Another thing I have lately is dream from my childhood again.
The ones that I keep living over and over in my head. The ones that will never leave me. Ones that I fear. That made me stronger and yet messed me up. In these dreams I'm eight or nine years old. My father comes home from drinking with his co-workers and friends, I'm in the living room watching television with my brothers, sister and my mother in the kitchen.
Enter my father in his drunken rage. Hit my mother knocking her to the floor of the kitchen. Yelling and her, telling her that she has been lazy all day. That she is a whore and her friends are filling her head with lies. She pulls herself up and explains to my father about her day which is not good enough for him. He hits her more than comes into the living room. All of us children at that time ran to our rooms. Two of my brothers hide under their beds. Two behind the dresser they pulled out. And myself in the closet, shaking and praying to god he would not get me. We heard the door open and held out breaths. Not moving, making any noise. I closed my eyes for a second. I opened them to see the figure of my father, his hand reaching out and pulling me out by my hair. Out to the living room. My father yelling is my homework done, did I do my chores, what have my friends been telling me. Things at my age that I knew what to do, but instead I laid there on the carpet speechless. Fear in my eyes, my heartbeat racing, tears streaming from my eyes. I died on the inside that night. My father yell at me more, his words muffled by his drinking. I still don't reply to his questions.
"Clunk Clunk Whoosh," the sound of him unbuckling his belt, and pulling of it from his belt loops. His belt made from leather. Folded in his hand as he raises it over his head. "Whoosh, Crack." The sounds of the belt hit my skin. Not once but five times. He looks at me and ask some more questions. I look at him and try to mumble out some words to let him know I was listening. My mother in the room as well begging him to stop and leave me alone. He take his belt again and hit me. The sting of the leather hit me more. I let out a cry as I am hit again. My fear turns into rage. Hate....Numb.....
After a few more minutes, my father yells at me more and stumbles to his bedroom. I lay on the carpet almost lifeless. Tears still in my eyes, burnt into my eyes the shadow of my father hitting me. My body black and blue. Some blood on my hands from trying to block the metal buckle. My mother rushes to my side, picks me up and takes me to the bathroom to aid me and my wounds. I embrace her and cry. I felt so cold, and yet the sting from the rubbing alcohol stopping the bleeding. Mixed with emotions my mother calms me down. Patches me up and makes me a cup of sleepy time tea. With some milk and honey I drink it down. She takes me into my bedroom and tucks me in. She lays in bed with me, rubs my head and face. Kisses me, whispers into my ear "I love you. You are strong my son and things will get better." I passed out to wake to go to school. I walk into school knowing that under my clothes I was sore, black and blue. I than awake from my dream.....
I am sorry if anyone who reads this finds it appalling. But this is something that has happened to me. I feel that writing about it helps me dealing with me. I cried while writing this. That helps me a lot. I am stronger from this. Yes it does sting reading about it. But I had to share this. Thank you for reading!
Derek
