I often do my best to forget about my childhood. It is filled with many very painful memories that, over the years, I have done my best to forget. I intend on letting them out of my head, as I often feel like they need to escape. This one, in particular, is likely to be the worst of them all. I am starting with this one, as it is the one that sticks out in my head the most.
Forgetting and moving on, in some cases, has been a difficult thing. This particular experience tends to replay itself in my head daily.
As experience is one of the things that shape a person, I find myself wondering if my part of my general isolation from the human race, as a whole, is because of a lack of understanding. I find myself wondering if explaining how I think, and why I think that way, would help bridge some understanding between myself and the rest of the human race. In this case, this is an experience that no doubt contributes to my general distrust of the human race and overall misanthropy.
I expect to live in isolation regardless, of course, but am typing this out anyway.
I can’t tell you the exact date that this happened as, honestly, I don’t remember. Considering where we were living at the time, I must have been twelve or thirteen. If memory serves me correctly, I would have been in sixth or seventh grade at the time.
I am leaning toward thinking that this was seventh grade, as it was a particular grading period that I got terrible grades in. I had quit trying, as I had quit caring. In fact, I think I nearly failed.
But, I must get to the point before everybody quits reading.
The day started fairly regularly. I got out of bed in response to my alarm clock and went to the bathroom to take a shower, as was my habit. What was unusual was the fact that I stepped out of the shower to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. After that, I began to really wake up and notice that I wasn’t feeling well.
I decided to mention the fact that I was feeling ill and skipped breakfast that day to my mother after I got out of the shower, as I WAS in the middle of something, after all. The problem was, before I could finish showering, I felt diarrhea coming on before I had a chance to finish. I stepped back out to spray liquid out of my ass for a little bit before ultimately deciding that I should probably stay home from school. To me, it was obvious that I was rather ill.
So, after my shower was finished, I mentioned it to my mother, as seemed logical. I had thrown up, had diarrhea, and was feeling incredibly ill after the morning fog had finally lifted from my brain. The obvious solution was to stay home from school.
She had yet to get out of bed, so I went back to my room, put on my most comfortable clothes, and laid on my bed. As far as I was concerned, school would never happen that day. I would spend the day in bed, only getting out of it if I had to make another trip to the bathroom.
When she got up, she asked me why I was still in bed, and if I had showered. I told her that I had taken a shower already, I just went back to bed because I was feeling terrible. I was feeling bad enough that there was no way I was going to school that day.
I had thrown up. I had had diarrhea. My stomach hurt badly. I felt hot. Despite having a proper night of sleep, I felt weak and tired. All in all, I was sick and needed to rest. It happens to everybody from time to time, right? Everybody ends up getting sick at least once in their life and needs to call off work or school, sleep it off, and head back a day or two later. Not a big deal.
She looked at me and said “You’re faking it. Get out of bed and get ready for the bus.”
Of course, I was confused, as I had not been faking it. It was the first day I had wanted to stay home sick that school year. I don’t think I ever even stayed home sick the previous year, but that memory is a bit foggy. Perfect attendance or not, I only rarely ever stayed home from school.
“I’m sick, mom. I’ll be fine home by myself. I’ll be in bed all day.”
She huffed angrily and said something that I don’t remember clearly, as I wasn’t paying a lot of attention at that point. It seemed that she would let me stay home and write an excuse for me the next day, irate or not.
I rolled over and let myself drift into that special kind of half-sleep that only comes when you happen to be ill at the moment. As that kind of thing is restful, I made no effort to resist it.
The buses came, the buses left. My sister left with them. That was when the real havoc started. As I was partly asleep, I have no recollection of what transpired between laying back down and what happened next.
My mother came back to my room and said something about missing the bus. I remember her also yelling about getting out of bed, as she had to drive me to school before she was late for work. I, of course, repeated that I was rather ill and was staying home from school.
I had flushed the toilet after puking and then shitting in it and had no proof of the morning’s events. She still assumed I was faking and told me to “Get in the damned car and go to school.”
By that time, I was already late for first period classes. I had also begun to be confused by the fact that she was so adamant about going to school. I was sick. No way I was going to cause problems at home. More importantly, catching up after a missed day is never particularly difficult.
My memory of what happened next is certainly not perfect. Aside from how long ago this was, I have spent years trying to bury it and forget. Despite that, this is the part that runs through my head on a daily basis.
My mother had left my room at that point. I got out of bed, half because I wanted to make my point and partly because I felt the need to throw up again. I had not eaten breakfast, my stomach began to hurt again, and I wanted to be near the bathroom in case it needed to forcibly empty itself again.
She came charging angrily up the stairs with my backpack in hand. She thrust it at me and told me to “get in the damn car.” She was late for work, I was late for school, and I was going, whether I liked it or not. I wasn’t getting out of it no matter how hard I tried. Sick or not, I was going to school.
I am unable to remember what she said next, word for word, as it was over a decade ago and I was fighting back the need to vomit. What I do remember was the subject of what ended in a lot of yelling and screaming.
She had begun to scream and yell about things like “messing up opportunities she never had” and “I’m not going to let you mess up school just because you might not feel like going.” Which was absurd, as I was by no means messing it up. I just wanted to stay home for a day.
The word-for-word details of the conversation are rather irrelevant. What I do remember is being incredibly confused as I was verbally assaulted over wanting to stay home from school for a day for being sick.
Forgive me for repeating myself.
After a great deal of arguing, my mother finally stomped off in a rage. I figured she was going to work. I had, at some point, sat down on the floor of my room, trying to comprehend what had just happened. I was already fatigued from illness, but had just argued the point with somebody that was refusing to believe that I could possibly have taken ill.
I had been running through the conversation in my head at this point. I was simply unable to understand what was going on. Other kids stayed home from school sick. This was normal.
Shortly thereafter, she charged back up the stairs with my shoes in her hand. There was a lot of screaming and swearing about “putting your damn shoes on and getting in the car before you cause more trouble.”
I looked at her, confused, and just said “but I’m sick.”
She glared at me for a moment before looking at the floor for a moment. When she looked up, she took a shoe in her hand and threw it at me with all her strength.
At this point, my adolescent mind became even more confused. I had no idea what I had done to deserve being hit with a shoe. After the shouting and years of accumulated verbal abuse, I finally lost my temper. I yelled back. “This is abuse, mom. What is wrong with you?”
This was not the first time I had been verbally abused, mind you. That was something I had grown up with.
My mother, after hearing that, stopped before she threw the second shoe. She dropped it, clenched her fists, and then walked away. I found myself sitting on the floor, again running through the events of the day in my head and wondering just what had happened.
When my mother came back upstairs, she was holding a screwdriver by the metal part. She rushed into my room and screamed “I’m going to show you what abuse really means.”
She hit me in the jaw and the chest with the handle of the screwdriver. I had bruises on my chest from the experience, but never showed anybody. This was because, after hitting me a few times, she looked at me and said “If you ever tell anybody about this, it will be worse next time.”
At that point, I simply began cowering. I guess auto-pilot had taken over, as I quit talking and simply cowered. I sat where I was at the moment, trying to figure out just what was going through my mother’s head. I remember being frozen in fear, even well after she left.
She told me to stay where I was. Filled with fear, I stayed put.
After more verbal abuse that I am unable to recall, she began picking up everything that was mine and throwing it out the front door of the apartment. At the time, we were living in subsidized housing in an apartment complex. There was little to prevent neighborhood children from helping themselves to whatever was left outside.
With the exception of clothing, she threw everything that was mine out onto the sidewalk in front of the front door. At some point, I must have walked down to ask her why, as I was downstairs and near the door, looking at my things and wondering what was going on.
She looked at me when she was done and said “If anything is inside by the time I get home from work, you’re in trouble. Understand? I’m going to work. It’s your fault I’m late.”
I don’t remember what she said next, exactly, but it was to the effect of “if I lose my job over this, you won’t live to tell anybody about it.”
I sat by the front door for an hour or two before crawling half way up the stairs to get to bed. I lacked the energy to get further and just laid there. I was there for a fair amount of time before vomiting on the stairs and ruining the carpet.
I woke up on th bathroom floor. I am unable to remember how I got there, though it was early enough that I was still alone. My sister and mother had yet to come home. I am unable to remember which came home first, as I spent the day on the bathroom floor until I heard the front door open. When it did, I crawled to my bed and curled up under the covers, hoping that I would be left alone.
Later that evening, my mother confronted me about what had happened that day. My things had been brought back inside, but were incomplete, as the neighborhood children helped themselves to what they wanted. I am unable to remember what was lost.
I sat on the bed, closed my eyes, and hung my head as the punishment was described. Everything I had lost to other children was punishment. Until told otherwise, I was to start on homework as soon as I got home from school and continue until told otherwise. If I ran out, I was to read about anything related to school until told otherwise. I was allowed no friends, no television, and no video games under any circumstances. I would not be allowed to go do anything on weekends indefinitely. I was not allowed to go to my father’s, grandmother’s, or friends’ houses over a weekend until told otherwise.
Then my mother pulled the same screwdriver she had hit me with out of her pocket and used it to take the doorknob off of the door to my room. She told me that she would be watching. I was no longer allowed to lock myself in my room. I was allowed no privacy. I was not allowed to be alone, ever. I would be allowed to have a doorknob again when I had earned it, though she never did elaborate on exactly what this meant.
All of this lasted for many months. She gave me no indication of when it would end. The threat of more violence was constant and I often spent days simply sitting on my bed staring at the floor.
I remember one teacher asking me why I had suddenly quit trying in school, as I was suddenly failing most of my classes. I mumbled excuses and never mentioned what happened at home. Another time, I made passing reference to being “lonely and miserable” in an English class that I was doing poorly in, only to waffle about and refuse to answer questions when asked why.
I was referred to a guidance councilor in school for depression, but did my best to avoid the subject. I denied it, and said I was fine.
This whole experience is significant not only for the problems in school, but for another very major reason: the day after this happened was the first time I ever considered committing suicide. The worst part is, I very nearly did. Sometimes, I find myself wondering just how many people in the world very nearly killed themselves before they even began high school.
More stories will follow later. For the time being, I am unable to bear sharing any more.