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 poverty. Run down homes, you know the type.
Bills were often not paid, often leaving me in darkness or without heat or air conditioning when needed. My clothes were often torn and despite often having no food in the house, I was overweight. I assume because when there was food in the house, I felt like I had to eat, so I overate.
I only had my parents the last week of every month most of the time. Every time the first of the month came, I knew my parents would start drinking again until they ran out of money. The last week, I loved, because I knew that although there was no money left, I got my mom and dad back. For that week, they were good and devoted. I would often beg my mom to not drink when I knew the next day the money came in, and even though my mom would tell me she wouldn't, I'd come home from school and she'd 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 wasn't always abusive. He began drinking at a very young age. He was always narcissistic even before he drank, but I do have a few good memories. He'd help me with my schooling, helping me learn how to say "bird" when I would say "board". We played games together and he protected me from bullies at times.
But he was also mean. 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. There was a time when we were both on the staircase to the basement and it collapsed, 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 floor. I was only five if I remember right. But because I was overweight, I basically bounced. Otherwise I would have been seriously injured, or worst.
The older he got, the meaner he got. While my parents weren't physically abusive, 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 and less important to me.
I loved going to church. I was the only one 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 was 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.
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. Except the one time I was removed as a young teenager. Which began an entirely new and traumatic journey, but that's for a later time.
