Coming down off the high of reaching 100 posts, I’ve decided to share a little personal story for my post tonight. It’s not a poem, because I struggled to think clearly long enough to write anything that made sense. I will probably write a poem later and post that, but not tonight. Tonight, I just want to write.
This happened about eight or nine years ago, when I was ten or eleven years old. I’ve always been protective of my sister, and still am, but at that age I was constantly defending her from my dad. He was abusive, and still is, although more emotionally than physically. Anyway, he was teaching us some math concepts and my sister was getting them at all. He ignored her, and kept making her do something she clearly didn’t understand. I ignored it at first, remembering the advice my Dad used to give me, which I would learn later to e the worst advice you could give an aspergian:
“Stay in your box”
As I watched my dad continue to distress my sister, I began to feel angry. As I discussed in a post earlier, you know how anger was a problem for me in my childhood. Well, as I saw my sister’s frustration turn to tears, the rage boiled over. I jumped out of my seat and told him to leave her the hell alone. A narcissist as well, he got angry that he was losing control over the situation. Rather than admit his own error, he punished me by sending me to my room.
“Little bitch,” I yelled as loudly as I could. I mean, was I wrong? Probably, especially for calling him a bitch, but I didn’t know how else to describe his behavior towards my sister. I didn’t know what Aspergers or narcissism was, at the time.
What happened next would be a life changer.
I sat in my bed, still fuming about what had happened. I knew in my soul I wasn’t wrong, yet I also knew that calling someone a bitch isn’t exactly the most constructive way to get a point across.
Then it happened.
I don’t really remember what happened, but all I remember is being trapped under my bed as he’s punching me. In the stomach. In the groin. My arms. My legs. I couldn’t stop him, and I couldn’t fight back. I was screaming and crying and everything. I felt less than an animal. I felt worthless. I closed my eyes and just wished that one moment it would be over. I don’t remember what his face looked like, because I was too frightened by the commotion and everything happening to me.
“I’m only going to stop so I don’t hurt you”
That’s when he stopped and left me. I was still shaking and crying. Everything hurt. I had bruises all over, too. Worst yet, I was torn inside. I never thought a parent could turn on a child like that. Did all parents do that? Was it normal? I felt miserable for days, not telling my mom, as she was the only one who wasn’t home. I hated my parents for a long time after that, and my relationship with my dad has been nonexistent ever since.
That remained true until a few months later, when I had my checkup. My doctor noticed that my testicles were more elongated than usual. After some tests, and uncomfortable questions, it turned out that I had suffered a hernia. I told my doctors and my mom that it was from moving some furniture earlier, but only I knew the truth. It was from the abuse of my dad that hurt me, and I didn’t just have an emotional scar. I had a physical one, too. Everything’s better now, and I’ve had no setbacks or flare-ups, but the doctors said that the testicle will always hang lower on one side than the other. The was the worst, most crushing part. I would have to live with this scar, this memory of pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I would have to live with this for the rest of my life.
(Follow me @marylandpoet if you want to read more of my poetry, and be sure to check out my work at SpillWords.com. Stay tuned for a poetry piece on this traumatic incident.)