One I'd Rather Forget....

Jack

In my last post I mentioned my parent's incarceration. When it happened, it was all so suddenly, at least for us kids that is, we never saw it coming. I am sure anyone else could have predicted it, but if they did, I never knew.

I was young when they were taken away, only 14 years old. On a mentality scale I was so much younger, thanks to them. I didn't have any friends, only brothers and sisters. We were kept so detached from everything outside of our family dynamic, we didn't have a real sense of what the world was. According to my parents, and everyone that inquired, I was "home schooled". This pretty much meant that I had the basic capability to read, how well I could was totally up to me. Luckily, I have always loved getting lost in a story. Before I could read for myself, I would long for the day that the alphabet on the page would all make sense to me and begin to form words. It just seemed as if nobody ever wanted to read to me long enough to satisfy my itch. This bode well for me. Once I learned how, reading became my escape, and eventually, writing would be my outlet. Thank God for healthy interests, because our school day was non-existent. To this day, I still don't understand what my parents were thinking. Those were the years that we should have been learning, and experiencing. They robbed those moments from us and we are still trying to catch up. Some of us have given up. More on that later.

As if it wasn't enough that my parents neglected our academic interests, they brainwashed us into ignoring our moral compass. From as early as I can remember, they taught me that my oldest sister, Rachel, was not as good as the rest of us. She was trash - their words, not mine. Because of her worthlessness she was made to do everything for us. She was the cook, housekeeper, baby caretaker, and the butt of every joke. Regardless of how hard she tried to please them it was never quite good enough. Something was always too messy, or was left in the oven too long, or hell, maybe she blinked in the wrong way. All of this was taken as an act of rebellion. And rebellious children must be punished, right? Spare the rod, spoil the child. They sure did love that line. Towards the end they really didn't need a reason to punish her, if she was within arms length a slap across the face was deemed necessary. Much later I found out my dad had another use for her on the side that he kept private from my mom. Of course no one really has secrets within such a "tight-knit" family. That's when Rachel's punishments escalated from abuse to straight out torture. Mom would catch Dad and Rachel in a situation that would cause her to become suspicious. Dad would claim Rachel came onto him. Mom would order Dad to beat the living daylights out of Rachel, only Dad would bargain with Rachel behind closed doors. He would get her to do things that no daughter should ever have to do with her father, in order to not be whipped or choked or whatever other punishment he could come up with. Then, afterwards Mom would deem that the punishment wasn't enough and would do the deed herself. Mom's punishments were always worse. She used tools. Pliers, wood burners, barbwire, knives. These are the "punishments" that still give me nightmares. Through it all, if one of us witnessed such an act they would sit down with us and explain what we "really saw". Rachel got a black eye during a baseball game, her arm is cut because she fell off of her bike, Rachel is not here today because she has the flu, Rachel burned her arm while cooking, yes she did, yes she did, yes she did.

You may wonder why this post is labeled as a memory I'd rather forget involving my brother Jack. Considering the things I've written in regards to my sister, I can see how from the outside looking in you would want to forget this ever happened. But I need to remember it, I MUST remember it. I've spent too many years ignoring and forgetting it. Thanks to my parents I have two conflicting sets of memories. I can clearly remember Rachel falling off of her bike and cutting her arm. But I also remember the day Rachel dropped a glass and it shattered, and as punishment Mom used the jagged pieces to teach her a lesson in clumsiness. For far too long I only remembered the former and not the latter. As horrific as these memories are, I need to remember them. What I wish I could forget is that I was a part of her hell. We all were. I still remember when Mom, as a punishment, cut off all of Rachel's hair. What was left was choppy and uneven. We were instructed that day to laugh and point whenever we saw her. I wish with all of my heart that I could say that I did not. I didn't want to do it, I never wanted to do these types of things. But you always got the sense that there was just a very thin line that separated you from Rachel, and to rebel against a direct order could push you onto the other side. I was the 5th child, good for pointing and laughing, but not for much else. Anything beyond psychological games, were duties normally saved for my older siblings. Jack being the eldest, well, he was good for just about anything. I'm sure she realized he could really do some damage if taught correctly. From this I must back away and let the curtain fall. Like I said, I'd rather forget this. For his sake and for mine. Jack is a good natured, dorky older brother. But they taught him violence, told him it was good and let him hone his skills, and there was no one there to say otherwise. I am sure Jack was all too aware of that invisible line that seemed all too thin.

Today, Jack is not a violent person. I am proud of him for that. Damn proud. I don't know if he has confronted his demons, we don't talk about any of this. In fact, if memories are recalled they are usually the fake ones. If truth is a wound, the lies are the bandage that keeps it from bleeding out. The boy they taught him to be is not the man he is today. But I know it haunts him. I know in the back of his mind he knows what his hands are capable of. I know that he is afraid to talk about it because he fears the hatred that is associated with it. I know that he dreams violent dreams and that there is nothing he can do to stop them. He didn't know any better back then any more than he knows better not to hate himself for it now. I wish I could help. For his sake, I wish I could close my eyes and make the dreams stop and the memories disappear. I wish I could show him how to forgive himself and to see the good inside of him. The good that they never showed him how to be.