And away we go.
Oh, and try and bear with me, if it sounds like I'm rambling, I probably am. This is roughly four years of my life that I'm covering nearly ten years later.
So, as most people who know me know that I spent several years in Alabama. Not for any good reason, no, but because my mom's significant other at the time wanted to relocate us back to live with his family and for a few other reasons, but they're unimportant, for my sake anyway. This decision came after my little brother was born and we were down there before my mom married the man who fathered him
I was not going to have it; I didn't want to move, and I was terrified at the idea of leaving everyone and everything I knew. I remember right before we were supposed to leave I hid under the kitchen table trying in vain to prevent my whole life being uprooted (Yes, at five, I didn't have much of a life, but what I had was important to me and I was not about to let that go). Suffice it to say, my efforts failed and I moved.
1,318 miles. One thousand-three hundred and eighteen miles. From one part of the country to another. My little life was pretty much reset. Not the reset you do when you're failing epically on like, Mario or Zelda, my life was basically to be started over. It sucked.
As I settled into my new life, I discovered several things: 1) The South sucked, 2) people from the South are dumb and if you point it out, you are scolded, 3) the South sucked, 4) you have to be a liar and a biological member of the family to get anywhere, 5) there were favorites played amongst the grandchildren and 6) the South sucked. I also discovered that any little mistake I made, which tends to happen as a child, I was punished. Most of the time, I had something taken away from me. I also was accused of lying, frequently, which I'm sure I told some lies, I didn't tell as many as I was made to have been told, and that put me into even more trouble. Eventually the punishments went from just having things taken from me to more . . . how shall I put this, physical punishment. It started out as just a swift swat on the rear, but before long that wasn't good enough.
My mom's (now ex) husband began to use other objects to punish me. These ranged from wooden or plastic spoons, with or without air holes, switches, belts, and his hand, on my bare bottom. Occasionally I had the spoon used on my hands, most often time it was the rear. What's even worse was the fact that I had to go and get said implements myself. It was unnerving having to go and retrieve the thing that would soon be used to inflict punishment onto me, but it would be worse if I hadn't gotten the thing he would use to beat (yes, beat) me with.
Now with that being said, I'll just come out and say it: I was abused as a child. Nobody deserves that. Not a single man, woman, or child deserves to be abused. Most of the abuse I was subjected to was emotional or mental abuse with the occasional bout of being physically abused. It wasn't just me that that monster abused either, he abused my mother, my brother, and my sisters and he continues to abuse my siblings to this day, but that's another story for, not likely ever.
Being abused and witnessing abuse had a profound effect on my developing young psyche. I was always an introvert, but would open up and be extroverted around people I knew, but the abuse brought out my tendencies as an introvert. I also developed this trait that is more pronounced now that I am older. I am more likely to listen to people talk to me about their problems, acting as a rock and confidant for them while I bottle up and stifle my emotions and problems, preferring to handle them myself. I think I developed this as a response to seeing those around me being hurt and I did what I could to help them and at 7, 8, 9 years old all I could really do was just be there for them.
This has proven to be a problem in recent months as I've felt alone and isolated from people and I have to say I have had a few breakdowns, crying more in one semester alone than I normally do in an entire year. All because I won't willingly communicate my problems. I also have an odd paranoia with even communicating my problems because I don't want people to think I'm . . . what's the word I'm looking for . . . weak? Incapable of handling my own problems? Pitiful? All of the above?
I discovered a way to escape from my situation. I turned to books; books were my sanctuary. As was my bedroom . . . and music, but I didn't turn to it as frequently as I do now. The only real time I had any peace and quiet time to myself when I wasn't being terrorized was when I was in school, I was in bed, when he was at work, or when I came back home (home being Minnesota, Alabama never felt like home to me).
Probably the worst part about the abuse was the fact that it wasn't constant. You may be saying "But Andrew, wouldn't that would be the best part!" Well, no. The fact that it wasn't constant was made it so much more awful when it did happen; I was never expecting it to happen. Ever. When it did happen it would be passed off as trying to "teach me a lesson," and "that is was for my own good." It was difficult living with someone who would switch from "loving step-parent" to "abusive monster."
My mom, whom I love dearly, did what she could. She had uprooted our little family (for a multitude of reasons other than my brother) and she was now trapped - she had three children with him, had no real way of leaving the state, couldn't leave because he could easily claim my mother was kidnapping my siblings if she tried and she was pretty much alone.
As I grew up and became more mature, my mother began to come to me and I provided her with emotional stability and support that she needed. I became her rock and she became mine. Odd as it sounds, it worked for us. To this day, we have a unique sort of relationship.
Anyway, my mom had had enough of that nonsense and tried to make efforts to repair the significantly damaged marriage she found herself in. We moved back to Minnesota soon after the school year ended, it was roughly four years after we moved down there. My mother (which is what I generally call her when we greet each other on the phone) and the guy she married were together for about two more years after we moved back. It went quickly downhill from there. It ended badly and he made the situation go from bad to worse. They separated and eventually divorced, but he still finds ways to hurt us. Most of the hurt comes from him trying to take custody of my siblings away from my mother and that deeply affects her. But that story isn't ready to be told; it still hasn't ended yet.
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Okay kids. This post turned out to be way more than I thought it would be. Like, I never figured that it would grow to be this long.
In short, what I was trying to do was share a little bit about myself that I have never really done so in great detail. I have nothing to hide about it, it happened, it's nothing for me to be ashamed of as I did nothing wrong. I just told the truth. If people have a problem with that, well, that's their problem. Not mine.
If there is anything I hope you picked up on from this post is that you shouldn't abuse anyone. Really.
With that note, I'd like to leave you with a funny picture* I've Stumbled Upon.
*Caution - Contains adult language that may be unsuitable for the younger set. Don't say I didn't warn you. I did. I really did. I gave you plenty of warning.
Oh, and I apologize for the weird formatting with the space between my paragraphs. I don't know quite went wrong there. I did try fixing it a few times, but it still looks weird.
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