Chapter 2: A Little Boy Not Wanted

How can one fully describe the life of a child growing up neglected and abused to someone who has never endured such a life? I don't think it can be done. Every time I have tried to explain the whys and wherefores, there are always the little pieces missing. The little pieces that made such a big difference.

People always seemed to think of abuse and neglect in terms of the scars left behind, the brutal actions taken, but it's not so. It's the everyday supple and constant hammering on the psyche of a child, which pushes them down so far into denial, that they see their abusers as their protectors, and their protectors as their abusers.

It took me years to finally accept the facts as they really are, to acknowledge that I had been abused and neglected, and to see their justifications... as nothing more than justifications.

I began psychiatric counseling shortly after my divorce, and will remain in counseling for many more years. I recognize that there will always be imperceptible scars and festering wounds deep in my psyche. The very fact of "who and what I am" today, physically and mentally, is a stark reminder of this.

My only sibling, Tom (4 years older than me) took after our father. My father Jack is of Austrian/ Italian decent and at 6'2" and 215 lbs (mainly muscle). He had a volume that could not be overlooked. His Italian heritage gave him that hairy, always with a 5 o'clock shadow look. His personality was imposing, aggressive and overbearing. He loved his beer, he loved his women, and he loved his football... and all of them too much.

My mother Annette I took after in ways. She is of Norwegian and German decent of families that had immigrated to the homesteads of Oklahoma. Her and the women of her family are petite, slender and small breasted, some times to an extreme. She is somewhat middle-of- the-road amongst her kinfolk, weighing only 110 lbs at a height of 5'2". Her skin was what one would call alabaster. Even though she had raven black hair she could never tan, but only burn when in the sun. In her youth, her skin had been without blemish or freckles. She had been very beautiful and graceful.

Her major problem, and the major reason for the abuse and neglect that I suffered, was that she was a hypochondriac, and because of that a drug addict.

Her personality was what one would call weak and labile or unstable. She could seem loving and caring one moment and bitter, angry and brutal the next. You never knew in advance.

During her lifetime, even in her teens, she had been in and out of trouble with the police for drug usage, more times than anyone can remember.

So between, my mother being in jail or in a "mental ward" drying out, and my father (and brother) being in jail for drunkenness and fighting, you could say that my family was dysfunctional.

I never had to live as "a ward of the state", but there were many times that that option had been considered by the authorities.

The first justification to my being abused and neglected was that I was not a wanted member of the family. My brother was "the son", the strong manly son that they had always wanted. I was the other son, the son who had taken the place of the daughter that they should have had.

Oh, I knew that part well! I had it hammered into me so often, far too often, so that even I accepted their form of reasoning as being the truth. It was told to me in so many words and shown in so many ways.

Words spoken were sometimes very direct, "You may be a part of this family, but that doesn't mean we have to love or accept you", to having my mother point out some woman or girl and say, "She's just exactly like the daughter I should have had instead of you."

Somehow in my mother's hypochondriac and drug-demented mind, she took this "fault of mine", to an extreme. In her fantasy world, her daughter would have always been there to take care of her. All the problems caused by being caught "doctors shopping", driving under the influence, all the pain that she suffered, and all the time in jail or in mental wards would never have happened. I was at fault for that and I needed to be punished.

So punished I was...

Some times I was beaten. Never was I viciously beaten, but nonetheless, many time I had black and blue marks all over my body

Most frequently, punishment was enforced by other means.

As a small child I spent many nights and days locked in closets, or slept nights in the cold basement.

My bedroom consisted of the old and cast off mismatched furniture of others.

My clothing was always hand-me-downs, or bought at the Salvation Army store.

The first birthday party I ever had was during the first year of marriage to my wife.

The only time I ever saw the insides of a doctor's office, was when I had an uncontrollable asthma attack. I never saw a dentist.

I was not allowed a social life either in grade school, junior high or in highschool. Those few friends that I did have were those asocial geeks and nerds that no one else wanted to be friendly with. After school I was always required to come home directly and do the housework, cleaning, cooking and washing clothes. So even they had little to do with me, but only at school. My family purposely pushed me into the position of socially being the nerdiest of nerds, unwanted and undesired.