I Am Ruined From A Wicked, Unheard Of Childhood.

It was 1962, my mother was married to a man,  that was in the military. She was experiencing problems with him, and separated from him, and ran to live

 his best friend, and blood cousin, Charles. Something happened. Don't know for sure what it was, but Charles was supposed to have did something violent to my mother. It ends up, that Charles became my biological father. The hell begins. It was the age of five, that I could remember. I lived with my

mother, and her husband, which is still ken to me, somehow. A middle class family of four, living in a beautiful brick home.Her husband, George is claimed to be my father, by birth certificate. In which, found out years later, that is not the case.  Something happened because of what happened between my mother, and Charles; MY LIFE IS RUINED NOW, BECAUSE OF IT. All that I remember is living in a utility room, on the floor, on a sheet. In the dark, most of the time. My restroom was a two-liter soda bottle. And, when the bottle was filled with my urine, I was taken to the back yard, upon the hill, where George put his foot on my neck, and forced this urine all in my face, and in my mouth. Afterwards, he would take me to the end of the back yard and rub dog crap all in my face, and so on. I can still feel it, the stuff drying on my eyes, and in my nostrils. My mouth was open, as so I didn't want to swallow any of it.  Flies were all over my face, and the stench was so much to bare. For about and hour or so, this lasted, then George would take a high pressured water hole and spray me down, then drag me by my hair, and throw me back into the utility room, where I remained.  My main source of nutrition was Gravy Train dog food.  I never ever got to walk through their home, but just peep underneath the door and listen, and watch what I could of the family eating dinner every night. It smelled so good. And, if I was lucky, a morsel was left over, and put into a tupper-ware bowl, and given to me. I would be made to sit in the cold garage floor, as George hawked spit into the bowl, and with an automotive fan-belt, force me to eat this scrap with his hawk of spit in it. I was never given a drink of water, as my source of water was from the drain hose of the washing mashine. One day the light was on, and I could see the water that I was drinking. It was purple and dark. Till one day, I urinated and blood came out,  as my side hurt so bad that I swore I would die. Nobody ever knew about this, except my brother.  And, when I needed to defficate, I was made to go across the street into the field, and crap there, in the creek, and wipe with leaves, etc. What's it like as a child to sit and watch tv, get a drink of water, or anything from the kitchen? What's it like to rom through a house, as a child, and just be free, and know what a home and family is? What's it like to have friends, from school, or down the street?What's it like to be a child? I don't know. Was I suppose to be loved as a little boy, and have a family who cared? They were not alcolholics, or drug users. They were just sick. Just like I am, today. I can still remember, I was a little boy, hanging by the neck, by a tow chain, in the garage, from a telephone pole set up, used for pulling engines form cars. My hands were bound, and my feet barely touching two wooden blocks. One would think I was a bad kid, or something. However, I never ever did anything wrong. I didn't even know my name. My name was always dog ***, queer face. son of a *****, and that was it.

I still remember, the only time that I got to sit at the dinner table was when George and My mom, would sit me there, and scream so loud directly into my ears, telling me " Don't call her mama, call her Mrs. Morris. Don't call me Daddy, call me Mr. Morris. You low life son of a *****, etc, etc. I hate you, you low life son of a *****!!! You're a dog, etc, etc, etc, "  and every thing else they could call me, and say to me, till to this day my ears still ring and cause me panic.  And, the beatings. A nightly ritual, where I was to lay down on the floor, and in my underware, with my feet straight up in the air, George would say " count a hundred you son of a *****, this is what I think of you"  As he beat the bottoms of my feet,  so hard that the pops on my ankles hit so hard my ears rang.  To metion,  his desire to strike my private parts so hard,  I was ready to pass out. He made my brother put his foot on my neck and force me not to cry or make any noise. I did go to school, where teachers complained of busted, split lips, fan belt welps in my eyes, etc. But couldn't do nothing, I was told because the law was differen't back then. Oh, the hell goes on and on and on, for fifteen years of my life. To this day, I can still see George, making me get on my knees beside the house one evening, and urinating all in my face and saying, "you better not tell your mama, you son of a *****." I was always lonely, living in a dark cold utility room, where I never had a bed, but just a floor, sleeping in my clothes. I had a problem peeing on myself, asleep. And, my mother would force me to take my underware off, and pull them down over my head, and face and go into the school house this way, where I was made fun of, and beaten up, for being, I guess differen't, in special education. God, the memories, the times when my mom caught me peeping out from underneath the door, and her trying to jab my eye's out with a metal clothes hanger. And her desire to rake steel combs across my lower nose and laugh about it.  And, the only freedom I had our side was there on the hill of the back yard, in the corner of the chain link fence, where I was to stay for hours and hours of the day, and urinate in the corner there, on the steel pole. It, over time smelled bad of urine, but it was my only place to be. In the hot sun, suffering for hours, as a little boy. To, quote, either there on the hill, or in the dogs dog house in this back yard. My source of water there, was when I learned how the dog drank and I would sneed down to his water bowl, and drink just like the dog did. I did think that I was a dog, and knew nothing else to do but live in that hell. I thougt that I was suppose to, and wasn't smart enough to run away. I was afraid to run away, because the free world was scarey and strange to me. And, again, the story goes on and on and on, for fifteen years, that I can remember.

It was 1979,  I was awakend from the floor, on a sunday morning, and told to put on these nice clothes, that someone special wanted to meet me. It was weird, to be treated so normal. But it was that day that I met my real day, Charles. He was dying of lung cancer, at about 37 years old, and a very good looking, tall cowboy fellow, with so many friends. And, cool, but mean as hell. Because I met him, I was forced to leave this hell home, for claiming Charles as my dad, seriously.  And, from that day on,  with no street or society skills or experience, I was scared and didn't know what to do but sleep beside the neighbors homes and break into them, only for food ,and nothing else. Till one day I was caught,  and sent to the Texas State Prison, to serve ten flat years. Where, even there, my hell got worse, being sent to the hardest prison unit in the state of Texas, 1982. The Ferguson Unit. Where, hell was so hot, that I had to fight to live or kill someone, even the stabbings, to stay alive and be still a man. I'd just turned 17. Ten years of hell. Then got out , met this gir, with her for a couple of years, had kids by her, l and was sent back for another 12 years for injury to a child. And, much to your surprise, due to my past, I swear to the gods that I didn't do this. Because I loved my two daughters, more than life its self. This is very very true. I was seriously innocent.  But there it was, 24 years of my life in prison, in the deepest part of hell that the state could put me, to suffer. No family, no friends or no one on the out side to love me, or even know where I was, or even cared. I lost my mind and heart there. And today, I suffer from sever panic disorder, PTSD, Bipolor, and have so many cut marks on my body that it's freaky and embarresing. Today, I live on $673 a month, and will own this trailer house in a couple of months, and my truck that I can't even get legal to drive, because I'm so poor. Out here in the back wood of Benbrook, Tx.I am sad, so alone, and live in hell in my head every day and night till I've cursed god, and life itself.  I listen to Satanic music, and hate it. Don't ask me, I don't know why. But, it basically defines who I am, "out of hell". because god never cared enough to make my life bareable. I've lost my children, my past marriage, and was in prison for fifteen years as a child, then twentyfour years in the state prison. I've never know nothing but pain and gut wrenching hell, to this very moment that I'm writing this to you. What is love? Why do I have to go to hell? Because I'm not perfect in the eyes of god? I know I'm going to burn, in hell. Because I am so full of evil, and for what I' ve done in my life. Yet, I want to know love so very bad, and so much to live life normally and be normal. I am a demon, right out of hell. Why? Because my parents bred hell into me. I will forever despise Christ, Jesus and God, untill they can love me enough to heal my perpetual pain, mentally, physically, emotionally, and spritially. I am Terry. A misfit to society. Noone ever gave me a chance. No one ever will . For now I live in a lake of fire, because of this sick world where **** like this is ignored and our government wouldn't give a ****. Nevertheless , if you would like to share your story, or just be a friend, with somebody like me, then contact me at  toby4me42@yahoo.com...or you can find me on myspace, by searching for rAtCaTcHeR, or Terry Lee Morris. Thank you for listening.

toby4me toby4me
46-50, M
Mar 16, 2010