I remember the lightening crackling across the sky—dad was downstairs in his homemade pornography bar, getting drunk. I guess I’ll just make a fort and hide in it until sissy comes home. How many TV shows was that going to be? I counted in my head “one, two, three, four.” That’s what she said one hour, I turned on Rugrats and felt the anxiety rush through me, as a kid—I didn’t know what I was feelin, but today, I know exactly what was happening, the anxiety disorder was right around the corner and so was a lot of horror.
I always tried to be daddy’s little girl, but he just never noticed that I existed. Sometimes, taking shelter was the best option to avoid any lectures, mental or physical abuse. All I did was spill some milk once and that was it, he didn’t want to see me and would always negatively put me down, saying:
“You’re not my little girl. Go away.” And take back to his cigarette while mom ran after me to wipe my tears. She protected and loved me, always but there weren’t enough wipes in Utah to wipe the tears we’ve shed together hiding from Dad. I just wanted to be a normal kid and I always felt off growing-up, something was different. And fitting in with kids at school wasn’t the easiest, especially when it was “show and tell,” and kids would bring their fathers and commend them for being their “super-hero,” literally. I felt sick to my stomach.
“Mrs. Hanson, can I go to the nurse, I have a stomach ache.” I couldn’t handle being in that place—those happy kids I my class and their fathers. “What’s wrong Monique.” Mom was concerned. “My stomach hurts and I’m tired.” I was only in first grade and this was merely the beginning of missing school.
And then we would walk home from the elementary. Dad was home and could drive, but he didn’t care for driving, unless it was a benefit for him, of course. We were almost home and as bad as I didn’t want to be at school, I didn’t want to be home, either, it was scary and I didn’t know what to expect from Dad.
Imagine waking up every morning afraid to leave your room because you knew that the abuse would begin. The words rang through my head like it was yesterday. “You’re a cunt. And you have the power to destroy this family.”
I didn’t fucking understand—he always told me this shit. I took shelter, I couldn’t take it anymore, hiding in my room, reading “The Box Car Children.” It made me feel good because it was way more adventurous than my life and all of the siblings loved each other and helped one another, daily. There isn’t a specific word that could describe growing up and seeing things from the outside—yet being on the inside. And as I sit here and think I remember Las Vegas.
I want to fucking run away, die or—get too fucked up, just to escape the pain. No, I want to crawl out of this hole I dug myself, take a deep breath, God help me be the best version of myself that’s allowable in this life. I prayed, I prayed and prayed. It just never stops, he never stops. Dad comes stumbling into my room, drunker than shit, lecturing me about putting my hands on the walls.
“The oil in your fingers will eat the paint, stop touching the walls, do you hear me?” As he stumbled out, I replied. “Yes.” I sat gazing outside my window, crying. Much like I do presently, thinking and wondering how a man could be so full of evil thoughts, desires and decisions. Is it true that everybody is a good person that makes bad decisions? Can he ever become a good man? It wasn’t enough that he left my mother while she was pregnant, cheated on her and didn’t even show up to the hospital for my sister(his first child). That fucker couldn’t treat his wife with respect. It hurt watching her hurt. All that ever crossed my mind was him not being in the picture.
I fucking hate you. The words shot through my brain daily, I was a kid, this wasn’t normal. Daddy was a mean old man and mama was buried ten-million-feet deep in his disgusting sins, lies and threats. And Las Vegas was only going to bring out the Monster in the Man that my mom married.
To Be Continued…….