This is a series about abuse. I have debated with myself about whether I will write any personal stories or details in this series. I’ve decided that I have to do so to keep the writing authentic. So, here goes.
I remember having a lot of fun with my dad when I was growing up. I remember him pushing me on the swings. I remember him dancing with me in his arms when I was so young I could barely walk.
I remember the fights. He would drink too much and the fights would begin. He would start yelling at everyone and cursing at my mother. And he would keep drinking even after he had had too much. I remember wanting to go help my mom because I could hear him hit her and I could hear her cry during the night when we were all supposed to be sleeping. In the morning I would wait for him to go to work and then run into my mom’s bedroom. I remember how her face looked. Her beautiful green eyes sad and filled with tears, swollen and purple. I remember that although her eyes cried, she would smile at us and say she was okay. No, it didn’t hurt. She was okay. But I knew different. I could tell when she tried to move that she was in pain. I could tell that there were probably bruises that we couldn’t see because she could hardly move without wincing in pain.
He hit our mom. He made her cry. He caused bruises. Bruises on my mom. Bruises left on our minds that colored our world.
Then, he would hit us. My mom would try to get between him and us and she would be hit and thrown out of the way so he could keep hitting us. We were little. My oldest brother was only about eight or nine at the time, yet he got punched as if he were a grown man.
There were many drunk days and nights. I remember that every year on my birthday (my birthday is on Christmas) he would get drunk and ruin the day. Sometimes it would be by passing out and other times by ruining our dinner like the time he was angry because it was taking too long to get everything on the dinner table so he pulled the tablecloth and with it all the food. And I remember one year when he was so drunk one Christmas that he went into the bathroom to wash up for lunch and ended up passing out and falling into the bathtub which was still filled with water from my youngest sister’s bath. My brothers had to help my mom get him out of the tub and into bed. That turned out to be a good Christmas because he slept for the rest of the day and the rest of us had a good day. Still, I wished that it hadn’t happened because I always believed that he would be able to share one Christmas, one birthday, without getting drunk or abusive.
I remember. I’m sixty years old now and I still remember. I have never been able to forget it. I remember.
My 2016 A to Z Challenge Posts