I was always a creative person. These thoughts and ideas never left me for as long as I had an inkling of hope. I'm telling you this because there were five years where I almost died. My sanity had left me, my kindness slowly went into hibernation. My eyes did not show the strength and courage they do now. They showed fear.
Five years of hell is what I tell people. It's what I've told everyone. That's not even close to the truth. It was a nightmare I could never wake up from. The nightmares I had as a child during those times were more comforting than spending another day in my situation. The things I had loved doing, specifically reading, was taken away from me. I was thrown into a religion I did not accept simply because it made no sense. The adults I lived with didn't show me compassion at the time and if they did it felt as if they wore masks.
I tell people I don't remember those years. It's a lie. I remember all of it. I remember getting my hand nearly crushed by a hammer because my father thought putting a pillow over my hand would lessen the blow for my punishment. I remember sliding down stairs in little snow rafts and hurting myself and my siblings. I remember destroying a relationship with my best friend because I had no control over my emotion. I remember fearing the adults because of all the fighting and all the rules.
The anger I felt toward bullies when I got too heated cost them and never cost me a dime except one time of in school suspension. I clearly remember walking home from school in Buffalo and there were two lines of students that would spit, mock and laugh at me and my sister... and we had to walk through them. One time I just had enough, kicked the first one in the crotch, grabbed my sister's hand and bolted.
The emotion I felt the most was fear however. I never got any of the letters my mother sent us. I went upstairs in the attic to vent my emotions in video games. My father was rarely home and I never felt like I got true compassion from him. My step-mom tried too damn hard to replace my mother. I remember having a serious asthma attack and when we finally got to the hospital it had ended and my own father threatened me as if I had faked it. I could almost feel the tension in the house when my mom finally got to visit for the first time.
My sister tried to leave once. She wanted to be done with this life early on but I didn't want to be alone in this nightmare so I did my best to convince her to stay. The damage done to us mentally is a toll I could never wish on any enemy. Let it be known that my Mom almost never fixed my broken mind, let alone my sister's. To come even an inch to undoing the horror we experienced is a testament to her determination and love of her children.
That's when I replaced fear with anger. A deep hatred replaced the fear of never surviving the nightmare I had been released of. I remember those days clearly. To think that no one came in and stopped the madness is what drives me insane. I had gotten my soul back... and it was burning with questions of morality. It wanted to pick a fight and it was a long while before I got one.
I escaped a nightmare with a bleeding mind and scared to death of my future. I might as well be a war veteran. I bled for my sanity to stay intact and when I was allowed to have it I almost threw it out the door.
That's fucked up. Sure, it's all over now, but the prey left for dead will become a vengeful predator seeking revenge. Thankfully I haven't done anything I regret.
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