My brain is about done
So like most men, I hold it all in. I try to be tough and power through, but I don’t know… this last week has been a rough one for me.
Most of the stuff from my past, or even the current stress in my life, I don’t share with people or even my spouse.
Growing up, my mom up and left me and my brothers to move in with her boyfriend. The courts sided with my dad. My mom always said it was because we chose to live with him, but I later learned that was that was a lie.
My Father was an evil man. We were his punching bags, and even after he remarried and we got step-siblings, and a new stepmom him they still beat the hell out of us. And that evil lady was very handsy.
My real mom would get us every other other weekend, but that place sucked too. She worked two jobs, which left us stuck with our stepdad, who verbally and mentally abused us.
Then worse day my life happened I was just a 10 years old boy, and my dad did the unthinkable. He had gotten into an argument with my stepmom that morning bc he came home from the bar early in the morning. Some time had passed and the yelling silenced and I heard her vehicle speed away, and the next thing we heard were fast footsteps, and are bedroom door open Our dad came thru ripping us up and dragging us downstairs into the living room.
That day lives rent-free in my head because as soon as we got downstairs, I instantly saw buck shells on the floor and a gun on the table. My dad told us to sit down. Unfortunately, I sat next to him.
We watched him load the gun while he repeated the same thing over and over: “Boys, today is the day you go meet Jesus, and it’s my day to meet the devil.”
I guess it was my bad luck because the next thing I knew, he grabbed the back of my neck, told me to open my mouth, and shoved the gun barrel into it.
It felt like a lifetime. I can’t tell you exactly how much time passed, but eventually something switched in him. He pulled the gun out of my mouth and told us to grab our backpacks and get in the truck so we wouldn’t be late for school.
Later that morning, after recess, I remember an office worker pulling my teacher into the hallway. Then she poked her head into the classroom and asked if I’d come to the office.
When I got there, there were two cops waiting with the office worker. They asked me my name and guided me into the office. I looked over and saw my older brother Shawn sitting there with more officers in the principal’s office.
After a little while, my brother came out, and they asked me to come in and sit down. They read me all the police stuff about not talking without a parent or lawyer present, then started asking me about what my brother had told his teacher.
I sat there quietly for a while before finally telling them what had happened that morning.
Afterward, they sat me back down next to my brother. It felt like forever before anyone told us anything. I guess they tried over and over to get ahold of my mom, but she never answered. Eventually, we ended up going down to the police station.
I used to think riding in a cop car was cool.
When we got there, we were met by my little brother, who was supposed to be home with our dad because he was too young for school. He was home alright — home alone. Four years old and locked in the bathroom.
I couldn’t tell you how much time passed before my Nana and Papaw showed up to pick us up. But right before we left, they finally tracked my dad down. He had passed out in his truck in the bar parking lot.
He was in handcuffs, and I don’t know why, but all three of us were terrified when we saw him.
I remember crying in the backseat of my Papaw’s car while he asked me why I was crying. I don’t remember my exact words, but basically I told him I was scared of what our punishment would be because we told the principal on our dad.
An hour later, when my mom got off work, she came and got us. The sperm donor ended up serving part of a 10-year sentence. The courts still gave him visitation as long as his parents supervised us. I’ll just say that sucked too.
My wife knows the basics of what happened that day, but she brushes it off with things like, “Don’t think about it” or “Think about something else.” That’s the same thing my mom used to do — just bury it and be tough.
Or when she was drunk or high, she’d tell us, “Well, you chose him over me.”
We went from one physical hell to an emotional hell. My mom and stepdad never touched us physically, but some days I felt lower than the dog that peed on the carpet.
For eight years I dealt with it however I could. I found my own ways of coping. They weren’t always the best or even legal, but I made it through school and graduated.
For 20 years I’ve been dealing with this nightmare — waking up with the metallic taste from the barrel still in my mouth. I’ve had plenty of sleepless nights.
Then you add in the stress of adulthood and work, and I feel like my brain is going to explode.
After nine years of marriage, it feels like my wife has slid into the roommate phase. No sex drive, doesn’t let me touch her in bed. Most nights she sleeps in jeans, which honestly feels like a giant hint that sex isn’t happening tonight.
Yeah, I get an attitude sometimes. I’m a man, and I’d like to do more than just jerk off. But when I try to express how I feel, she tells me I’m overreacting and that she loves me.
Most nights when this happens, I can’t sleep. Then on the nights I finally do sleep, I oversleep my alarm, and she’s yelling because she has to help get our 2-year-old ready.
Normally, me and the toddler get up around 4:30, and I drop her off at the sitter since it’s on my way to work. Meanwhile, my wife gets to sleep until 7.
But if I say anything about any of it, it instantly turns into me having an attitude, and I’m told I need to lower my voice because “we don’t need you acting like your father.”
And I’ll say this clearly: I have never laid a hand on my kids. Yes, I’ve yelled when they’re not listening or acting bad, but I hate never hurt them.
That’s for listening