I can't remember the last time I went a full day without thinking about suicide. I can't recall if this has been an off-and-on thing, or if it's been constant for most of my life. I don't really have a point of reference for it; this has been my entire life, as far as I'm aware. I may have been happy, once. I may have been okay prior to the age of six, but I doubt it. I can't remember a time before the abuse.
I'm trying to keep this factual, for the most part, so I'm gonna try to limit my emotional descriptions for how I feel about my father. The fact of the matter is that my father had problems, and he didn't deal with them well. Neither did my mother, but hers was of a self-destructive nature.
My dad was angry, and he had a lot of reason to be. His parents had been shitty to him, and I would guess that theirs sucked as well. That's the nature of this kind of thing. When you're raised only knowing abuse, all you know how to do is abuse. So the cycle goes.
He yelled a lot, and threw things, and he beat my mother, sister, and me. He was emotionally manipulative, and very often seemed to think that the world was out to get him. Knowing what I know about his past, which I suspect is only a small piece of the whole, I cannot blame him for feeling that way.
That was my childhood. I can remember little moments, here and there, of peaceful interaction, and maybe even happiness. My dad would play guitar and sing old country songs, for instance. For the most part, however, it was me being in constant terror.
That fucks with you. That's what the whole PTSD thing is. Traumatic events and prolonged, stressful environments alters your brain chemistry. It can even alter your DNA.
I often tell myself that I'm fortunate. My parents never really had the time to deal with their shit. I have had time, and I have dealt with a great deal.
Things didn't improve much after my parents divorced. My mom was sent to rehab, so my dad got custody of my sister and me. That was exactly half-way through first-grade, as I recall. I had been going to Stevens Elementary in Spokane. I spent the second-half at Betz Elementary in Cheney.
My dad remarried during this time, to an alcoholic named Linda. As with my mom, dad would fight constantly with her, and we kids were caught in the middle of it: me, my sister, and two children from Linda's previous marriage.
We lived in a trailer home, in a wooded area I believe to be between Spokane and Cheney. I recall an impoverished environment; dad worked construction, and I believe Linda was a nurse, as my mother had been.
This is about the time where I can recall specific instances of abuse. I remember one time, dad was mad at me for something I can't recall. He grabbed me and physically carried me angrily towards the door to the trailer. He tripped and fell, and I was out of his grasp, and I recall that I had an opportunity to get away. Instead, I asked him if he was alright. He got back to his feet and finished his task of throwing my out of the trailer, locking the door and leaving me outside in late fall in only a shirt and underwear.
I recall a fight between dad and Linda outside the trailer. Linda was accusing my father of being crazy. I recall moving next to him and wrapping my arms around him, even though I knew she was right. I think it was just that she didn't seem much better, and that he was my dad, where she was not my mom.
I developed a bowel issue during this period, called encopresis. It was a result of stress, and I was consistently punished for it, which only made it worse. I have never told anyone outside of my family about this until now, and it remains a great source of shame. But it happened. It's something I have had to deal with, and it wasn't my fault. So I have said it.
Dad's marriage to Linda didn't last long, and after first grade was complete, we would move to Mt. Vernon, roughly 30 miles North of Seattle.
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