Reflections of my Past

I was a victim. No. I was a victim. A victim of childhood abuse at the hands of my father.

I don't speak to him. I don't even speak his name. I haven't for a long long long time.

I'm working on myself. To heal. To grow. To become the father I always needed.

Now, I'd be lying if I sat here and just vilified my father. It wasn't all bad. Maybe 90 percent bad, 10 percent good. To me, the one receiving the pain, that 10 percent felt like a whisper in a hurricane.

He introduced me to church. To Jesus. To Christianity. Well... His version of it.  

The kind where kids were meant to be seen, not heard. Where chores had to be "DONE!" before he got home, and how our hands were used to build and to break.  

He did teach me how to create with my hands, How to build things... and im grateful for those lessions.

But...he also taught me how to take a hit, several hits in a row. Hits with open hands, with fists, with a bat, a claw hammer, a rubber mallet a frying pan a knife block and cutting board... A paddle he made me cut out of hickory in the shape of a heart, befor promptly braking it over me. He taught me how skin can rip, when your hit with a raw hide belt and buckle repeatedly, How to curl into a ball, to make yourself a smaller target, and to protect your face and stomach at all cost.

How to hold the wrists, when being lifted into the air by your hair. 

How to move your neck just right so you don't pass out.  

So you can still breathe. Just enough.

I was raised in a loud house, a very loud house.... I wasn't normal... I wasn't right.  

I didn't have many friends growing up.

There were a few. Like Kenny. Pale goth kid. Long hair. Black nails.  

Awesome guy. Kind, Funny, Real.

But I struggled. A lot.  

I was a high functioning autistic little boy with ADHD. Undiagnosed at the time. 

My father just pegged me as stupid. Retarded. Slow. ... "The mailman's child."

He wasn't always mean. He showed me shows like The Red Green Show and Star Trek. But the bad outweighs the good.  

I don't hate him. I wish him no ill will.  

I just want him to give me my peace.

I have love for my father. I really do.  

But I don't love him like a son should love his father.  

Because to me, I wasn't shown that same kindness.

I can guess why the beatings started.  

I had my issues.  

Besides being a huge disappointment to him, I also had a severe lactose allergy.

My mom used whole milk in everything.  

Cereal. Mashed potatoes. Mac and cheese.  

I didn't know what was happening. I was a child.  

The milk would get slimy as I ate. My stomach would get hot.  

And I would shit my pants.

Honestly, I know it's gross. I know it's disgusting.  

I was made to feel exactly the way you'd expect shitting your pants to feel.  

One of the worst beatings came after he found a pair of stashed underwear under the bathroom sink.  

It was the first time he shoved the soiled pair into my mouth before hitting me in the face.  

He felt bad. He told me as much.  

While he made me scrub the shit and blood out of my underwear.  

Then he sent me to bed without dinner. At three in the afternoon.

And that's just the beginning.  

I was lost. Confused. Scared.  

I didn't know what to do.

They did take me to the doctor once.  

He just blamed it on laziness.

I did dumb stuff.  

I hid in the shower once because my father was home yelling like normal, and I knew what that meant. So I hid.  

Well guess what. Apparently all that yelling made him need to take a crap.  

And he used the same bathroom I was hiding in.

He caught me.  

Confused my hiding for trying to "peep on him like a ft."  

I was hit. Oh boy was I hit.  

And afterwards I was thrown into my room so I could "reflect on my choices."

I said I was gonna be honest.  

The full truth. In time.

The reason I opened with a glimpse into my childhood is to define why I use the persona I use.  

All blacked out.  

Except for my mirrored reflective mask and my reflective gauntlets.

Why I create my art the way I create it.

I don't want fortune.  

I don't want fame.

I want people to hear themselves in my words.  

I want people to feel themselves in my words.  

I want people to see themselves in my mask.

I want to help those who feel they have no one.  

Because I've been there.

I've tried to take my life on three separate occasions.  

All three failed.

I tried a noose around my neck.  

The branch broke.  

So did my arm.

I took pills and blacked out.  

But I woke up alone in a cold shower.  

Covered in my own vomit and waste.

And I unfortunately tried with my handgun.  

My Ruger 9mm.  

I placed the barrel in my mouth and squeezed.

Click.  

F*.

Ready up again.  

Click.  

Click.  

Nothing.

By that time, my best friend, & now my wife got my office door open in my apartment and stopped me.

I broke that day.  

For the first time, I felt seen.

I put my gun down on the desk and stood up to meet Meagan’s eyes.  

Tears gushing.

BANG.  

The gun discharged.  

Destroyed my monitor.  

And the drywall.

That was fun to explain to the property manager.

So when I say I know pain...  

Brace yourselves.  

This is gonna be a long ride.

So stay if you have time listen to the words... not me, listen to you.  It will take me some time, but I will get it all out and hopefully help someone else hurting.