You Hurt Me Too Much.I haven’t told this story to anyone before but it is a story I have always wanted to tell. It’s a painful story to tell. You may think it’s trivial and should be forgotten but I can’t. It’s not trivial to me.
I have a brother who is 5 years older than me and he is a good brother, the best brother and always has been as far back as I can remember. We argued of course but he rarely ever touched me. He knew he was bigger than me obviously and stronger. He rarely abused that position. I can remember at times, he’d really wind me up and I would stand up for myself safe in the knowledge he’d never hit me. On the very rare occasion I did get the punch to the stomach, trying to cry but being unable to draw any breath do to so, being winded. I hold no grudges, none at all. I love him dearly. It’s very different when a mother abuses her position.
It was during the summer holidays of 1973. I am 6 years old and my brother is 11.
My brother and I had been arguing. My mother came up to our bedroom and without finding out what was going on, looked at me and shouted that she had had enough of me and was sending me away for good. That I would never see her, my dad or brother again. I remind you, I am 6. She went downstairs to the kitchen and my brother looked at me and I looked at him and we both burst out crying and walked downstairs. As we entered the kitchen she glared at me. I remember to this day, the hatred in her eyes. She walked out and came back with pen and paper and sat at the kitchen table. She began to write a letter that would have me sent away before the week was out. My dear brother and I begged, begged for her to stop. She smiled and said it was too late, she had already started writing.
The next memory is, I am kneeling on the floor facing the cooker. I am crying so hard I can’t breath. My brother is knelt behind me with his arms wrapped around me. My dear 11 year old brother is comforting me while my mother is writing away, reading out the words as she writes them. When she had finished the letter, we were sent to our room.
The next day, she told me she’d made it all up. She wasn’t going to send me away, she’d just had enough of me yesterday and wanted to teach me a lesson. She certainly did teach me something that day. She taught me she had evilness in her. She taught me that, many times during my childhood. My dad did to. Like the time he kept goading me in front of relatives until I snapped and told him to shut up. I was made to ***** and was whipped with his leather belt. These memories date back 37 years but seem like yesterday.
The story has a happy ending, 6 years ago I told them to **** off and I have never spoken to them since. My brother told me a few months back that my dad was about to have a triple heart bypass operation. I have no interest as to whether it was successful or if he’s still alive. My mother is a lonely old woman now, she has lost me and my brother lives in Geneva.
My memories of childhood aren’t good but it has made me a good father. A very good father. I love my daughter with all my heart. Her name is Megan and she is 6. She is my avatar. I never have and never will lay a finger on her. I don’t shout at her and I don’t threaten her.
The greatest lesson my parents taught me was, how NOT to bring up a child. For that at least, I am grateful.
deckard97 41-45, M 12 Responses 5 Nov 20, 2010