Past
Monday, May 23, 2005 by Daren Darrow
I am uncertain as to why these things are running through my head, at 2 a.m. nonetheless, but I can only assume it has to do with the fact that I just finished reading Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix. I feel like I can relate to much of what Harry had to face at such a young age ...
I remember hiding in my closet for hours upon hours as a child, because my abusive father was on a rampage. Taking out his aggression, physically, on my mother and my brother. I feared that I would be next, although I never was. Perhaps because I was hidden.
I remember my father beating upon my mother in front of me. Breaking her nose, twisting her arm so hard behind her back that I could hear her shoulder popping while she was wailing in front of me. All the while my father shouting at me to "Look at her, look at the whore." I was perhaps 9 at the time. I didn't know what to do. At this point I had seen him do so much, that I did not shed a tear. I tried not to look at was happening, but I was afraid to act. I threw out some hap-hazardous remarks about calling police and he threatened me to do it. My mother begged for me to do so, but my father had threw her out the door, onto the ground of the yard, while her nose was gushing with blood, she ran for safety. Later that night, she snuck back for me, to get me from the house, and I ran with her for two miles in nothing more than a pair of shorts and bear footed.
I remember my father, beating my brother as he lay on the floor of our living room over something as trivial as not doing something for him. It was a fight that ensued for 15 or so minutes, objects being knocked around. Brother and father calling each other names, and ultimately resulting in my father sitting on my brother, hitting him and breaking his nose. Later that day, my brother ran away. He didn't come back for days, until the police brought him back. Stupid police.
My father has chased my brother down our drive way, throwing hammers and rocks any anything else he could find at my brother. While cussing him and telling him not to come back. He didn't, not for a few days.
My brother was late coming home one evening, and so my father had taken my brothers moped (vespa type) to the middle of the drive way, and set it on fire. Destroying it as punishment, as a symbol of destroying my brothers freedom. His mobility.
I remember being forced by my father to write a letter, during my parents divorce, that had me dispute everything that my mother had accused him of. I was afraid of him, and did it. I delayed it as long as I could. I even changed pens and varied my writing style trying to throw some sense of doubt into the authenticity of the letter.
My school eventually had to get involved in the battle. They had to forbid both of my parents from school property. They had to prevent them from taking me from school. I remember several occasions where I was taken from class, or lunch, and told to set in a locked class room while they made my parents leave. Mostly because of my father, but they were afraid of what my mother might do as well.
I had to stay at my friend Barbara's house for nearly a month because of the divorce. I didn't have contact with either parent. Sadly, this is the best time I had experienced during that period.
I remember being 12 or 13, and being sent to our local convenience store (only store in the small town) to buy my father more beer, because obviously he wasn't drunk enough. Sadly, they sold it to me.
My father constantly accused my mother of infidelity. With every man she ever had contact with. He was jealous.
It's no wonder I am emotionally scared. Afraid of what I could become. Putting all my effort, my determination, into not becoming that man. I am better than he is. I am stronger than I was as a child. I am not afraid off him, he will pay for what he has done to my family. I will not be the one who does it. It will either be his conscious, if he has one, that eats at him as long as he is alive. And if there is a such thing as an afterlife, I would hope that his would be less-than pleasant.
I remember hiding in my closet for hours upon hours as a child, because my abusive father was on a rampage. Taking out his aggression, physically, on my mother and my brother. I feared that I would be next, although I never was. Perhaps because I was hidden.
I remember my father beating upon my mother in front of me. Breaking her nose, twisting her arm so hard behind her back that I could hear her shoulder popping while she was wailing in front of me. All the while my father shouting at me to "Look at her, look at the whore." I was perhaps 9 at the time. I didn't know what to do. At this point I had seen him do so much, that I did not shed a tear. I tried not to look at was happening, but I was afraid to act. I threw out some hap-hazardous remarks about calling police and he threatened me to do it. My mother begged for me to do so, but my father had threw her out the door, onto the ground of the yard, while her nose was gushing with blood, she ran for safety. Later that night, she snuck back for me, to get me from the house, and I ran with her for two miles in nothing more than a pair of shorts and bear footed.
I remember my father, beating my brother as he lay on the floor of our living room over something as trivial as not doing something for him. It was a fight that ensued for 15 or so minutes, objects being knocked around. Brother and father calling each other names, and ultimately resulting in my father sitting on my brother, hitting him and breaking his nose. Later that day, my brother ran away. He didn't come back for days, until the police brought him back. Stupid police.
My father has chased my brother down our drive way, throwing hammers and rocks any anything else he could find at my brother. While cussing him and telling him not to come back. He didn't, not for a few days.
My brother was late coming home one evening, and so my father had taken my brothers moped (vespa type) to the middle of the drive way, and set it on fire. Destroying it as punishment, as a symbol of destroying my brothers freedom. His mobility.
I remember being forced by my father to write a letter, during my parents divorce, that had me dispute everything that my mother had accused him of. I was afraid of him, and did it. I delayed it as long as I could. I even changed pens and varied my writing style trying to throw some sense of doubt into the authenticity of the letter.
My school eventually had to get involved in the battle. They had to forbid both of my parents from school property. They had to prevent them from taking me from school. I remember several occasions where I was taken from class, or lunch, and told to set in a locked class room while they made my parents leave. Mostly because of my father, but they were afraid of what my mother might do as well.
I had to stay at my friend Barbara's house for nearly a month because of the divorce. I didn't have contact with either parent. Sadly, this is the best time I had experienced during that period.
I remember being 12 or 13, and being sent to our local convenience store (only store in the small town) to buy my father more beer, because obviously he wasn't drunk enough. Sadly, they sold it to me.
My father constantly accused my mother of infidelity. With every man she ever had contact with. He was jealous.
It's no wonder I am emotionally scared. Afraid of what I could become. Putting all my effort, my determination, into not becoming that man. I am better than he is. I am stronger than I was as a child. I am not afraid off him, he will pay for what he has done to my family. I will not be the one who does it. It will either be his conscious, if he has one, that eats at him as long as he is alive. And if there is a such thing as an afterlife, I would hope that his would be less-than pleasant.
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