Potential Stepfathers/Abusive Boyfriends
Stepfathers. I use that term loosely. I prefer the term abusive boyfriends. They were never a father to me. Some were there a week. Others years. I feel bad to call all my mother's boyfriends abusive because there was one I actually did like. One amongst the others that gave me hope. He was different. He never hit me. He never said a bad word. He seemed to care for me. Even more so than my mother. He looked at me as his son. We did normal father/son things together. He brought me books. I actually liked him. He was a decent man. He even tried to set my mother straight. It didn't work though. My mother kept drinking and my potential stepfather couldn't take it anymore. He said goodbye to me before he left. Even gave me some money. Told me to hide it from my mother and keep it until I broke free. I did. He left. He left me with hope. He left me with the ability to care one day, should I choose. He left me with a false sense of security.
I won't bother to mention him again. I'm thankful he showed me how to care. How to love. But the others were the complete opposite of him. They were mean. Mean mightn't seem like the right word to describe someone who abuses others, but to me it sums it up perfectly. They have a complete lack of morality and are usually characterized by malice. Mean may be a simple term, but that's what they were. They'll always be that to me. Mean. They didn't care about me. They didn't even care about my mother half the time. They showed no mercy. Sometimes I got in the way. Sometimes I spoke when I wasn't supposed to. Sometimes I just annoyed them. And sometimes they sought me out. For no reason at all.
I still remember the first thing I was called 'a useless piece of shit.' I was too young to understand it at the time. But the tone he used. I just knew. I just knew it wasn't a good thing. It made me feel unbelievably sad. I did feel useless. I didn't know what it was, but I felt it. The insults got worse over the years. I stopped paying attention to them after a while. I went straight into defensive mode. It was a coping mechanism. When one would call me something I would quickly repeat a mantra in my head about that particular guy. My favorite, 'at least I don't hit like a girl and with a name like that I can see why you do.' His name was Lesley. The name still amuses me. So that's what I did. I made fun of them. Mentally of course. I was above them. It made me forget their insult straight away and made me feel better in general.
Unfortunately I couldn't use this coping mechanism for the physical abuse. The physical abuse was painful to say the least. I don't think I can describe it. I don't think you'd understand. It's not something that can be written down. You can't just pull it off the page and claim you understand. I don't care. I'm going to write it anyway, but don't come to me and tell me you understand because you don't. Unsuspecting. Minding your own business. It comes out of nowhere. Searing pain. Lessened pain. Numbness. Contact. Fist. Wall. Random furniture. Sickening crunch. Bones breaking. Searing pain. Blood. Red. It runs. It feels good. It's oddly comforting. The more blood the quicker they stop. The taste. Coppery. An acquired taste. Sadly I have acquired it. Left alone. Pain. Blood. Broken bones. Numbness. The darkness takes a hold of me. I welcome it. I wake up alone.
The first time I fought back. The first time I really fought back. I was fueled by anger. There was a red haze. There was a second of clarity. One second. Decisions split. Go forth with anger, or retreat for self-preservation. My anger blinded me. I pressed forward. My fist connected. I felt powerful. Again and again. I was seething now. The anger visibly coming off me. I saw the blood before he tasted it. I'm sure I looked murderous. I felt it. I kept on going. I couldn't stop. I knocked him unconscious. I wasn't afraid anymore. He got me back though. Worse than I got him. I decided then not to fight back anymore. My broken and bruised body was left on the floor. It was hard to breathe. It took weeks for everything to heal. I learned my lesson. I learned to avoid the apartment. If I wasn't home then I wouldn't be subjected. I spent my nights on the streets. Skillfully avoiding. It wasn't foolproof, but the odds were better. Those nights on the street led me to my life of crime. It was illegal. But is crime really illegal if you don't get caught?