Byproduct Of My Upbringing

Last night I was accused of putting every instance of my life on my blog. This was not the first time that this has happened. I can see how most would perceive it that way, but most would change their mind if they only knew what I don’t actually write about.

Winter is finally here and I don’t like the cold. It brings me back to that one night when my father beat me nearly half to death when I was 5 years old and tossed me out the door. My mother tried to protect me, but she too did not escape the wrath of his fist. I recall not caring about the fact that my entire body was covered in bruises from the metal wires he beat me with, that I survived. I banged on the door as hard as I could and begged for my father to let me in because I did not want the monsters to get me. I kept screaming, “Please don’t let the monsters eat me. I’ll be a better son, I promise!” My aching arms grew tired from the banging and my body gave up to the growing pain of the beating. My body curled into a ball as I prayed that if I don’t move, the monsters won’t see me. The door opened as my father dragged me in by the neck and told me, “I’m going to teach you to be a man!” as he continued to beat me. The beating was painful, but I was happy that now I won’t be eaten by monsters.

Shortly after I turned 18 years old, I escaped my parents and relinquished my right to heir after my father. My high school best friend, Rachel and her family took me in. Rachel made it very clear that she was there for me if I wanted to confide in her. I just wanted to dye my hair, stay up late, watch movies, clean her house and did everything but talk about my feelings. She was constantly on me about how I needed to talk. Nobody knows what’s wrong with themselves, but everyone else can see it right away. Our friendship ended because she felt that I didn’t value our relationship enough to confide in her.

I was not raised to display affection. I was taught that emotions are signs of weakness. The concept of silently dealing and addressing emotions within myself has been built, programmed and even literally beaten into me throughout childhood. Every day, I try to remind myself that I must not be the byproduct of my upbringing. I am not always successful.

The events, frustrations, and rants that end up on this blog are very insignificant parts of my life. Things that I still bottle up inside and still can’t find ways to address is my breakup with Barton, the recent suicide fiasco every time I see the scars on my arms, and how I’m quite close to just emotionally snap. I found that my relationship with my trainer possibly have saved my life. I say that with the most honest truth. I look forward to developing physically everyday with him. I found that right now he’s a very strong person for me to lean on and to confide in. I share with him about all my stresses from work to boys, home life to even my past. He intently listens without judgement. Sometimes he’ll have input, sometimes he just offers words of comfort.

Yesterday, I had Korean BBQ with Homo-Sushi. He noticed the scars on my arms and asked me about it. I tried to change the subject, but I ended up sharing my story. It was the first time that I candidly open up about my contact with a razor. He intently listened and he did not judge me when I truthfully said, “I wanted to die.” It felt good to just finally be heard. But even then, I did not fully over indulge him on all of my true thought and feelings.

A person told me once, “You only let people in on a need to know basis. You never give yourself completely.”

1 Comment to "Byproduct Of My Upbringing"
  • I completely understand what you mean. I, too, am the product of an abusive family. There was physical, mental, emotional abuse from my mom, dad and brother. It was hell. I could not wait to get the hell out of my house when I turned 18 years old. I don’t talk about it…even to my best friends. They know only the tip of the iceberg. The way I grew up made me introverted, insecure, and closed off to people. I was constantly told I was ugly, fat,and stupid. My mom often told me that she wished she had never given birth to me. She was bipolar…and would give beatings out on a whim. Things like that affects and shapes you and the way you perceive the world around you. It’s very difficult to break away from that.


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