First off, thank you to all the people reading my Father’s Day
posts. It seems they are garnering a
lot of attention. I just hope my story
will help others that had similar incidents their troubled lives. I will have an epilogue to this story in a
few days summing up my thoughts and stances on these things.
Anyway, let’s move on.
I really can’t remember when my mother arrived at home. And, I don’t remember the travel to the
ER. However, I do remember sitting in
the room in the hospital with my mother teary-eyed by my side as I sat on the
bed. Looking in her eyes, I knew that
she blamed herself for being with this monster for so long. But, she didn’t need to take blame for
it. We really didn’t have the
information on abuse and the toll it takes on people.
I felt my forehead and noted there was a giant bruise right in
the middle. I figured my father’s
powerful fists caused that.
The nurses and the doctor took care of me as the police showed
up. And, that was when I felt violated
because they had to take pictures of my bruises and cuts. Under normal conditions, I was never a guy
that liked taking pictures, but it was even worst when I had a cop taking the
pictures.
Then I had to relive the horrible experience again by
recounting everything that happened just a mere hour ago. I really understand why people are uneasy
about pressing charges and making a statement.
We as violence survivors have to relive that awful thing again…where you
second-guess your choices and feeling bad about yourself.
Retelling the story, I realized I was beaten and could have
very well been killed by my father. The
police tried to give me comfort.
Nothing feels as worst than being a victim of something that
intense. Especially, when someone that
was supposed to protect you and care for you does such a horrible act. You tend to lose trust in anyone or
anything. You feel defeated and
overwhelmed with sadness. Getting your
ass kicked by a family member completely changes everything in your life.
I started to realize that our family unit was going to
change…It HAD to change after that incident.
I didn’t go back to school for at least a couple of days. However, at home, my father was no longer
there. He didn’t live there anymore,
and that was a relief, but also there was a large amount of confusion too. Up to this point, we always had our father
there. Good or bad, he was there, now
he wasn’t…because of me. Because of
what I did, he wasn’t there anymore.
Because of the incident, rightfully my mother was going to
divorce him. This gave her the courage
to leave this man that was truly no longer her husband or our father.
Our full family, while not normal, was a traditional family
structure. That was gone. And, I actually started to feel apprehensive
about the future. Dare I say I felt
guilty about it? Was the blame all on
me?
Survivors should never ever feel this way. You’re not the one that savagely beat
someone down. You survived and you made
the choice to put an end to the domestic abuse.
Going back to school, everything really didn’t matter anymore
because my entire home structure had changed within a couple of days. I really didn’t have any friends to talk to
me to give me support, so everything was internal. I was pretty much all-alone in this. And, I was never going to get a girlfriend in middle school. As I stated before, I was always depressed
and this incident just made it worst, but I did have an outlet with the concert
band stuff.
The divorce was completed and my father was no longer a part
of the household. As time went by, we
were all the better for it. And, I am
certain I would have committed suicide if he continued to live there. I’m not saying everything was great, but
things actually got better for all of us…with the exception of my father.
I found out my father found a place to live somewhere in the
West End of Louisville. It was pretty
far from our house. He also paid child
support and had visitation rights. My
father would come to visit from time to time.
The anger I felt grew every time I saw him, yet I was civil. And, truth be told, I grew as person without
him around. The flaws I saw in him made
me not want to repeat them.
I was as nice as I could be to him. For the most part, he was more low-key than before. I guess losing his family and his house
humbled him some. Yet, the anger for
him still grew. I hated him every time
he showed up.
After a while, the visits started to become less and less
frequent. He stopped paying child
support, but my mother didn’t really take him to court over it. She was aware things had gotten pretty bad
for him. He could barely take care of
himself financially before the divorce.
Now, things were worst for him.
Good.
We also heard rumors that he shacked up with some white woman
that had a couple of kids. Rumors where
people saw them together. I never
asked, because I wanted nothing to do with him. I had no idea if he worked at the prison or if he was still a
parole officer. I didn’t care
anymore.
Later, we discovered that he promptly left Louisville and went
back to his home city of Memphis. He
moved back in with his elderly mother.
We only heard there was some kind of mental or financial breakdown and
he couldn’t take it anymore. Now, we
just got a few random long distance phone calls.
Good.
He had a major stroke and a few heart problems over the next
20 years that turned him into a shell of the opposing figure that loomed over
my bed with that belt. He was no longer
the guy I feared when I didn’t do something he approved of. He was just a regretful old man.
I saw him a few years ago and it wasn’t pretty. He lives in a shitty apartment by
himself. He can barely walk and is
frail as can be. Giving into my anger
for him, I could kicked the living shit out of him and put him in the hospital. But, I won’t because I am a better person
than him.
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