Plight of the Forsaken - Part 3

This is a 100% true story of my Life. This and the episodes that follow will lead the world through the abuse I have endured. This is my personal story of struggle and triumph. If you are weak, or faint of heart, please avoid this story. I will publish one chapter each time the previous chapter hits 2000 hits.

Foreword:

I know I am publishing this chapter out of order, but it was on my mind to explain this part to you before continuing. I hope my readers will forgive me for throwing this at you out of order.

Chapter 3

6^th Birthday

The first birthday party I remember was held at a house in which we lived in Long Beach California. My best friend at the time was a mixed child named Chucky. I barely remember anything about him except he had the coolest hair. He and I were always together, we did everything together. I had invited him and several others of the kids in the neighborhood to my party. It was going to be great, all my friends were going to be there and I was going to be so popular.

I don't remember knowing what black, or white, was at this early age. We were all the same in my eyes, and I am sure all my friends thought the same. It was years later that life began to explain that we were not all the same, and even more years before I realized life was a lie, we are all the same regardless.

The day of my birthday arrived, my mother bought me a cake, I don't remember what flavor or decorations it had because the day was very short and we never got to enjoy the cake. During the beginning of the party we played party games. My father was an alcoholic. I never got to know why he drank like he did, but he found it necessary to drink till he forgot whatever demon haunted him.

My dad took this day as a day to become intoxicated. This in itself would have been fine if not for the events that unfolded when he came home. At the time I was convinced my mother was the victim in all things that happened in her marriage to my father. It was years later I realized that she was not a victim but rather an instigator.

My father came home drunk. This was not the first time he had come home drunk, but when he did come home like this is was never good. My mother followed him into the house; I was occupied with my friends so at first I didn't notice. Suddenly my friends were no longer paying attention to me, and that is when I noticed the yelling in the house. I will never know what happened that day to start the fight but there it was. My father pushed my mother through the screen door and into the front yard. She landed hard. He followed her out the door and soon had her up again and was beating her. Eventually they upturned my cake, my presents, and all the food. The party was over. Everyone was scrambling to get away. Soon the police arrived to arrest my father and I had to watch him leave. This was the conclusion of my 6^th birthday party.

It wouldn't be the last time. And the pain of seeing my father fade in the distance still haunts my dreams till this day. Years later, when I am a grown man, I would watch my father board a train for Los Angeles knowing it would be the last time I would see him alive.

Domestic Violence

Over the years I would witness the continued abuse of my parents. I say parents because not long after that first fight I finally understood it went both ways. My mother, being the person she was, could not allow my father to come home and simply pass out. She would use this opportunity to abuse him till he would finally abuse her back. This was a cycle that continued till I was 13 and my father finally gave up alcohol.

When I was 8 my father had come home drunk late at night. We were living in Long Beach again. This time my father was a manager at a small apartment building, maybe 10 units. My father had used a small hand axe to cut through the walls of two units so that instead of one small unit with sheets separating our sleeping area from theirs, we had a separate room to sleep in.

I remember vividly my father coming home and crashing out on the couch. He must have been totally wasted because it didn't take him long to pass out. My mother, never being one to get ignored has slapped him, kicked him, and even bit him to get his attention but he was truly out of it.

Now my mother and father drank a lot of coffee throughout their lives. At this time they had a huge silver coffee pot, one of those huge restaurant pots from the early 80's that can hold a vast amount of boiling liquid. My mother had been drinking the coffee all day so there is no telling how much was in there, but she dumped it all in his lap! This, as I am sure you can see, woke him up. I think it may have even sobered him up some. He beat my mother good that day. Even split her head with the axe. My mother, being the great actress she was, ran to the curtains and tore them down. She kept screaming that she wanted the neighbors to see what a BIG man he was. My father went to jail again that night. And we left for Arizona the next morning.

We moved a lot, left my father a lot, and they always came back together. These fights left me with a strong fear for relationships, and women, for years. This fight was when I realized my mother was just as guilty as my father during these fights. It was also the last time I let my mother tear me from my father when she decided we had to leave. Their next fight wouldn't happen till I was 11 or 12. When my mother decided she was leaving this time I stayed with my father. My mother was gone for over a month this time and life was good for me and my father. But that is another story, for another time.