A Well Crafted Escape

One didn’t exist for me.

The longer the abuse lasted in my life, the more I would try to detail what an escape from them would look like.

A bullet in my mother’s head? That would stop her. I fantasized about tying my dad up, bringing him into his bathroom and placing him on his knees and holding a gun to the back of his head. In both scenarios I would blindfold them because I was sick of looking at their vacant eyes; dull and void of anything good.

What could I do to get them to leave me alone?

In the end there wasn’t any escape route I could find. Nothing was going to keep me from receiving their abuse. Time and time again the sick bastards would call for me to join them in their room.

A bedroom of gloom and despair that I learned to hate. And hate them, I am sure I did. In that moment hate was the only thing I had that helped me survive them.

So, maybe my anger was my escape route? It helped me see past what they were doing to me. It helped me hold on to a hope that lived somewhere outside of their disgusting, dilapidated house.

A world beyond their filth.

That is what my anger held onto. I hated my mother for who she was and what she allowed. My father — I no longer had much thought for him beyond wanting him to just crawl back into the ground where he came from.

LEAVE ME ALONE,” were the only words my heart had left as a teenager.

As their memories fade into the loving hands of my Heavenly father, I am blessed to remember what strength it has taken me to survive. I am proud of who I am. I am proud of who I was.

I cannot wait to see all of who I will be.

Originally published at http://prisonerbynocrimeofmyown.com on November 14, 2020.

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