The First Most Pivotal Moment, Part 1

The three years I spent in middle school were some of the most volatile, and gut wrenching moments of my life. In the span of a few short years I lost my family, my world, and my childhood. For a long time, to tell these would have required a few drinks and a big box of Kleenex; but a decade, a few bad shrinks, and some decent psychology classes have helped move to the point where they become just things in my past. Some of these things still haunt me in subtle ways and pop up when I least expect them.



When I was in middle school my parents got divorced. There was no big custody battle, no trips to the courthouse; by then the fireworks were over. The divorce itself was a non event, I found out about it from someone at school who felt the need to rub it in, but it neither worried nor surprised me.



Some time before the divorce, my mother went back to school. This in and of itself sounds absolutely harmless except for the small minded husband who saw college as a waste of time and money who the only way he'd been taught to show his emotions was with his fists.



Even though I know that this was the chain of events, I don't blame her. In fact, it may have been the best thing she ever did.



I know there was much more fighting than I recall. Several times she was admitted to the hospital. He caused her to have a breakdown and then tried to use it to tell the world she was crazy. I remember leaving the house at all hours, grabbing absolute necessities and jumping in the car. There were also long amounts of time spent at other people's homes; sometimes relatives others, friends.



There was one especially bad night where I happened into the kitchen and He had her pinned into the corner, up off the ground, with a knife to her throat. I can still see it in my mind. I can see the refrigerator, the door, and the knife.



We went on a regular basis to file reports against Him a the police station. He was never arrested. We would turn to the church for help, they pushed us away and slammed the door in our faces. Friends and relatives eventually turned their backs on us as well. The small-town, small-minded view was that it was a family thing and family business should be kept at home.



While I watched Him beat her endlessly, Bubby spent many nights in his closet or sent away to someone else's house. He never actually laid a hand on Bubby, but to a six or seven year old kid, seeing and hearing it was more than enough.



He did hit me as well, but once, during visitation. I had promised that while he may have gotten away with hitting my mother, if he ever hit me, every cop in town would be there. Brave words for a tiny twelve year old.



In some twisted joke, the Court granted him weekend visitation in which we were in his care for two whole days. Eventually the hit did come, he knocked me clear across the living room. And true to my word, most every cop on duty that night was soon on the doorstep and we never had to see Him again.