10All my life, I've always been told what a screw up I was. It was drilled into my head that I was a mistake, and didn't amount to anything in life but a waste of space. Sure, I managed to pull off half decent grades in school and do my chores but still, the people of my household frowned upon me.
Why you ask? Because I'm me. I didn't do anything to deserve it, and I certainly didn't ask to be treated like shit. But things don't always work out the way you want them to and my life was no exception.
I was born into an average middle class family. My mother, who was just about eighteen, decided to raise me instead of giving me up for adoption (although I wish she would have just handed me over to an agency instead of trying to take care of me herself). My father's family on the other hand was dirt poor and probably lived in a box for all I know.
My parents were homecoming king and queen, and voted most likely to stay together forever. Yeah, what a bunch of bullshit that was. He stayed with my mom until he knocked her up. Then, when his family kicked him out for being a fucking drug addict, he came running back to her. He begged and pleaded and of course she gave in. She was never one to hold grudges. I wish she would have, but you can't always get what you want.
Life was okay for a bit until I hit the age of 14. That's when everything took a downhill spiral to hell. My father lost his job, which by the way wasn't very good to begin with. He moped around the house for God knows how long, doing nothing but sitting down and watching TV. I was the one who would have to clean up after him. My mom was out working three jobs, while my older brother, Gabe, was out trying to find work to fish us out of the debt we were in.
I still remember his shrill voice as he would order me around. "Karissa, clean this up!" or "Karissa, you fucking bastard, I told you to do this and you didn't!" But the thing I can remember most was the pain he would cause me. The mental pain was awful, but the physical pain was unbearable.
I still have the bruises to account for the many times he abused me. Day in and day out, I would wait for that one moment, that exact moment when he would come and pound me until I could barely move. I tried to lock myself in my room, but he would always find a way to get me. No matter where I was, he would find me.
The times that weren't spent beating me up were spent inflicting pain on my mother and brother. You would think that a nineteen-year-old man would be able to stick up for himself, but he couldn't. Gabe knew better. He knew that if he tried to fight back, the worst would happen. We all knew. Even my mother would just let him do what he wanted to her. She feared the countless possibilities of what my father could do to her. . . something far worse than what was already happening.
The routine was always the same. He would wake up in the morning and have a beer- then another, and another until he was drunk off his ass. Then he would stumble to the couch and sleep until mid afternoon. He would wake up again and walk around the house inspecting every little crack and crevice, making sure that there was something wrong so that he could inflict some kind of pain on one of us. When he would find something, he would wait until later to tell me. That way, he could drink until he was wasted even more. By that time, the beers were gone and would be replaced by a bottle of Vodka or some other kind of potent alcohol.
When all the booze was gone, he'd find me and beat the shit out of me. Not missing one inch of my body. He would beat me in any way he could; with his fists, feet, belt-anything. All the while, he would scream hateful things at me. I tried to block out the sounds of his strong hand coming in contact with my skin, the leather belt stinging against my flesh, but I couldn't. It was just too hard.
You would think my father beat me the most, but he didn't. Oh no, I didn't get half the beat down that my mother got. She would come back from work, just looking forward to relaxing. My father would stumble through the kitchen and into the living room and beat her to a bloody pulp. As if he wanted to do more after kicking the shit out of me. She would lie on the cold, hard floor until he stammered up the stairs and into bed. She would get up, sit there, and cry until the sun rose. . . only to pick herself up and go to work. Somehow, she found the strength to do so. To this day I still don't know how she did it.
My brother on the other hand was smart. Being nineteen, he would stay at his girlfriend's house. He tried to move out countless times but my father told him if he did, he would kill him. Nobody needed to be told twice when that was said because we all knew it was true. He didn't even have to think twice about killing any of us.
My father needed Gabe. Not just because he brought home half the money to keep our utilities running, but because he was strong and could pull a lot of weight around the house. That is, when my father wasn't slapping him around. Gabe was so strong, but when he was being beaten, he looked so helpless. Like a child who couldn't fight back.
He couldn't go to college because we didn't have the money to pay for it. We couldn't even afford community college. Even if we could, my father wouldn't allow it. "Men are supposed to work, not go to school." He would always say. Maybe that was true in his case, considering that he barely finished high school. But Gabe wanted to be something. Whatever it was; a doctor, lawyer, politician. . . he wanted to achieve something in his life. I couldn't blame him. I wanted the exact same thing.
There was a time when I was younger where I couldn't wait until I was eighteen. I knew then that I could leave the hellhole I called home and start someplace new. But after seeing my brother being held captive in his own house, I knew there was no hope for me. After all, why would the rules be changed for me? I didn't matter. I was just another body to feed and clothe. Or should I say, lack of food and clothing.
Our house was shit. We lived in a small shack just outside of mainstream California. And when I say shack, I mean shack. The roof was leaky, there were no carpets, and worst of all, we had no windows. The places where the panes of glass once occupied were covered with some kind of blue lining. I don't know what it's called. I asked my father one time when he was putting it up and he told me to fuck off. So, I really didn't bother to ask again. The lining doesn't permit any sun to shine in, which adds to the dreary atmosphere.
Basically, the only thing we have is running water and electricity. Our heat got turned off last month because we didn't have enough money to pay the bills. Luckily, it's spring so we don't really need it. But the weather is starting to turn warmer and it's going to be unbearable without air conditioning. Story of my life, let me tell ya.
I always wished that I had one of those normal families. You know, the ones that would play board games together and bake cookies. As lame as that sounds, I wanted it so badly. Hey, I liked cookies. And board games weren't too bad. That was just a hopeless dream that would never come true. I knew as much as I asked and wished for it, it would never happen.
I was so alone. Didn't anyone love me? Gabe was the only one I had. And even though he was there for me, I felt so unwanted. I felt as though I wanted to curl up and die. I wanted to shut myself out from the world and everything in it. I'm sure my mother cared for me but she never showed it. Even when I was little, she would leave me to go out with her friends and wouldn't return for hours on end.
And here I am once again, alone. Mom and Gabe at work, dad at the bar. . . it's just me. That's how it always is. I figured I'd get used to it by now but I never have. I still break down and cry in the middle of making dinner or mopping the floors. Because I realize I'm a slave. I'm a slave in my own home. It disgusts me to no end. And it disgusts me even more to know that there's nothing I can do about it.
Welcome to my life. And a damn shitty life it is.