Always Keep Fighting

My life started out not unlike anyone else's I guess. I am the third child. My father was in the Army when I was born and my mother worked for an airport. My parents never really got along very well but they stayed together in spite of their issues because of their children. This course of action led to constant fighting and them always being at odds with each other. When I was four years old my mother had hit her breaking point with the relationship and packed up my then 7 year old brother, my 6 year old sister and myself. She loaded us up into her SUV and drove off with us. I still remember the day, I remember playing in my dad's office as she loaded up all of our belongings. I can still vividly remember all of my dad's Marvin the Martian gear organized on his desk and how I was running around in there dragging my blue bugs bunny stuffed animal, that my dad had gotten me when I was born, pulling it behind me as I explore around his office like I had done a thousand times before. As my mom was packing the last of our stuff, I remember my dad coming home from work and while I don't remember the specific words that were said, I remember hearing the argument unfolding in the living room.

My father walked into his office and I ran to him like I always did when he got home, he picked me up and carried me to the couch. We had a daily routine of snuggling on that couch every day watching cartoons. I would cuddle up on his chest and just lay with him. But this time was different. He didn't lay back on the couch so I could lay on his chest. He stayed sitting up straight and he made no move to turn on the tv. I looked up at his face and he had tears in his eyes. As he sat there in silence, I suddenly felt someone grab me from his arms and pull me up. I didn't want to leave his lap and cried, reaching for him to take me back, but he didn't. He just sat there with tears going down his face as my mom walked out of the living room and down the corridor to the front door. I remember crying and yelling "Daddy" as loud as I could, but it seemed like my parents weren't listening. My mom simply kept up her pace until she got to the SUV and stuck me in shutting the door behind her. My siblings were in the back seat with me and they too were crying. I can still remember the look on my dad's face as the vehicle pulled out of the driveway and down the street. I cried myself to sleep in that vehicle and when I woke up I was somewhere strange and new.

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I don't know why to this day, but after that something in my mom changed. She went from being this doting mom who played barbies with us in the living room and read me stories everyday to my own personal devil, the tormentor of my childhood and the one person I feared over all others. Even Susan, a woman who had known my mom since I was born said there was a change in my mother's behavior. But no one really saw how bad things had gotten.

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After my parents separated I felt like I had been thrust into a never ending nightmare. My mother turned mean and cold to me, lashing out at me for any minor infraction. My dad had not been around since the split up. After 6 months I grew to believe it was my fault. My mother would often make remarks towards me, saying that my father had abandoned me and didn't want me. When my dad never showed I started to believe it, I began to believe that my dad didn't want me, although I didn't know why.

My young mind couldn't understand why my dad had left or why my mom seemed to hate me so much. I began to believe I was a bad child. My mom seemed to find any mistake or accident a severe infraction, for which she would not hesitate to grab her belt and swing it at my body over and over again until I was choking on my sobs and my lungs were closing as I was ravaged by an asthma attack. I would lay there limp, slumped up against the couch edge wheezing, struggling to draw in even the slightest bit of air, and only then would my mom stop the lashing to give me my inhaler. As the medicine worked to help me return to breathing normally, I would feel incredibly weak and praying it was over. After my punishment and once my breathing had returned, I would struggle to get to my feet as quick as possible and scamper up the stairs to my bedroom, tears flowing down my cheeks as I grabbed my cherished bunny rabbit and I would slide my body into a tiny corner by the bunk beds I shared with my sister. I would stay curled in a ball with my knees drawn to my chest, quietly sobbing.