Before I describe to you the runaway attempt, and how Scott was involved in that, let me first say that although I am tempted to blame Scott for this or imply that he was the one who talked me into it, and although there is some truth to that, in all fairness, there is much more to that story, and to completely blame Scott would not be fair in this case.
While I'm on the subject, I just want to say that my intention in writing this book is not to blame Scott for everything and at the same time paint myself with a brush of pure innocence.
I think the reader of average reasonableness can already tell that I'm not trying to do that, otherwise I wouldn't have already revealed some things about myself, that I have, not would I have said anything positive about Scott which I also have.
One thing that I want to address, is that Scott had intimated in a letter that he sent to a friend of mine (this is relatively recently, not way back when) that from his memory of those days that he described me as being emotionally disturbed, and suspected that I was being abused at home.
And although it is also not my intention to blame my parents or attack them or anything like that but Scott is right. I was emotionally disturbed at the time and I was being abused at home. If I were to "sugarcoat" the problems going on at home, or were to try to "protect" my parents by changing around those facts, would certainly not be fair to Scott.
It's not my intention here to attack or blame my parent's or Scott but I am going to describe the circumstances at the time as best I can and as accurately as I can as I remember them, and if that is going to result in people's feelings getting hurt, than that is the risk I am willing to take in order to tell the truth.
And the truth is, although Scott may have suggested that I run away from home, it would be unfair for me to say that he talked me into it, for I was already thinking about running away, and had already "attempted" to run away when I was nine years old even before I ever met Scott.
Scott's suggestion just brought to the surface in incident that had happened the previous December (of '73) in which I had decided to run away.
And I'm going to describe those circumstances first, and it's going to be a little difficult, because there was a long history of abusiveness from my mother going all the way back to a specific point in time when I was six years old, and I'm not going to go that far back, I'm just going to say that my mother was abusive towards me.
I would describe her abuse as being mostly emotional/verbal abuse in which she frequently (on a semi-daily basis) screamed and yelled and cussed at me and threw what I would call adult-temper tantrums in which she habitually took out a lot of rage and resentment and directed at me, even though I didn't do anything to deserve it.
And I don't need to be validated on this point. There were so many friends and relatives and even my own grandmother who have validated me throughout my childhood and called a spade a spade and told me that my mother was out of control and she went way over the line, and that her behaver toward me was hateful and abusive and constant.
I wouldn't say that her abuse was physical except on an occasion or two. I can remember one incident where she threw a hairbrush at me from across the room which hit me right in the forehead in a fit of rage, which I thought certainly was a dangerous thing to do. Throwing objects at your children obviously has the potential of causing unpredictable harm or injury.
There was probably an instance or two of a similar nature but overall I wouldn't describe my mother's abuse as physical, although I was told by a psychiatrist that some of my mother's abuse was sexual in nature, and I'm going to talk about that in a moment, because I wouldn't have seen it from that perspective or thought of it that way except that it was pointed out to me by a psychiatrist.
And so I am going to describe that, because it directly lead up to my decision at nine years old to run away from home.
Besides the constant verbal abuse and emotional abuse of screaming and yelling at me and throwing temper tantrums in which my mother thew things (usually not at me) and would break things (usually things that belonged to me) and cussed at me and I mean called me every name in the book, and said deeply hurtful things to me like "I wish you were never born" and "You're a child of the devil" and things like that, until I would break down and cry at which time she showed no mercy and would continue her tirade, often times even becoming more abusive when I started to cry rather than less.
I don't know what my mother's problem was. It was told to me by a psychiatrist that my mother probably had a personality disorder called "Borderline Personality Disorder" although that certainly couldn't be even loosely called a diagnosis unless the psychiatrist could actually interview my mother, but based on the descriptions of the abuse that occurred this is what I have been told.
I have also had the misfortune to meet two other people, who happened to be the mother's of two friends of mine, who were diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and their behavior and their abusiveness towards their own children were almost identical to my own, so I believe that to be the case.
All I can tell you is that it seemed to have started one day when I was six years old, and after dinner my parents had this routine of washing and drying the dishes and I offered to help and my dad suggested I help my mother by drying the dishes, and it was while I was helping her at six years old to dry the dishes, that my mother threw the first (what I would call) psychotic episode of massive rage and anger directly at me.
And ever since then I would continue to receive these rage-induced psychotic fits always directed at me, often times, ironically, while I was helping my mother dry the dishes, something she insisted I do every night since that first night when I was six years old, in which I was trapped and had to endure her badgering and explosions of rage and anger and obvious hatred towards me in which she would yell and scream and cuss at me and tell me that I can't do anything right, and so on and so on and so on.
And my dad witnessed these attacks, and believed that they were uncalled for and completely unnecessary, but he also believed and had sympathy for my mother and all her stories about how she was abused by her mother and in particular by her first husband (my natural father - who, by the way I never knew and had no memory of)
And I can remember my dad being sympathetic towards my mother and would talk to me alone when I was in tears afterwords and try to get me to have sympathy and understanding for her for after all, she was abused by her x-husband, and since I reminded her of this man who abused her, I should be understanding of that and not take it personal nor be scared to death nor should I suffer any emotional problems from the abuse myself because after all my mother had been abused and paradoxically, it was most often my nose that supposedly reminded her most of him (the man who abused her).
I actually have pictures of my natural father and pictures of me both now and growing up and I can say that I don't look and never have looked a thing like him, not my nose, or anything else, except that he was white and thin, and I was white, and like most boys my age, I was also thin, but other than that, there really was no resemblance.
Now, about the nose. I told you earlier that I had been hit in the face numerous times in the 4th grade and that that is when I most probably got my nose broken. I don't know that for a fact though.
There was an incident in the 2nd grade when I was seven years old, in Mr. Draper's class at Daniel Freeman Elementary School where I was attending, where us kids had been out at recess playing an organized game of kick ball, which involved a very hard round ball about the size of a soccer ball, but even harder, and usually they were brown.
In the game I was the pitcher, and just before recess was over, I rolled the ball (which is how you pitched it) and the "batter" who was really the kicker, kicked the ball straight up into the air and really high. I attempted to catch the ball, and much to my surprise and amazement (for I wasn't really much good at these kinds of sports activities) I actually caught the ball, and our team won the game.
All kinds of kids came up to me giving me high-fives and hugging me and stuff, and one kid came up to me who I didn't realize at the time was on the other team. He had the kickball in his hand and when he was standing about two feet from me, he threw the kickball at my face at point blank range with full force.
The teacher, Mr. Draper, just happened to be standing there and observed the entire assault, and as a direct result the kid was paddled while bending over a chair in front of the whole class.
But apparently the incident was never reported to my parents, and I am not exactly sure why. You would think that if an incident happened like that where the teacher paddled one of his students that both parents would be notified of the circumstances, and I don't know that they weren't; it's just that my parent's have never mentioned it, and I concede that could have broken my nose also.
There was also an incident in the sixth grade where a boy named Cory punched me in the nose, and I concede that could have been the time my nose was broken as well.
But there is another incident which may have been the event that got my nose broken, and it would also explain my parents denial about it and it would also explain why I was never taken to the doctor to have it fixed.
But let me explain what happened.
I was nine years old at the time, and it was December of 1973. And when I would come home from school, at about Three Thirty or whatever it was, my mother would make me strip off all of my clothes at the back door, until I was naked where I was sent off to the bathroom to take a bath.
It was explained to me by a psychiatrist that this kind of thing might be OK if I was five or six, but being made to strip naked in front of my mother every day coming home from school at the age of nine and a half, was explained to me to be very likely sexual abuse, but what I am about to explain next, was definitely told to me was sexual abuse.
On one particular afternoon, I came home from school and was made to strip naked at the back door in front of my mother (always in front of my mother-- it was one of the reasons why I was neurotically modest at this age) and once having striped completely naked, my mother then began to throw one of her psychotic fits, screaming and yelling at me until I finally broke down and cried, and it was obvious to me at the time and it was obvious to the psychiatrist that I described this to, that my mother was trying out a new form of abuse.
I had reached an age where her screaming and yelling at me was no longer having the desired effect of resulting in me breaking down and crying, and she came up with an idea that if she screamed and yelled at me and cussed at me while I was completely striped naked, that she may still be able to break me down to tears, being more vulnerable that way, which she did. It had worked. She was successful.
I walked up to her and I looked her in the eyes and I said something to her that for the one and only time in my memory ever resulted in my mother being completely speechless. And I didn't yell at her or anything.
What I said was, "This was evil what you just did, and I will never ever forgive you for this."
Like I said, my mother was speechless and I just walked past her naked to the bathroom to take my bath. I had tears in my eyes and I was whimpering but I was also angry; very very angry.
Now my dad had not been home when this happened, and did not witness it, but I believe that this incident of berating me while I was stark naked facing my mother so she could see me in full frontal nudity and breaking me down into tears, at which point she pointed towards my genitals and laughed, was actually my mother's retaliation for something else that had happened relatively recently that she was still bitterly angry about where she had been embarrassed and blamed me for it.
What happened is that my mom and I and my dad were all sitting in the living room watching T.V.. It was the evening time, and I remember we had just finished watching the Donnie & Marie Show.
And my mother was not angry about anything in particular at the time. She was, as you might say, relatively calm. I wasn't in trouble about anything, she wasn't angry at me about anything, it was a calm night of watching T.V. and I think it was a Friday Night because if I remember right, Donnie & Marie came on on Friday Night's at 8:00, and I usually had to go to bed at 8:30 for that was my bedtime, and I had to go to bed just after the "I'm A Little Bit Country, I'm A Little Bit Rock 'N' roll" part which always came on half through the show.
My dad had this routine of "tucking" me into bed every night, and I would go off to my room and wait in bed until a commercial and then my dad would come in and pat me on the head and tell me that he loved me, and I would say "Love you too dad."
I absolutely insisted this happen every time I go to bed, otherwise I refused to go to sleep.
On this particular night, as I was headed off to bed, I had decided to give my mom a hug and tell her I loved her too, and when I reached towards her with open arms to give her a hug she actually pushed me away.
And like I said, she wasn't angry at me at the time, I wasn't in trouble for anything.
I remember even my dad was shocked at my mother's reaction. Almost speechless actually, and my mom felt embarrassed.
Finally because I think she felt she was obligated to offer some sort of explanation to my dad she told him, "When he hugs me he hurts my boobs."
I left the room feeling dejected, like at no other time in the past. I went to bed and my dad came and tucked me in and said he loved me and tried to tell me that my mother loved me too but I didn't believe it, and I don't think he really did either.
The truth of the matter is, is that my mother hated my guts and she couldn't barely stand the sight of me, and she loathed the idea of even touching me. I remember when I did touch her when I attempted to hug her that I could feel in her touch that she hated me.
I know that may sound kind of strange to say, but I swear, when someone touches you, you can tell if they love you or if they hate you. When I touched my mother, it felt cold, and I felt hatred.
As a kid, you only need be dejected in that kind of way once really, and it will effect you for a life time. It certainly did me. I remember making a very clear decision at the time that I no longer wanted my mother to touch me. It felt cold, and unloving, and I would never be dejected by her that way again.
But, I think my mother was bitterly angry at me for putting her in a spot where she felt embarrassed in front of my dad, and this incident with yelling and screaming at me while I was naked, was retaliation and she had to wait until Monday to do it when my dad wasn't home.
And for the next five days or so I refused to talk to my mother. I was no longer going to touch her or allow her to touch me, and when she attempted to I did the same thing she did to me, I jumped back, and wouldn't let her get close. In addition I refused to respond verbally to her. If she asked me to do something I would just do it without saying a word.
Obviously my dad was aware of what was happening and the following Saturday took me aside in the back yard to have a talk to me, very friendly like, he wanted to work this out.
And I remember that my dad's attempt, as it usually was, was to try and explain to me that my mother had been abused and that I should be more understanding, and I lost it man, I mean I just lost it.
I said, "F--k her!"
And my dad punched me in the face.
-- Edited by The Phantom on Tuesday 6th of July 2010 02:24:39 PM
__________________
"Sometimes when you open your mind to the impossible, you discover the truth." Walter from Fringe.
