Ex-factor

I feel like things would be so much easier if they hadnt made it so hard.

I grew up in their eyes, into what I thought was a paradigm of what a child should become. There's not much I dont know how to do or cant figure out. I'm respectful, caring....everything they molded me to be.

It was tough being raised by them. dad was physically and mentally abusive. both mom and I were susceptible to the onslaught of name-calling, humiliation, and punches.

There were plenty of times that i couldnt look my mom in the face because it was a constant reminder of what could (and sometimes did) happen to me. I would lie to the school officials about whatever black-eyes and bruises I had to wear after not keeping my room to standard or whatever the case may have been.

I remember one time in particular...I was seven and small and rowdy. I was prone to getting hungry in between meals. So before dinner I made myself a sandwich, using the last of the bread. At dinner dad wanted a slice to go with whatever it was we were eating. Seeing there was no more, he asked who ate the last....unknowing that my answer would lead to such great consequences, I fessed up. Infuriated, he banished me from the kitchen unless given permission by either him or my mom.

My little brother was six months old. My parents had just bought him a little walker that had little noisey, colored gadgets attached. I heard them making a fuss over his attraction to the rattle, the way his feet were making the walking mechanism of the mobile move, and I wanted to join on the laughter. I didnt think anything of going into the kitchen.

Silence fell quick when I perched myself next to the walker and began shaking the rattle in my brother's face. It took me a minute to detect that not everyone was enjoying the moment like they were before my arrival. I look up, and dad's face read death to me. My mom had her back turned away from me, her usual response to whenever I was about to get some sort of punishment from him. He asked me who allowed me to come into the kitchen. That's when it clicked in my head that I was in some serious shit, for real. When I didnt answer he told me to go to my room and 'drop 'em' , the way he always did. And just like I always did, I cried the whole way to my room and the entire time I waited for my fate. What seemed like an eternity later, he came in and let out every ounce of anger on my backside. and my hands. and my face.

He worked at a tobacco plant at the time and left before I went to school. I woke up and got dressed as usual, sore but not really noticing how badly I had beaten. It was something I always managed to block out of my head without trying, even as I got older. But mom noticed it all. Before I got on the bus that morning, I had memorized a lie to tell everyone that she had conjured up. I could say it forwards and backwards, and she asked me all the questions that any outsider would ask, and I answered them perfectly using the lie, and with no hesitation.

But whoever that lady was that asked me over and over what happened to my face and hands had heard that tale too many times before. I stayed in the office at school for the better part of that day. She took pictures of my face and hands, and asked me continously what happened. Understanding now that my parents were in trouble, I made an even bigger attempt to stick to the story that my mom had told me to tell. But the teacher didnt help the situation. She told the picture lady how I had come to school with black eyes before, and that only helped confirm the truth that the lady was trying to get out of me. The end of the day came and I went home on the school bus as usual. Being naive to the way the child abuse laws worked at the time, I thought everything was said and done, considering they let me go home on the bus and all.

It was an after school ritual to call my mom at work no sooner I set foot in the door. I was very precocious for my age, so my parents saw it unnecessary to put me in daycare unless it was a night my mom was working past six. That afternoon, no sooner my mom got on the line, she started spewing out endless questions. 'did you tell people what i told you to say this morning?' 'why did some lady call my job and ask me if i abuse my children?' and so on and so forth. I didnt get the chance to answer anything before she told me she had to go and that we would talk when she got home. Scared that I was going to catch another beating, I went to sleep. To this day, I use sleeping as a means of escaping from the world for a little while.

My mom had barely closed the back door behind her before there was a knock at the front door. She yelled a whispered order to get into the closet that connected her room to mine and to keep quiet. The next thing I heard was my mother pleading to not take her little boy. 'You cant put me in handcuffs, I am holding my six month old son. You're not taking him anywhere, no.' It was seconds later that I was found. I dont remember seeing her or her saying anything to me. The next thing I remember is standing in front of a big, black women, smelling like potpurri and bread.

For one year, I lived in two different households. For one year, I couldnt hug my mom. For one year, I didnt see my little brother. Out of an entire year, I saw my dad twice.

When my brother and I first came back home, things were different. For the first couple weeks, there were no arguments, no fussing, we ate dinner as a family, all that ol bullshit you see on tv that you say is so cheesy but simultaneously a small part of you wishes your family did that. But it didnt last long. dad fell back into his old ways quick and hit mom over an argument, and as much as I had thought things were different, I immediately saw they werent. And it never went back.

When he finally came around to putting his hands on me again, I could tell he controlled himself about it. And the control he held only lasted for so long. When he took out anger on my face, (on more than one occasion) he got smarter about it, and just kept me home from school. Specific words, 'You cant get my son taken from me again if they cant see the scars and you cant run your mouth about it.'

They blamed me for the heartache they went through, as if it wasnt hard on me too. And they continue to blame me for the inequities the deal with. It's my fault the youngest was born premature, in conjunction with the arguments my dad held with my mom during her most crucial carrying point. It's my fault they robbed me of the money that I sweated for.

I feel like life would be easier if they would own up to what they've done. I can forgive them for beating me to the point that it was unable to be hidden. I can forgive them for the punishments, the so-called lessons that kept me from enjoying a huge chunk of my youth. All that I can put aside, because I think that's what makes me who I am. But I cant forgive them for robbing me, and turning the tables to make it seem as though I made them committ that act. I'm not sure if I can ever go back to that house. At least, not now.

'care for me, care for me
i know you care for me
there for me, there for me
said you'd be there for me
cry for me, cry for me
said you would die for me
give to me, give to me
why won't you live for me
....where were you when i needed you'