Untitled..but Events That Shaped My Life..true, Depressing, And The Best Writing I’ve Ever Seen Essay, Research Paper

For many people, childhood is a happy refuge of sunny memories and sheltering love. It is a place yearned for because of it’s safety, warmth, and innocence. Unfortunately, I have none of that. Most of my childhood experiences are walled off by mental barriers I myself put there, but cannot break down. What little I can remember I wish I could not.

For the first three years of my life, I lived in a happy home, my father was in the Navy, oft at sea, and my mother was a housewife, content to raise me. These are the years I cannot remember, as I assume most cannot, because of the dreamy incoherence of unproduced thoughts found in that age. Shortly after the age of three, my father was discharged from the Navy, and he took up carpentry and soon excelled at it, and moved back with his family to his home town, Wind Gap, Pa. Wind Gap is one of those towns where everyone knows eachother, and their business, but the gossip is only spoken safely behind doors of your own home. Even before entering the Navy, my father was well known for his quick temper and constant overconsumption of alcohol. The police, both of them, where frightened of him. At 6′ 4″, and straight out of the armed forces, he was quite intimidating. Not to mention, he was from a large family in the area, with 5 brothers of his build, and very closeknit.

As soon as we resumed living in this town, my father quickly resumed his old drinking buddies and alcoholism. Soon, he began arriving home at 2 a.m., in drinking rages, screaming and yelling, until my mother could calm him down and he would go to sleep. Even so, he was never abuse to me at this time, and I soon became used to this routine as to shut it out of my very mind.

Things continued so for about a year, until my father was at a party with one of his brothers. This brother gave him something new to try, a bright, white, powder. Soon after, my father fell into other drugs, and his alcoholism spread to breakfast and lunch. Also soon after, he fell into a life of almost constant paranoia and suspicion, not to mention rage. As a boy of four or so, there was little I could do, except huddle in my pillow and cry myself to sleep.

As I said before, I remember little of my early years of life, so I cannot be sure when the abuse began. My father, I believe, saw the wrong in what he was doing. However, he was a coward, because he sought to put the blame on someone else, anyone else. Since I tended to be nearest, and with him always. (my mother taking up a job once my father got fired from his, she worked part time) he most often would blame me. He vented his anger at his own misfortune (for he also felt sorry for himself) at me. Oftentimes he would find the smallest misdemeanor and beat me harshly, often into unconsciousness, for it. More often, however, he would have no reason at all. I remember somewhat cloudily an exact incident of such. I had spent a summer day playing with a friend of mine down the street. My father asked if I had fed the dogs as of yet, and I said no. He promptly slapped me across the face, bloodying my nose, and to drag me down the road by my skull. After I fed the dog, I remember walking into the house, immediately confronted by my father, carrying a switch. I remember the switch itself quite vividly, because he would often make me cut one myself. It was a pussy willow bush right behind one of the sheds we had, about 6 feet tall, and quite pretty. However, it died by fall, from the loss of most of its branches.

Soon physical pain became to mean much less to me. Even now, it takes events such as being hit by a car to produce a bruise on my body. However, I was constantly beaten down mentally, by my father who could not accept his own problems. I was barraged often by the words “Stupid”, “Idiot”, and “Moron” strongly punctuated by a slap to the back of my head. I believed him, because the only man I had ever loved or trusted, my father, told me so. I soon became recluse, trusting noone, and hating everyone, except my mother. The beating’s my mother took, often in my place, probably created the greatest pain to me. I remember vividly the numerous time he would throw her down the stairs (we lived in an old house, with hardwood stairs, oak banister, beautiful place), and beatings she would take as she diverted him from my room, or just because she would yell at him for creating uproars at 3 in the morning.

As I had said before, this was a town where everyone knew what was going on, but nobody would do anything. I saw smiles everywhere but pity or fear in eyes. The realization of this probably began my descent from the pedestal of innocence. My self-esteem was shot, I was disliked because everybody kept me at a distance, like I had a contagious disease. I saw the hypocrite in everyone, and the selfishness that exuded through humanity. My definition of the human race at this time contained 3 blocks and a school. I found no solace, no hope, no friends. I lived this way for three years.

Courage was found in back pockets, led by my mother, and my father was put in jail, and he and my mother split. I spent time in a shelter, then, we moved in with an aunt who lived in the area of North Coventry. At the time, I was seven. This happened halfway through the school year, and I began 2nd grade at North Coventry elementary sometime in February. Since my mother was constantly working so that we could have such things as a car and a home, not to mention food (nearly all the things from my old home were sold for money to buy drugs, that which wasn’t confiscated for police evidence, and the house was soon overtaken by the bank). I was enrolled in the local YMCA, so I could be watched after until my mother finished work. As I said before, I had no self-esteem, and nearly no people skills. Not to mention, any who would be sent to the YMCA were much like I was, and we put on faces to fake our masculinity and bullied and beat eachother into submission, in attempts to gain confidence that we had power of our own. My rage pulled me to the top of that pathetic hierarchy. Even as I held that position I had nagging thoughts of my own that this is not how things should work out, and what I wanted to feel was respect as a human being, not as a kid that was feared to beat others into submission. I quickly brushed them away….any thoughts I had would have to be stupid anyhow. My earlier experiences had set firm my thoughts on authorities, and it soon spread to any who held authority over me. I was a troublemaker. I shielded myself in my lies and continued to do things that would bring me attention and false respect from my peers. I cannot recount to you my experiences nor thoughts at the time accurately, because I am not good with words, but as I look at it now, I felt like a barbarian, trying to please the civilized with primitive presents that I saw worthy, but were as dirt to them. And standing there with a grin on my face, I was the fool but never saw it.

As this time passed I gained friends I shouldn’t have. I was dragged into their lives and prejudices. I was a sycophant, so that I would have friends, and I ignored what I didn’t like, and smiled at it all. I soon became what I hated. I lived like this for 4 years.

I have changed, but I struggle. “I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being…here is my real head, I wear this ***** mask because you cannot handle me”1

This is an event that shaped my life.

1edited, obviously, from Marilyn Manson, Portrait of an American Family