In The Beginning…

I was raised in a house riddled with domestic violence. I don’t know how my parents met and oddly I do not have any pictures of them together. My mother had two toddlers when they met. They married in May 1965 and I was born in December 1964. I’ve often wondered if she entrapped him with her pregnancy of me.

From my Dad’s perspective, I’m certain he found her attractive as she was quite beautiful and probably had an attractive personality to match, however, I never knew that person as the first memory of abuse at the hands of my mother, began when I was 11 months young. The abuse continued until I was 15 years old. There was a defining moment, when I arrived home from school one day and she was angry about something. Not unusual. That day was the very last time my mother physically abused me.
I had learned some key words, my Dad had said to her, mostly during heated arguments and fights, and they seemed to cause her to back off and let him alone.
When I realized she was not finished yelling at me, and that she had followed me in to my bedroom, I turned to face her and as I did, she raised her hand, holding a belt, and attempted to strike me. I grabbed her belt wielding arm and from my mouth came words that I have never repeated. “If you hit me again, I will kill you and bury you in the back yard”! She left my room, yelling her usual profanities, something I had learned to mostly ignore, and yet, my threat had staved her off.
That was quite the year. The bad and the ugly remained, however there was a touch of good ever once in a while.

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