Family Trauma - Tumblr Posts
Am I really going to put Michael Afton on my kin list… is that what I’m really about to do? Was Sunny/Omori not enough for me?
Page 1.1
Story and characters by: @galaxyravenwolfx
Read the fanfic this is based off of: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046165/chapters/24624753?view_adult=true
Previous: https://camiecomics.tumblr.com/post/691041323534483456/show-chapter-archive
Next: https://camiecomics.tumblr.com/post/694023688551530496/story-and-characters-by-galaxyravenwolfx-read
Beginning: https://camiecomics.tumblr.com/post/689595174457901057/show-chapter-archive
Why can't I get rid of you?
Jjba writing practice
Her voice was chilling as she spoke his name. A name, he was no stranger to. A name he had been reminded. Reminded and made to remember how much of a gift it was. By her. His eyes shakily moved to meet her's. This couldn't be could it? She had been out of his life for years this. . .woman. she had been gone and he was glad to have finally rid himself of her and that name. And yet here, finally in his quiet life, happy, she was back. He felt anxieties rise back up in him, something was not right. THIS was not right. she was gone, and she never greeted him like this.
His suspicions proved true as he gasped for breath his form jolting awake, he shakily silenced himself looking over. He quivered for a moment remembering the woman next to him, shinobu. His wife and a women he dosen't fully know how to feel about. While not actually his wife this time he has spent here he. . .has grown an attachment. He feels protective of her and the boy, hayato. His. . .son. the boy was hesitant to trust him but he felt something was growing. Over all, he had settled in quite nicely, this truly was a quiet life he could get used to. . .if only these dreams did not haunt him. Dreams of the woman he left, His mother. She controlled him for so long, even now at times like this he felt taken advantage of even though she wasn't on this earth any longer. Slipping from bed he quietly trudged his way to the bathroom. With a deep sigh he looked into the mirror.
'what is your name?' He quietly asked himself. 'I am kosaku. Kosaku kawajiri.'
He looked to his reflection, feeling his heart thump in his chest. His stand manifested as it stood beside him, kosaku was startled stumbling back, he sighed relieved to see it was only his longest and oldest friend. Carefully dressing himself in some casual and comfortable clothing he began to cook. It would be morning soon and he needed to kill time. He would not go back to bed knowing the memories of her awaited him, he hated remembering that time. Especially her.
So he continued to cook. Because he was kosaku kawajiri. Loving husband to shinobu kawajiri and father to hayato kawajiri. He could cook and clean, was "learning" to play the violin. He often played for his wife and son long into the night to help them all sleep. He was a father, a businessman, and a husband.
he was, kosaku kawajiri.
What is family if not hate disguised as love
Tw: eating disorders and self harm
The monsters in my head. They won't leave.
An empty stomach. A grave where I live.
Scars on my thighs. A strange relief.
A disconsolate existence. A sigh of grief
My shattered childhood. It haunts me still
Whimpers of pain. A broken will.
Venomous family. Full of greed.
Begged you to stop it. It never did.
Tw: self harm
Autumn still
The spring air is filled with laughter and serenity.
Not something to be tainted with my goddamn tragedy.
But I am alone and my wrist is bleeding.
Despair surrounds me like death to the grieving.
I don't know peace; I perhaps never will.
For my disconsolate existence it is autumn still.
Pic via pinterest
If I believed in god I would ask him why he did this to me.
But I do not.
If I believed in myself I would ask me how I let this happen.
But I do not
Pic via pinterest
Is it normal to grieve yourself?
And still yearn the grief?
To know you'll be eternally hurting,
Why is it such a relief?
Tw: self harm
Broken mosaic
Broken like a mosaic, this grief is beautiful.
Cold as a grave, this silence is peaceful.
A pain drenched tartarus was what made childhood.
A longing filled asphodel is what makes life cruel.
Sinister evil spirits, they whisper in the dark.
Cold harsh voice, it will shatter up your heart.
The silence kept saying with such delicacy.
But mind kept begging for sincere secrecy.
So close your little eyes, home is full of ghosts.
Hide your own self, it is terrifying to be known.
Shred your skin, once again you'll be filled with relief.
One last cut; an eternity of sleep.
Tw: self harm, self loathing
A girl lies on her bedroom floor.
She bleeds through her eyes and cries through her veins.
I watch her helplessly and let her fall apart.
Everyday she fights long lost battles and dies gruesome deaths.
Her life is nothing but a grave full of dead hopes.
I watch her and do nothing.
Perhaps because there isn't much left of her to be saved.
She is covered in bruises I don't recognize her anymore.
I watch her with curiosity.
Her eyes dark and cold like the night itself, she reeks of misery.
A home full of ghosts, none of them remotedly as dead as her soul.
I watch her mercilessly.
After all that's what monsters like her deserve.
I say, and I stop watching her.
No part of her deserves to be loved.
I say, and I step away from the mirror.
If to love is to rest then I will perceive death for you.
For what greater form of rest do we know than to lie in the cold, dark earth forever?
The worst thing you ever did was to make me believe I could be loved
Dear universe
At 13 I thought that the universe hates me. For it made me tainted and it made me unlovable. Perhaps it was true; or perhaps I was just 13. Now I finally see that there are things that actually love me.
The darkness holds me still and grief kisses my hand. The demons in my head tell me it'll be fine. And hunger kind of always stays along with this unbearable ache. Longing lingers like a lonely child and sinister thoughts eat me up inside. Years of misery and wishing to be dead. Screams of terror and weeps of fate. But dear universe I wont complain. For dear universe I still am loved.
GO READ THIS SHIT!!!!!!!! This is one of my very bestest of friends on this whole entire planet! She occasionally likes to write about her life.
My Masterlist Bitches!
Series
White Trash Demons(Also a link to my AO3)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
I will forever be amazed at my BFF @hessofather’s writing! Please take a gander on this story ❤️ It’s funny and heartbreaking at the same time
Chapter One- 1980 Something
A/N: I’m just writing about family stories and my life. Sad, happy, funny, painful. There is one thing that all these memories have in common. It all screams white trash. Maybe I’m using this as a way to cope. Maybe nobody will ever read this. But if you are, please, go grab your cigarettes and boones farm strawberry wine with ice in it, and enjoy the rollercoaster of events that I call my life.
Ok so imagine this, it’s summer 1980-something. You’re a 15 year old, who comes from an abusive home with an alcoholic step-father, and satan as your mother. Like literally satan. (Don’t worry there will be more stories later) You live in a two mile long town with 1500 people in it. You’re gorgeous, tan, blonde, skinny, and a killer sense of style. You’re wearing a pair of yellow overalls that are shorts with a white tube top. Living your best life walking down the street with your best-friend.
You’re walking and feelin that summer heat burning your skin, you don’t mind though. Skin cancer or not you want to be tan enough that people mistake you for that beef jerky they sell down at the piggly-wiggly. You hear this truck driving down the road. Oh it’s your besties guy friend, and someone else with him. They pull up beside you and there he is, in all his glory. Long brownish-blondish hair, teeth that would give George Washington a run for his money, a silk shirt with rocket ships on it, and a navy blue paisley bandana tied around his forehead sweatband style.
There he sits with his dorky smile and squinty red eyes. You could probably smell the weed from a mile away upwind. You all chat for a minute and they ride away into the sunset, like the Cheech and Chong wannabes they are. Your friend looks at you and proceeds to beg you to get with the bandana wearing, Willy Nelson looking guy. She begs you to because, in her words, “if you don’t I will.” And like the Atlantis Morrissette loving bad bitch you are you say “fine.” You then continue walking and working on being the darkest skin in town. Other than that one black family that lives on the outskirts of town. Guess they had to let ‘‘em in town at some point.
You start dating this man we’ll call, Willy, as in Willy Nelson. But he’s a jr, so we’ll call him Willy Jr for a minute. He seems nice enough, your parents hate him but who are they to judge? Your mom is actually Satan, your step dad is an abusive alcoholic with war PTSD. As for your real dad, well you don’t know much of him other than the fact that your mom tells you he tried to kidnap you. According to your mom she had somehow contacted the famous biker gang “hells angels” and had them go kindly retrieve you and bring you back into the safety of her leathery arms. You don’t know if you believe this. But it’s a fun story so you tell it anyways. Willy Jr is different to you. He smokes weed with you and doesn’t even charge you, apparently he’s 19, but it’s fine in 1980-something for a 19 year old and 15 year old to be gettin jiggy with it. He has some anger issues but you think to yourself “It’s fine, he’s had a hard life. I can change him.”
The holes in the walls seem to think different along with broken windows and broken dishes. He gets mad sometimes and just can’t seem to control himself. It’s fine though. He basically saved you from your parents so you owe him the rest of your life. You will owe him everything you are. You will no longer be just you. You will be his extension of himself, his rock, his cane, his foot stool, his punching bag, his target for practicing his aim with dishes and random objects. It’s fine though. You owe him. The free weed speaks for itself. Nobody is just giving that shit out nowadays. It’s fucking 1980-something and you just know that there’s no way this will last forever. You’ll get out someday. As soon as you no longer owe him.
1986, a trailer house, and a baby boy. Willy Jr seems to not totally enjoy being a father, despite you naming the baby after him, but it’s ok. You’ll love this baby enough for the both of you. You won’t end up making this baby feel the way your parents made you feel. So you will gladly sit in the house rocking your sweet Willy III to sleep. Petting your hand through his little mullet, “I’m never going to regret this decision of putting a mullet on my baby” you think to yourself. Things will get better someday. You’ll get out of this damn trailer park and buy some fucking shoes. Being barefoot and pregnant is a lot harder than it sounds. Thank God for boxed wine though.
Three years later, 1989, everyone has pressured you into getting pregnant again. Because apparently ever child needs a sibling. You lay in bed one night with Willy Jr and say “wanna get married? I’m not having two kids and not getting married. I ain’t a whore.” So willy says “Sure” and ties a bread tie around your finger. You go down to the courthouse and pay the man marrying you with a pack of beer because he says “no money needed, save it for the baby.” Thank the Lord Almighty it’s a boy. Sticking to the “W” theme you name this one Walter. At this point you had hoped to never bring a girl into this world. You would have no idea how to bring up a LADY, hell you’re the one thats gonna have to teach your boys how to burp, because lord knows Willy Jr couldn’t burp if he drank three cans of Cola on a bumpy road. You think to yourself “I’m definitely giving this one a mullet too.” You assure yourself that those will never go out of style of make for ridiculous family photos down the line.
Willy Jr still has quite the temper on him. He’s started using your sons as his personal verbal punching bags along with his famous target practice. It’ll get better though. If you could just get out of this damn trailer park and find your damn shoes you lost. It’s ok though, you mostly bring it on yourself at this point. You know exactly how to push his buttons and what to say to piss him off. You know those buttons don’t have to be pushed hard either, like they just got some WD-40 last week. So when he does things like hit on your friends, get you high while your sleeping by blowing smoke in your face, beat the kids or dogs, or simply being a shit father by staying out in the garage all damn day smoking weed, you know all you have to do is say a few words and for a minute it’ll feel like you won. That is of course, until you’re cleaning up broken glass and patching holes in the walls. Making sure to never let your boys see you cry. It’ll get better, just gotta let these boys grow up some, then I can get out.
Many fights, drugs, bruises, heartaches, family vacations, and boxes of wine later, the year is 1999. You are almost to the point of your boys being old enough that it’d be alright if you and Willy Jr split ways. You can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. Your youngest is getting ready to turn 10. They’ll understand why itd be best for them if their dad wasn’t around anymore. Until one day, you see a small plus sign on that damn pregnancy test. You think to yourself “I’m 34. I’m so tired. My debt was almost paid to Willy Jr. I almost didn’t owe him anymore.” You sob violently for hours before you pull yourself together and decide that life goes on. Besides you’ve done this twice, what’s one more boy?
You go on being pregnant and working at an airplane parts building place. One of your coworkers claims to have been stuck by lighting once and says he can tell you what your baby is. You think he’s crazy. He lays his hands on your stomach and says “A little girl. With blonde bouncy curls and a bright smile.” There’s no way. You couldn’t possibly be having a girl. Later you go to the doctor and to your horror, he was right. It’s a girl. Lord have mercy on her soul. You realize the pain she will endure as a woman and as the daughter of her father. “Maybe this one doesn’t need a mullet.”
Another A/N: Well reader the fun thing about this is that I can do whatever my ass wants to do with this story. Because this story isn’t about you at all. So far up until now, it’s been about my mother. I am the last and only daughter and I plan on sharing all my white trash demons with you. From here on out it will no longer be me trying to engage you, by telling you it’s your story. Because it’s not. I’ve earned all my stories one by one since 1999. All my white trash demons haunt me with every bottle of wine and every old country song. I guess you could call me selfish for turning this whole thing around to be about me. But the funny thing is that even though I am my mothers daughter, I refuse to owe anyone anything. So if you do stick around to read whatever I post, I appreciate you. And if you leave because you’re bored with it, well that’s ok, your mom seemed to love my stories last night.
Chapter Two- September 17, 1999
A/N: So this is a story of the day I was born. AKA a national holiday. I’d like to mention that if you’re having trouble following along with any of my sentences, try reading it with a southern twang. It’ll make sense after that.
Picture it, it’s a lovely Friday in 1999. The sun is shining, the internet isn’t as awful yet and the twin towers are untouched. My mother, we’ll call her Becky, and my father, Willy Jr, are just hanging. My father smoking weed and my mother probably sitting 4 feet away because second hand smoke is just a government facade meant to keep us distracted from the REAL issues. Aka, lizard people and the Mexicans. My mother realizes she’s been having way too many of those “Braxton hicks” contractions, which are also a government lie. They are probably sending signals to the baby to make it one of those queers, and that’s what she’s feeling.
“Willy I think it’s time.” My mom informs my father who is currently 3 blunts deep and flying to the moon. “Well shit guess we need to let people know.” Willy says while rolling another blunt and sticking it in his pocket. “One for the road.” They hop in their car and head to the hospital, “It’s too early! This thing wasn’t due for another 3 weeks god damnit! I didn’t even get my baby shower yet!” Already I’m stealing my moms thunder and she’s pissed.
“Where the fuck are we going?!” my mom asks my father as they turn down a country road with the bad train tracks instead of going to the highway with the good train tracks. “I gotta pick up Tom.” My dad says annoyed and like my mom should have definitely anticipated this. “YOU ARE STOPPING TO PICK UP TOM?! IM IN FUCKING LABOR YOU DUMBASS!” If she wasn’t in so much pain she would have throat punched Willy by now. Throat punching being her signature move.
“Well yeah, don’t worry I have a plan. Plus he’s my best friend and needs a ride. Don’t be so selfish.” Again, my dad was lucky she was in pain, because she might have ended his life right then and there. They pull up to Toms house, sit and wait for him to come out. About ten minutes later, Tom comes out with that stupid fucking grin and red eyes. He too, is on the moon. “Hey guys. Thanks for the ride. I packed a couple blunts to celebrate when she’s done pushin the kid out.”
My dad finally gets my mom to the hospital. “You go in I’ll park the car.” My dad says, “Tom you stay with me I have a plan I gotta tell you.” My mom makes her way into the hospital while imagining my fathers slow and painful death she will be ensuing on him later. She finally gets put in a room when Willy and Tom come strolling in, smelling like skunk ass on a hot July afternoon in Texas. “Celebrating a little early don’t you think?” My mom asks gritting her teeth and flaring her nostrils. “You’ll be fine! Might as well celebrate the whole occasion!” My dad says.
My grandma and grandpa arrive. My mom dreading having to deal with her mother when she’s already feeling like dying. Like the secret fucking service Willy and Tom assemble. My grandma hates Tom. Tom laces his arm with hers and walks her out saying, “I need a smoke, come on. Hey have I ever told you the story of my ex wife who tried to kill me? No? Well let me do the honors!” Tom knew what his job was and he intended on making his buddy Willy proud. “I think I’ll follow, I could use a smoke too.” My grandpa grunts out slowly heading in the same direction that Tom and Grandma went.
“Ok you’ll live another day for that.” My mom says to Willy. “I told him to not even take a breath in between sentences.” Willy says proudly. Becky figures maybe it’s not so bad having Tom here if that means he’s going to keep her mother out of the way the whole time.
Becky is moving along really fast in this whole labor process. The doctor isn’t even here yet and the nurses say there’s not enough time to give an epidural. Fuck those nurses. They’ve only been at the hospital for about an hour and a half when on of the nurses informs my mother that she’s fully dilated. They told her she couldn’t push yet because the doctor just arrived and isn’t fully in his scrubs yet. “FUCK YOU IM PUSHING.” My mom yells, “WILLY GET DOWN THERE AND CATCH.” A few pushes later and the doctor runs in yelling “STOP” my mother yelled back “IM PUSHING WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT StEpHeN!!” She really hisses out his name to make sure he knows he has a stupid first name and that she will do as she pleases. One more push and my dad catches me while the doctor swoops in to intercept. It’s a touchdown. The crowd goes wild.
I basically come out doing jazz hands and announcing to the world that I’m here, I’m queer, and I’m going to be a menace to society. Guess those government rays worked. They get me all cleaned up and give me to my mother. She starts to sob and says “Some day you’re going to have to do this too. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you’re a girl.” She hates that she knows about the world she brought me into and even worse, she hates that she brought a sweet little girl into the world that will most definitely use and destroy her. She wishes I was a boy.
“What’s her name?” A nurse asks trying to fill out some paperwork. “Ah shit, ain’t thought that far.” My mother grunts out looking down at me. She noticed that I kind of reminded her of her childhood best friend who had curly blonde hair and a sweet smile. “Tia” she says smiling. “And a middle name?” The nurse asks. “Damn it I thought I was done. Well we made her in Cheyenne Wyoming last January so let’s go with Cheyenne.” My mother says, think to herself that that’s definitely not going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
My grandparents are finally allowed in the room. To this day my grandpa says I looked up and him and smiled because I knew I had him wrapped around my finger. I believe his story because he is still, to this day, wrapped around my finger and would do anything for me. “I don’t want to hear one more word out of toms fucking mouth.” My grandma bitches at my mom. Tom did his duty. Tom is smiling in the corner of the room with my dad. Both of which have gone from being on the moon to being in a completely different universe. They put those blunts to good use. “Only two hours from start to finish? Jesus Becky what does that say about you? Your cooter must’ve already been pretty loose for her to just slip and slide right out.” My grandma tells my mom. “I think she was just ready to come out and fight.” My mom says, imagining the hell her baby girl is going to give some guy someday.
I’m not sure why exactly, but when I was born I had purple bruising/banding around my eyes that made me look like a raccoon. So for the first few days of my life my grandpa would call me “raccoon kid” totally not understanding why it made people uncomfortable. After he realized he decided to switch my nickname to “lacota” which he claims is native language for “the people” because I am “his people.” I find it to be a sweet gesture until my brothers tell me later in life, that it actually means “buffalo”, to this day I don’t know who’s lying. My brothers also told me they were promised a puppy after their family trip to Cheyenne and got me instead.
Considering the fact that the day I was born was such a white trash rollercoaster, pretty much sealed my fate that the rest of my life would in fact, be a white trash rollercoaster. I haven’t decided if being born was the best thing to ever happen to the world or the worst. Either way, it happened and I’m still doing jazz hands and exclaiming to the world that I’m here, I’m queer, and that the government gay rays worked. This story is much more light hearted than some of the ones to come but I decided it was necessary to hear how I shot out into the world ready to fight.
Chapter 3- The Angry Man
TRIGGER WARNING: Physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. This chapter will be less comical but I feel it is still important.
A/N: This chapter is about my Dad, and also that saying that goes, “If you grow up with an angry man in the house, you will always have an angry man in your house.”
My first memory of my Dad is when I was somewhere between the ages of 2-4. My mom and I were sitting on the couch. I remember my dad yelling and then a glass flying between my mom and I’s heads, shattering behind us, taking the window blinds out with it. Don’t worry they weren’t the good blinds, they were the kind with the drawstring that you pulled up with ease and spent twenty minutes trying to lower it with both sides even. To this day I have no idea how he didn’t break the window. I’m honestly impressed.
After the explosion of the glass, my Mom had me stay on the couch while she cried and cleaned up the broken glass. I hated my dad. I hated him before I knew what the word “hate” meant. I hated him for making my mom cry so much and making me scared all the time. Even more so I hated him because he always seemed to throw the nice dishes. The ones that came from Walmart instead of the dollar tree. I remember being so upset that he broke one of my favorite glasses in the house, that I just couldn’t contain my rage and screamed into the couch cushion. “That’ll show him” my tiny brain thought. My dad continued his rampage throughout the house while I watched my mother clean up the glass and then, when she gave me the ok, ran to my room and hid under my blankets.
I have a lot of memories of my dad like this. To the point where it just became a normal thing. Going to other people’s houses and seeing their cabinets full of dishes that all matched seemed so weird to me. When my friends would get scolded for doing something wrong I would just sit and wait. Wait for their father to pick something up and throw it at us, or start calling his children names like “stupid idiot” or “fucking bitch.” But their dads never did. I just thought to myself “Wow you must be a horrible kid since you don’t get disciplined right.”
I remember the first time my dad called me stupid. I was six. He asked me for a glass of milk, like the true sociopath he is, just straight milk, and yelled at me for not giving him enough. I thought it’d be funny to try and take the glass back from him to go put more in it. That was a mistake. I didn’t realize that he’d had the glass tilted towards his mouth, so when I pulled it out of his hand it clanked against his teeth. I heard the noise of it clanking and instantly felt the blood drain from my face and into my legs, making them too heavy to move. “YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOT!” He seethed between his teeth as loud as he could. I don’t remember what happened next, all I know is that I came to hiding in my closet listening to my parents yell.
My dad and I did have some good memories though. Like when I was twelve and him and I blew up our mailbox on the Fourth of July. Going to watch the movie “Beverly Hills Chihuahuas.” Or when I was a kid, if he was in a good mood that night, he’d come in my room to say goodnight and we’d tell jokes and have wrestling matches. Helping him when he went on roofing jobs. Or the time he taught me how to change my oil, rotate my tires, and change my breaks on my first car. I cherish those memories and try desperately to hold on to them and make them the ones I remember the most. The good times were few and far between so I tried to remember them while they were happening.
I used to beg my mom to divorce my dad. I started begging her when I was five. Mostly because he scared me and because the whole family seemed happier when he was away. Then around the time I was ten, I heard the sounds of my Dad raping my mom, then he came out of their room like nothing happened. I hated him. I knew what the word “hate” meant this time and I knew that I felt every last bit of it for my dad. I wanted nothing more than to watch my mother drive away from that house as far as she could and never look back. Even if that meant leaving me behind. I wanted her to be happy and free, no longer in debt to my father. I would gladly take on her debt if she let me but she would always say she loved him too much. I knew what “hate” meant but I wasn’t so sure I’d ever understand the word “love.”
I had a special spot in the house that I’d retreat to if things got out of hand with my dads anger. I could smell it coming from a mile away. The second I felt the danger rising, I’d run to my room, go in my closet and climb onto my shelf. Hiding behind my clothes until the yelling stopped. Sometimes all night. I’d wake up behind my clothes, lines embedded in my face and arms from the shelving, wondering where I was, then remembering all the horrible things I overheard the night before. My parents still live in the same house, I can’t stand that fucking closet.
I have nightmares every night. Mostly of my past sexual assaults, but every once in awhile a nightmare fills my night with images of my dad molesting me. To this day I have no idea if it happened or not. I hope to whatever god is out there that it didn’t happen. I have no idea if it is simply a mix of my fathers anger and my past experiences with sexual abuse. Or maybe those bedtime wrestle matches weren’t as innocent as I remember. It haunts me that I will never have an answer to that question.
I have more memories of the angry man I grew up with. Like when he’d get angry while he was driving, he’d go 100mph down back roads and scarring the shit out of my mom and I. I remember screaming and crying for him to slow down but he’d just continue to speed up and scream at my mom and I. Or the time he punched the ceiling of the car so hard and so many times that to this day, twenty years later, there are still markings on the ceiling. I still remember my mom screaming “GO AHEAD AND KEEP PUNCHING THAT’LL HELP!!” Or the time he punched his rear view mirror and it came off. He never fixed it. I remember a time where he grabbed a handful of potatoes straight out of hot oil and flung them across the kitchen at me screaming “YOU NEED TO LEARN TO SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH!”
I remember my father shouting at me for having an attitude saying “NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU IF YOU KEEP THIS UP” Which is why to this day I don’t believe anyone could truly love me. I never lost the attitude. I lost my virginity at the age of 18 and about a year later broke up with the guy. My father came into my room while I was crying and said, “Don’t you regret losing your virginity now?” My dad loved rubbing every mistake I made in my face. He got so angry when my reply was “No.” There were many times when he wouldn’t shout when he was angry at me, he would simply look me in the eyes and say “You shouldn’t even call me dad anymore. Since you don’t want to respect me as your dad I don’t see the point.”
He hated me too. In the moment of the arguments I was fine with the knowledge that he hated me. I thought it was funny that he finally met his match when it came to anger. I was the only one in the family brave enough to give him a taste of his own medicine as I got older. I didn’t mind that he hated me. That was, until, I was in dance class watching all the girls my age practicing with their dads for the daddy daughter senior dance. I sat against the mirror smiling and so happy for my class mates and later that night cut my thighs and wrists open and cried myself to sleep, hoping to not wake up. I hated him and he hated me. I ached for a father, I still do to this day.
I grew up with an angry man in my house, and statistics show that I will always have an angry man in my house. Meaning I would marry an angry man. Strangely enough I married the most even tempered man I possibly could. Sometimes it drives me insane that he is so mild tempered but then I think of what the alternative is, and I’m grateful. What really scares me though, is the fact that while I did not marry an angry man, there still ended up being one in my house. I see him every time I look in the mirror. Every time I throw something out of anger it flys just like my dads did. Every hole I’ve left in a wall resembles the same ones he made. Every time I speed out of anger, the engine starts sounding like it did when I was a kid. I have done one thing better than him, my anger is hidden. Nobody I love will ever see that side of me. While I may be the angry man in my house on the inside. I will always be a kind, loving woman on the outside. Because I refuse to let my child understand what the word “Hate” means, before he understands what the words “Love” “Compassion” and “Happiness” means.
I love you with all my heart ❤️❤️❤️
Chapter 4: Math is a Drinking Game
While I may not have had the best father in the world, I believe I may have the best grandpa in the world. He is the reason I am who I am today in all the best ways.
Another one of my first memories in life is my grandpa setting me on the hood of his truck and getting surrounded by cows and screaming. I heard my grandpa chuckle and say “go on now ladies, git.” Then seeing him emerge from the cattle, looking like an old cowboy Jesus, picking me up, and setting me in the truck saying “you stay put, I’ll be right out here. Don’t drink my beer” I drank the beer.
I spent a lot of my time with my grandpa as a kid. Most of the time was spent going out to count cattle and then heading out to the bar, where I’d walk up to old men and start talking until they’d finally cave and give me pool table money, just to get me out of their hair. When I got tired of playing pool I’d find my grandpa sitting at the bar, tell the bar tender that I wanted my usual, (Rootbeer in a beer bottle), and pop some chew (shredded beef jerky in a can) in my lower lip, and sit in silence as my grandpa watched whatever sport was on the tv that day.
We went out and counted cows, then headed to the bar every Wednesday. Beer was half priced on Wednesdays so my grandpa and I called it “cheapy Wednesday.” After the bar we’d head to the dollar general to pick up snacks for the day, and whatever household item my grandma had requested we pick up. The checkout lady would say “How’s it going Handsome? And hi there brown eyes!” I would smile and my grandpa would say “Oh just got little boss with me today.” We’d finish checking out and he’d say “where to now boss?” By then it was almost lunch time so I would request to go home and have a grilled cheese for lunch. I still to this day believe my grandpa makes the best grilled cheese in the world.
Once we got back to his house he’d make me a grilled cheese, swaying just a little after all the beers he’d just drank. Still though, they came out perfect every time. Once the food was finished cooking we’d head to his sitting room and watch Matlock, Forensic Files, cold cases, and looney toones. I preferred Forensic Files over Cold Cases, but didn’t mind it since my grandpa preferred Cold Cases. I always hated not getting an answer, I’d think about it for days. “It was probably the husband, it always is.” My five-year-old brain concluded.
Once Matlock was over we’d have the rest of the shows playing “in the background” while I did schoolwork. My grandpa was in charge of teaching me science, math, and history. When we’d get to the math portion things always got intense. I sucked at math and so did he. So we’d be struggling to learn it together. He’d finally make a breakthrough and understand the question, try to explain it to me, and fail miserably, take a shot of Jim Beam and tell me the answer saying “you’ll never use that in life anyway.”
My mom worked for my grandma, cleaning house, taking her on errands and to doctors appointments, filling her medication, and cooking. Once my mom was done for the day we’d go home and finish my schoolwork. Spelling, English, Bible, and Music. I played piano for at least 30 minutes to an hour every day after the rest of schoolwork was finished. Then clean until dinner was ready, eat dinner and clean up, take a bath, go to bed. This was my daily routine (minus the bar in the mornings, that was only Wednesdays.) until I was about 13.
My grandpa, while not even technically blood related, was the member of my family I felt the closest and safest with. He would always tell me his version of the day I was born which always went “I looked at you in that little room through the glass, you looked back at me and smiled, because you instantly knew you had me wrapped around your finger.” And boy did I know it. I knew that I could call him up at any hour, day or night, and simply ask him to come over with a snack and he’d be there in about 20 minutes. I always told him “You can say no. I’ll be sad and I might cry. But you can tell me no.” To which he always replied “I can’t say no to you darlin, don’t know how.”
My grandpa and I had lots of little sayings that we’d repeat to each other all the time. Like “I got one fist of iron and another fist of steel, if the left one don’t git ya then the right one will.” “Im a mean motor scooter and a bag go getter.” We had songs we’d sing like a song about how the snakes come out at night, and a song, I recently learned he didn’t make up, called big rock candy mountain. Anytime my grandpa would sing that song I thought it was so silly and that he had just made it up to make me laugh. Finding the actual original version of it on Spotify not too long ago, made me so happy and laugh at the fact that I thought that was his song all these years.
One of our greatest traditions every year was the day before Mother’s Day. He’d take me out to this random spot in the country and we’d stop and pick yellow trumpet flowers, tons of em’. Take them home, cut and wash them, put them in vases and give one set to my grandma and one set to my mom. They acted surprised every single year.
As I got older my grandpa tried to help me navigate being a “young woman” in the best ways he could. I brought a pair of high heels to his house, threw them on the ground frustrated, “I can’t walk in these damn things grandpa. I’d rather just be barefoot.” He said “Now sis, ya can’t be barefoot everywhere you go. Try to walk in them, let me see what yer doin.” I begrudgingly put them back on and tried to walk across the floor, looking like a newborn calf tying to figure out left from right. “I think you need to put more pressure on yer tippy toes. Like this.” To which he stood up on his tippy toes walking a few steps. What he didn’t realize was that my grandma and mom were watching this whole encounter trying their best to not laugh. He noticed them and said “I’m just tryna help the girl out! She’s gotta learn someday somehow. And it ain’t gonna happen if she keeps doin it like that.” To this day I still can’t walk in heels.
I remember bleeding through my shorts when I got my period at my grandpas house. Then out of embarrassment I hid crying and trying to not let my grandpa know that this horrible tragedy had occurred. I became a . . . Woman. Gross. He put two and two together and figured out what had happened, came to the bathroom door and knocked. Then simply asked “you alright sis?” I was crying and angry and said “IM FINE LEAVE ME ALONE.” To which he just chuckled and said “alright I’ll call yer mom.”
My grandpa was the first person to attempt to teach me how to drive, that ended quickly after I put us SLIGHTLY in a ditch. In my defense that was the first time I’d ever heard him yell at me. He was saying “SIS STOP. THE DITCH.” But still, I was upset that he’d yelled. He recalls the story a little differently than I do but my perspective is the only one you’re getting out of me.
I remember after I got one of my first tattoos on my shoulder blade. He came up to me and smiled real big, then gave me a “howdy” kind of smack on the shoulder directly on the tattoo. I winced in pain and he looks at me and laughs saying “Oh I’m sorry sis, I figured that there’s no way that’s real. Since I’ve been tellin you yer whole life not to get tattoos.”
My grandpa will always hold one of the highest places in my mind. Despite his blurry past of things he would never talk about. I choose to see the man that practically raised me instead of whatever version he has made himself to be in his own mind. While he continues to get older, I continue to worry more and more about the dreaded day that he leaves this world. I have all his favorite songs memorized and he tells me “when I go I want you to take my cowboy hats. Yer the only one I trust to wear em’ right.” To which I reply “Well that’s never gonna happen. You’ll be the last one standing on this earth along with the cockroaches.” He’ll chuckle and say “Nope that’s yer grandma. It’ll be her, cockroaches, and Twinkies.” We’ll laugh and it’ll go silent while he resumes watching college football and I sit there trying to not let the lump in my throat win. I dread the day he says goodbye, but I know that every time I think of, or hear his favorite songs, that’ll just be him reminding me that I still suck at wearing heels.