Our Story So Far

I grew up in a miserable, violent, scary family but I don't want to overplay that. No one ought to be blaming their life on their childhood at 53. At 53 we have the face we deserve to have. Someone said that once. In the words of the immortal Casey Stengel, you could look it up.

I watched my father beat the hell out of my mom. I watched him knock my brother's front teeth out, and I watched him brutalize all of my seven brothers and sisters. I felt the sting of poverty and embarassment, of yellow teeth and having the Pacific Power and Light lineman come striding up the lane to disconnect our electricity. I was nine, bounding up to him like a puppy, asking him why he'd come to visit. We lived eight miles out of town on 60 acres half full of sage brush. Visitors didn't come often. My fourth grade teacher came once to hunt arrowheads. My mother filled our ears with bitter sarcasm in her embarassment over our shabby furniture and rundown farmhouse. I loved Mr. Deeds. He was our flag football coach and wore white short sleeved shirts and skinny ties. I bought him one for Christmas. I hated my father. When I was 18 and grew tall enough I challenged him to a fist fight in the kitchen. He didn't hit me back.

Thirty six chaotic years passed, and nothing prepared me for the brutality and bullying oppressiveness of my current marriage. I've never felt as raw and naked and unloved as Marie makes me feel when she is angry. I want to escape with every fiber of my being. But she doesn't have a job, and I have no place to go.