It is about to kick off

Memory is a funny thing. It is so many things at once. It is the source of our ego. Which also means it is false. It is that thing in our mind that causes us to think we are separate from everyone else; another lie. It is the source of our sense of ego self, but not true Self. Memory is the first liar we must confront in our own minds. Whenever someone tells me they remember something from their childhood perfectly I just smile and hope someday that individual sees past their own ego. For me though, this has turned out to be a blessing because I have no real memory of my childhood anymore. I wiped it away as best I could. In many respects my mind wiped it away for me if that makes any sense. When I was a child I did not understand what was going on. I was simply attempting to survive.

That's called a facade. The moment one represses something that facade is born. The false self. If the memories are false, then the sense of self that identifies with those memories is false, and on and on the falseness goes.  It is truly tricky business delving into it all.

I do remember some things though. I cannot help it. By the time I was thirteen my memory was already quite vague about a great many things. I knew what had happened to me I just couldn’t recall the details. I couldn’t recall the specific moments. The violence was overwhelming. This in itself gave me a great sense of being wronged. I knew I was different than the rest because of how I was treated. By the time I was seventeen most of my fundamental memories were stories I had been told that my mind made into memories. It is funny how that works.

I remember my grandmother telling me that when I was three I threatened to burn down the house so that my mother would have to move back in with my father. I have always found it quite interesting that at three I wanted to move back into a house with a man who would get drunk and beat me. He got drunk every day. Even more peculiar is that my solution to the problem was violence.

As I got older though I realized my grandmother’s house was the only safe place I had. When I was there, I was safe. It wasn't until I was much older that my step father made the mistake of choking me in front of my grandmother. It was then that she forced my mother to leave him. I was eleven or twelve by this time. What my grandmother failed to realize is that all those years he had always been doing that to me. My own mother never stopped it once.

I heard a story once that there was another time my mother tried to leave him, but he took my brother and me, and held us hostage with a gun in the bedroom. He never treated his own children like he did Josh and I. My half brothers were actually his of course. She was threatened with our lives should she leave. I have no memory of this event and I was old enough that I should remember it all. I have no memory of being choked in front of my grandmother either, and again, I was old enough that I should remember. My mind learned to block those things out. Being so young and fearing for one’s life, forever after, changes a person.

When we were young, living in Hermann, they moved around a lot. I don't think they were ever paying the bills. I remember waking up in a trailer and there being frost on the inside of the walls. When I go back to Hermann now as an adult I do not even remember some of the places we lived. I have no memories of the evening time whatsoever, because that is when he was home. I think we lived in over six or seven different apartments and trailers before moving into the house on top of the hill. We ended up staying there until she was forced to leave him. It was the tallest hill in the town and we lived right on top of it.

I do remember vaguely always being called a pussy, always being told how stupid I was, always being ridiculed. It was literally beat into my head. I remember leaving the bedroom once after being beat with a belt. When he was done he told me get out of the room, and as I was leaving the room he punched me in the head because I was crying, "Shut up you little pussy, quit your crying." That leather belt was no joke. Who wouldn’t cry? It did not matter what I did; it was never good enough.

It was just one more thing that separated me from the rest. Eventually I learned to not express my hatred for my mother because of how people treated me for saying it. You know what I am talking about. When I was in high school everyone would always admonish me for saying such things. They would say, "How can you hate your mother?" As if there was something wrong with me! You see, even though I did not realize it then, I already knew very deep things about life that no one else I knew did. It was forced upon me. People would literally tell me that I was a bad person for hating my mother. This only further fueled my Self loathing. No matter what I did, I was wrong. Everywhere I turned someone was telling me that I was a bad person. I was just a kid.

By the time I was thirteen I hated her guts. My hate was complete. Not some petty hate like others had, that others thought was actually hate, I really knew what hate was. I hated her with my whole being. It consumed me. I used to say that hate was the first thing I ever learned in life. It defined me. This is why I say I am motherless. Yes it is true, a woman gave birth to me, but she was never my mother. A mother protects her children. What I had was a woman who only cared about herself. I had a woman who threw me under the bus. A woman who still to this day does not own up for what she has done. She is deserving of hate. I would not be able to look at myself in the mirror and feel like my Self if I did not hate her. While it no longer consumes me, it is there all the same. It is a fact of my life. Like a pedophile she is worthy of hate and I would not be living up to my full potential if I did not hate her.

With puberty came the rage. With testosterone came an energy that required me to act on my rage. If I had attempted to keep it inside I would have had to kill myself. Very soon it is about to kick off. By this point, with no outside help, with no understanding of what had happened to me; I had no choice but to act out.

As I write this, I have not seen her in over seven years, and if I have anything to do with it I will never see her again.