Volcanoes are windows into the violent nature of our planet; what goes on beneath our feet, unbeknownst to all but those who poke at rocks. Our planet is violent because it was born into a violent, indifferent universe governed by determinism and scientific laws. It’s no wonder there’s a molten core driving the living systems of the earth.
Human beings are much the same. The only difference is that we’re not indifferent. Maybe the universe implicitly hates its own apathy. Who knows?
When I was 14, I watched my father drag my sister up a flight of stairs by her hair. He beat her with a wooden dowel for an hour. When he was finished, I called a friend of mine, and we drove her to the hospital. My dad spent the night in jail, but nothing lasting ever came from the maneuver.
When I was 15, my mother kidnapped both of my sisters, holding them at the house she shared with my step-father. My father told me and the same friend as before, to go retrieve them and, should we fail to do so, not to bother coming home.
What can I say? Confusion sets in early in my family.
I had to physically fight my mother while rushing my sisters to the car. Threw her into the street, slammed the car door in her face and scrambled to shut and lock it; my mother was bleeding from a gash on her forehead, walking around in a daze as we drove off.
My father yelled at me, berated me for doing exactly what he asked me to do, once we got home. Wasn’t his fault; I’m the asshole who decided to do what I did. He just planted the seed.
A few years later, I left and happily embraced homelessness.
Now, I’m a fucked up, but not-as-confused, young adult.
Unfortunately, that’s only scratching the surface.
I don’t think I’ve ever actually put the above into words – never talked to a councilor or therapist about it, although I’ve had a few opportunities. Not sure what good it would do. I don’t like rehashing the past, but I can’t seem to get away from it, either. All of these tainted, twisted, violent things are etched in neurons and written into every waking moment of my life.
I resent how I responded to nearly every critical situation I was confronted with, growing up. I have a very good relationship with my mother now, despite the shit I put her through as a kid, but that doesn’t mitigate the fact that it was me making the decisions I made and doing the things that I did. It’s in the past; it’s behind me, but that underlying anger, frustration, and confusion is like scar tissue that never goes away, or a mended bone that never quite set right.
1 comment
@Orangish, I like the way you put that. I grew up somewhat in the same environment. When I was 6, my mom’s bf was abusive. He started hitting her and pulled her down the hallway, by her breast, to the room. I ran and hid under the bed and tried to call the operator. (Didn’t know 911 then). He found me and pulled me out by my hair from under the bed. My mom grabbed me and he told her he would kill her and in turn, she would fall and it would kill me (my head hitting the coffee table). I don’t remember where my brother was at the time, but he let my brother and I go and we ran down the street to my grandma’s house. My mom came hours later all beat and bruised. Busted lips, black eyes, just horrible. This happened many times. The cops were called a few times on him. Later, my mom asked my brother and I (in front of her bf) if we would allow him to stay and have another chance. For fear of further abuse at the time, of course we said yes. Abuse still came. I remember after getting out of that situation, I felt that I let it happen by making the choice to let him stay. I resent how I responded also to many of the situations throughout my life. He was not the only person she dealt with or I dealt with. I know how that is, to have those underlying feelings that never go away. I’m glad you shared that.