaming down my face, the sound of leather violently meeting bare skin stopped, muffled angry words and… cold shock that it was my turn.

His silhouette loomed in my doorway, the hall light dimly lit behind him. I didn’t need to see his face. He strode in and grabbed my leg, forced me onto my stomach with my legs hanging off the bed, pulled my pants down and proceeded to use the full force of his adult arm to beat my backside from the small of my back to my ankles. I screamed through the blanket clenched between my teeth, snot and tears soaking it, begging inside my head for it to be over. At this point, I couldn’t make out what angry words he was saying, my sinus cavity being stuffed and my ears unable to process anything beyond my own sobs. It felt like forever. I lay there for some time after he left, knees on the floor, gripping my blanket so tight in my fists that my fingers ached with the effort. Then, with whatever strength I mustered after that, I slowly crawled under the covers and passed out.

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Yeeeeah… that was rough, no lie. It took me a long time to even be ABLE to talk about these things, even in a therapeutic setting… aaaaaaand then there’s this…

Haha. Yeah. That’s happened before, both with friends and therapists. 😛 It’s also how I’m able to have such dark, twisted humor and joke – even after the stress of telling the story I just did.

Anywho… I apologized earlier because… well, I [now] KNOW how horrible and traumatic this was. And it’s shocking to hear/read, so I feel a sense of empathy for anyone that is privy to it and feels… badly?! Words are hard, in this regard. These types of things were a regular occurrence for me, so it’s difficult for me to relate to how shocking it can be for some people (literally anyone that’s never had this level of abuse). *shrug*

And on that note… I shall end this entry with a request: Please take some time to care for and love yourself today, okay? Life is hard enough already. MLLH&R 😉