I have tried my hardest to be the last of the abused in my family line. Unfortunately, I trusted my dad, when I shouldn't have, and my son was exposed to both his and Sharon's abuses. Maybe Caleb can be the change for out family line. I will never abuse his children. I don't abuse him. I don't believe in the things that motivate my dad to be physically violent with children. I don't agree that that is the answer or proper way to change unwanted behaviors in children with or without medical conditions.
Mathew had it worse than I did. He was less obedient and less inclined to follow "the rules" and keep from getting punished. I remember one time when we were still young, that my dad lifted him to the ceiling of the living room and threw him across the room out of anger. I was not the only one attempting suicide. He locked himself in the trunk of an old car in the heat of the summer one day, and could have died had we not gone looking for him. Sharon, a black belt in choi kwan do, punched Mathew as a result of him calling her a bitch. At least he was honest. Together they made him sleep in the garage, where there was no air conditioning, along with Sharon's aging Great Dane, Hailey. Hailey was no longer in control of her bowels and was no longer being cared for by Sharon. Mathew saw to her needs, or she would have died sooner than she did. Mathew was also forced to sleep at my dad's auto shop on a cot. My dad would keep him up at all hours of the night to help him work on cars, not caring that he was expected to stay awake in his high school classes. When he was a little bit older, my dad punched Mathew in the face and broke his nose. His nose required surgery in his adult life to return his breathing to normal.
We lived in the time before the internet, and when the internet was not widely available. We had one computer for the family. My dad and Sharon only had one cable box for the entire house, and they had it in their bedroom. This means they controlled the tv at all times. I stopped watching tv at all once we moved to Southern Pines because of this. I only used the computer to type my school reports, because it was frequently being used by my dad. The house was small for the amount of furniture being kept. It was both Mathew and my responsibility to deep clean the house every week before being able to go anywhere, or do anything on the weekend. Neither one of them contributed to the cleaning of the house. We were both servants.
I had problems with my menstrual cycle. Every month I would vomit as a result of the amount of pain I was suffering. One month in particular, I was vomitting all day long. The amount of time in between the time of me going to the bathroom was decreasing, and Sharon noticed. She decided I needed to go to the hospital. My dad, along with every body else got in the van, and went to to the Emergency Room. I was unable to stop the urge to throw up. I had a bag to throw up in. I was feeling weak as I had also had diarrhea earlier that day (usual for me). They ran some tests, and came up with nothing. I was not pregnant, which was their first question. They gave me a shot, if I remember correctly, and I fell asleep. Eventually they sent me home. While I was there though, a nurse told me, "I'm not the doctor, but I think you may have fibromyalgia." I barely remembered that for a long time. I had never heard that word before. I was taken home, and told to rest and hydrate. The bill for this visit was over $700. My dad told me it was my responsibility to pay that bill. I don't know why he thought I could pay it. I didn't have a job at the time. I was still a dependent minor, so, wasn't it his responsibility to provide health care for me? It wasn't until later that that I sought out a free women and children's clinic where I applied for medicaid for myself. I was in charge of getting my own pap smears and birth control to help ease my symptoms. I was maybe 16, and just barely able to drive myself places alone. Neither Sharon nor my dad ever took me to a regular doctor's appointment. They never put Mathew nor myself in any kind of medical treatment or mental health treatment. We never saw a dentist.
I remember my first eye exam. I think I was a high school junior or senior. I was having bad headaches in my AP American History class. I sat in the back of the classroom and could not see the board clearly. I made the appointment myself, and paid for the exam myself. I also bought my own glasses. When I put my glasses on, outside, in my front yard, I almost cried at the difference it made. Everything was so clear and sharp and defined! How long had I been living without 20/20 vision? I found out I was near-sighted and had astigmatism.
Now, I have all these health problems, and my dad wants to take credit for me going in the Army. He believes he was the reason I enlisted. He wasn't. He was the reason I avoided enlisting sooner. He believes that my service leading to my VA Disability Benefits which provides healthcare to me now, was his doing. It wasn't. I did all the work myself.
Trying to make sense out of a mad man will only drive me to insanity. That's what it's like being around my dad. I'm sure he would take credit for my college education if he could too. He didn't have anything to do with that. As a matter of fact, he made it harder for me to complete my degree as I had to do it alone, without the support of family.
It's strange that my dad says things like "You don't give yourself credit", and then proceeds to take the credit.
I just want to mention something else because it's on my mind as I was talking about it to Nichole earlier today. My dad told Christinia, while he was living on Billy's (my next door neighbor) property in his car, that he would burn my house down with everyone inside. He also said he would blow up the department of social services office, and watch for people to run out and kill them. He was saying that "no one would ever know it was me." That's really disturbing to think about.
I remember my dad came in to the skating rink one one Friday or Saturday night and caught me skating with an older man, who happened to be a friend of mine. I immediately felt the storm brewing in my stomach. According to him, I wasn't supposed to have anything to do with boys until I was 16. I don't know how old I was at the time, but I know I wasn't 16. When we got in the car, he punched me.
For someone who didn't conform to the society's standards he grew up in, he sure expected us to. He didn't teach us anything about his native culture at all. He taught Brazilian Portuguese at the Language school for Special Forces at Ft. Bragg for a time, but he never taught his own children his native tongue. Then... he expected us to learn a language in high school.
I may not be able to keep up with the Jones' around here, but my son sees medical care and mental health care as often as needed.
In elementary school I began to see the school guidance counselor at some point. I remember being in 5th grade when I came to school late one day. My dad brought Mathew and me to school that day. I had been hit on the forearms and hands with the leather belt for not defending Mathew. Mathew, at that age didn't respect boundaries and was chronically pushing people over the edge, getting on their last nerves. An older girl, who was at our bus stop in front of her house, kicked Mathew in the privates for being an asshole and not leaving her alone. My reaction was to go home and tell my dad. My dad was pissed that I did not stand up for him. I was not a fighter. She was bigger and older than I was. He, in my eyes, got what was coming to him. We both got hit that morning. When I walked through the elementary school halls, I tried to hold back my tears. When I sat down in my class, I could not hold them back any longer. I was sent to the guidance counselor's office. I told her what happened, and cried even more. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't deserve to be hit. We didn't have cell phones back then, and it was even an expensive thing to have a camera. Otherwise pictures would have been taken, and used as evidence of child abuse. Social services was called at some point. A social worker came to our house to investigate. If you know anything about narcissists, you know how well they can make people believe their stories. This was no different.
When we were older and Sharon was living with us, the cops were called to the house on several occasions because of my dad's anger. He was scary. I was afraid for Mathew's life.
There were times while we were in elementary school that we would come home to no electricity, or no cable, or no water, or no phone connection. There was a long time when we had to use pay phones to call our friends. Before Sharon lived with us, we would eat the same dinners repeatedly, mainly spaghetti with meat sauce, barbeque chicken, or I want to say pork chops. My dad didn't know how to cook very much. Besides, we didn't have a lot of money to spend. I remember Dinty Moore Beef Stew and Ramen noodles.
I thought that by agreeing to have Sharon move in with us, we would gain a mother. She wanted to be called "Dona Sharon," and I immediately hated her for it. What kind of relationship can you expect from someone who wants to be called Mrs. Sharon? She was educated, so I thought she would support us in our education. She never once sat down with Mathew to help him with his school work. Never once. They made us move from Spring Lake to Southern Pines at the end of my freshman year in high school. The school year had not ended, and this totally fucked me up academically and socially.
I did make a friend the first day of school at Pinecrest High School. Her name was Rachel, and I met her in gym class. She is still my friend today. We have seen each other through a great many hardships through the years, and she is the only one who I have contact with from that period of my life.
When I got my driver's license, I drove wither Mathew or Rachel with me , or sometimes both, everywhere I went. They were my battle buddies before I knew what battle buddies were.
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