Introduction
I struggled throughout my childhood. Really, throughout the first three decades. My parents were alcoholics, as was my brother. I lived in a small town that was much like a ghetto. Poverty stricken, run down homes, just horrible!
Bills were often not paid, often leaving us without power. My clothes were old and torn. Despite often having no food in the house, I was overweight. I would later learn why that was.
My dad couldn't work, so he received disability every month. I basically only had my parents for one week out of every month, which was the last week. Because every time the first of the month came, my dad would get his welfare check. Then my parents would both start drinking, and would not stop until they ran out of money. But I looked forward to the last week, because I knew that although there was no money left, I got my mom and dad back. For that week, they were there for me. When it would get close to the first, I would beg my mom not to drink this time. She would always say that she wouldn't. I would get my hopes up all day, but then I'd get home from school and she would be drunk. It got to the point that I stopped asking. It wasn't until I was an adult that I understood the addiction of alcohol and the reasoning it had such a strong hold on them.
My brother, Joe, was six years older than me. He followed in my parents' footsteps, and began drinking at a young age. He was always hitting me and tormenting me. But I do have a few good memories. He'd help me with things like teaching me how to say "bird" when I would say "board". We played games together and he protected me from bullies at times.
Looking back, I can laugh at some of his antics. Shooting me in the butt with a b.b. gun, throwing a dart at the exact time I ran by him. He claimed they were accidents. Shoot, maybe they were. There was a time when we were both sitting on the outside fire escape to our third floor apartment when the step broke! We started to fall and I hung on to him. He shook me off because he didn't want to fall, which made me fall to the ground. I was only four or five at the time, but because I was overweight, I basically just bounced off the ground! Otherwise I would have been seriously injured, or worse.
The older he got, the meaner he got, to both me and my parents. They couldn't protect me from him. The only way my mom could protect me, in her mind anyway, was to take me with her when she went to a bar. I'd sit on the steps while she was in there drinking. To her, she was protecting me.
But I will tell you more about that later.
***
My only safe haven was school and church. I loved going to school for two reasons. I loved to learn. But, it also got me away from home. From the fighting and the environment. I did have a few friends, though I also got bullied. But the bullying wasn't as bad as my home environment much of the time, so it didn't make my school life any less important to me.
I also loved going to church. I was the only one in my family that did but I was dedicated to God. I read my bible and took it with me every Sunday. I prayed often and enjoyed taking part in children's church. The programs we did were fun, though I knew there was never anyone there in the audience to watch me. That stung at times. There was a Sunday school teacher that I will always remember. She took me under her wing, so to speak. She was kind and often let me help her during services. She would talk to me and just made me feel special. One summer, she paid for me to go to church camp. I have such wonderful memories of that time, and I often thanked her for doing that for me.
I don't know if anyone ever tried to save me. If any of my school teachers, or Sunday school teachers, or anyone outside of my home tried to help me by calling social services, but nobody ever came to the house. I often wished someone would have. It wasn't until I was fifteen years old when I actually was removed and put in to a foster home. Which began an entirely new and traumatic journey, but that's for a later time.
