Hate Lives on.... In Me
It’s late - past 10:00 pm. I came home from school at 4:30 in the afternoon with just enough time to grab a sandwich and head out the door. Mom asked me, with the worry she always seemed to have in her eyes, “Are you off to philharmonic practice?” I said, “Yes Mom, I don’t have much time. Practice starts in an hour.” I gave her a hug, told her that I loved her, grabbed my violin, and headed out the door.
I got into my car, went by my music teachers’ house to pick her up, and we drove to Boise, Idaho for a practice session in the Boise Philharmonic. We shared a ride to Boise three times a week and on Saturday - a 30 mile ride. It was good for me. I was sixteen years old and one of the very few students accepted into a rather rigorous program the Boise Philharmonic was offering called the “Young Outstanding Student’s Award”. It was only given to a few high school students. You had to go through three auditions, and prove that you could technically play well, and be able to do the program and keep your grades up in school. In return, I got paid a bit and my gas money was paid for.
In those days, I was a powerhouse of energy. I don’t know where I got it from. I would get up early, put in a full day at school, come home and practice, then go off to the Philharmonic for a four hour practice three to four times a week - on Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and sometimes Saturday. When I got home, I would do my homework. On Monday nights, I played in the College of Idaho Community Orchestra where my musical mentor and teacher, Walter Cerveny, was the conductor.
The goal in all of this was to mold me into the world of performance and give me as much exposure as possible to all kinds of different music. It was a wonderful program. I was a good kid. I was never in trouble, until later when I would drink to hide a lot of emotional pain. On this schedule, there was little time for trouble.
I got home from practice, and parked my car in the garage. I got out of the car and opened my trunk door to get my violin out. I got it out and closed the truck. It made a slight noise, and I heard something move in the other car - the family car, which was also in the garage.
I slowly walked over to the car and looked into the back window. There my Mom was lying in the back seat, visibly shivering from the cold with a thin blanket covering her nightgown. I opened the door and ask numbly as if I didn’t want to hear the answer, “Mom, why are you sleeping in the back of the car?”
She said, “It’s my fault. He got mad at something I said. Don’t get mad. Just get your things and go to bed. Be quiet not to wake him.” I said, “ok Mom. Go back to sleep.” I closed the door to the car.
I went over to my car, and quietly put my violin back into the trunk and closed the trunk door. I went over to this box that had some of my brothers’ things in it. He was in the Navy and we were storing things in it. I pulled out a baseball bat. My heart got calm. My adrenaline was high. I - was - strong. Something else was driving me. I felt my jaw and muscles tighten with determination, as though I was going into battle - the kind of battle where only one would be left standing. I was made of steel.
I started methodically walking to the door that lead into the house. Mom, without me hearing her, had gotten out of the car. She gets between me and the door and says to me, “What are you going to do? You can’t go in there like this. Please go to bed!” I said, “I will, but first I want him to tell me why my mother is shivering in the back of a fucking car when his sorry ass is lying in a nice warm bed! And then, I’m going to put the bastard in a hospital bed.”
She pleaded with me, “You can’t go in there. He’ll kill you.” I held up the bat and said, “I - DON’T - THINK - SO!” She looked at me and said, “I love you! Please don’t do this!”
My eyes opened and I said in a whisper, “I love you too.” My heart was beating fast. It was quiet in the room. I could hear Kent breathing. My cat was asleep on the foot of my bed. I am back from then and from that place. I get out of bed, go to the bathroom, closed the door, and I cry.
Then, I come to this computer and typed this, but does this matter?
I hate that son of a bitch. I’m glad he’s dead. When my brother asked me ten years ago if I’d come back to Emmett for his funeral, I answered, “I’ll come back to piss on his grave. Is that good enough?”
How can this live on in me? How can he have a hold of me in this quiet peaceful place I am in? I haven’t thought about him in years, until now.
I hate him. I hate him.
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Just want to say how much I admire you for the way that you deal with all this.If people judge you or think you are crazy that is up to them but it just shows ignorance and coldness.Life isn't perfect too true but you have got to place now where you are happy and that is great. I agree with you medication is not the answer, ok I use it with clients sometimes to help get them through a really rough patch (say the loss of a child or partner) but it is not a long term solution.
I am sorry you feel you were a poor son and that you have to live with those feelings. However remember that if you have suffered trauma and abuse anything can put you right back there, a town (or even a photo of that town), a song, or a smell even.I am sure that your mother understood and would never have judged you for this. Abuse causes a survivor to feel guilt, depression and low self esteem but with time, a lot of hard work and soul searching a person who survives can go on to thrive. Which is where you seem to be right now. When you feel down at times which you will as like you pointed out we all do, try to remember how far you have come and what a great person you are not only to have survived what you have but to come on here and share with others your thoughts.You could help so many people out here more than any therapy because we psychs can only try to understand you know!
I know it doesn't sound like I'm a "well grounded" person from just reading these words, but I would like to say a thing or two about my writing.
The first thing is, it's very unusual for me to have these nightmares. This one was particularly vivid and disturbing to me because it was so real. When I opened my eyes and said, "I love you too.", it was just like I was talking to Mom again, even though she passed away in 1984. In real life, I haven't thought about the man who used to be my step-father in a very long time.
There is unfinished business between him and myself. I left and got out of that situation as fast as I could. He was physically and sexually abusive to me, and if I said anything, there was the threat that he would harm my mother. That's as much detail as I'm comfortable sharing on the Internet about this. When I left, it was in a hurry. We moved out of the house and fled in a 10 minute period of time while he was in town.
Later, when I went to college, I rarely went home, even though I only lived 30 miles away. My only regret was that I didn't go home more to see Mom during that period of time. She was living with my grandmother and the threat of him was over. But, looking back on it, although I label myself as being "a poor son", the fact is that it was just too painful for me to even go back to that town after what happened. I think most of you can understand that. But Mom was going through it too, and I feel like I let her down after that. That is what I live with.
About this blog... It is the one place I come to to vent. I am myself on this blog. I realize that can be risky because, some of the people who read this are personal acquaintances of mine. How will they judge me? Will they think me "off", or "crazy"? Or, should I be less honest in my writing and sugar-coat everything I write? I don't know how to do that and, at that point, why write anything because it's not honest.
In some cases, on some entries, this blog is my therapy. This entry is one of those entries. It is what I would say to a therapist. I've gone through my sessions with psychologists, psychiatrists, and my fair share of heavy anti-depressants. I'm beyond that now. I use no medication, other than an occasional drink. My mind is clear. There are times I have depression, like everyone else. But without the layers upon layers of medications to mask that depression, at least I know what I am feeling is "real".
And beyond that, I know that I can deal with whatever it is that life throws my way because I've lived through the worst of it.
Today, this time in my life, is the happiest I've ever been in my life. I am at peace. Things are not perfect. I've let a lot of what is wrong with the world go and have cut a lot of the inequality that my community faces out of my life, because I think I have earned the happiness that I have today. It's my turn now.
It's called post-tramatic stress!! I don't think it as much "lives on" in you as you maybe "can't get away from it".
E-mail me privately if you need to talk.
You have obviously been through a lot in your life and your dreams are a release of the emotions that you supress, probably because they are so distrubing. It is good that you can talk about your experiences and I am sure that people who read this site will support you and feel for you. Domestic violence is a very powerful thing. In England it has just been acknowledged that for a child to witness domestic violence is a form of abuse. As you well know this is the case and you are still suffering. Although this man is dead he is still living on in your heart because of what he did to you and your mum. Sometimes it helps to write a letter to the person( even if they are dead) You can tell him exactly how you feel, what you think of him and then do with the letter what you choose. It can bring closure for some people. You have my email address Bill I could try and help or just listen privately if you would like. You know where i am if you need some support.
Be easy on yourself, you have had a tough time and have come out a good, genuine,kind person despite all the hardship, that speaks volumes doesn't it? Acknowledge your strenghts and take care, Fiona.