“One More Chance”

It's a little bit difficult for me to talk about all of this, because ever since I was young, I've had this survival tactic where I would deliberately repress my memories and I still do it. My mom, well, my mom, was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, and she was extremely physically abusive. The abuse started at a very early age, and I was told that, as a baby, she tried to throw me off a bridge. She despised me, and she would show it by beating me on a daily basis with anything and everything she could get her hands on; pots, pans, glass bottles, belts, wired hangers, ashtrays, and even physically with her hands and feet. I remember walking home from school every day as a young kid, and feeling the anxiety and terrorizing fear come over me, knowing that my mom was waiting for me to walk through that door, so she could deliberately beat the shit out of me, “as a sport,” she would say. So, each day, I would mentally and physically try to prepare myself, and sure enough, as soon as I walked through that door, she would lock it behind me and the beatings would begin until I was either incapacitated, or until she was worn out from her high. I was around twenty years old when she apparently apologized for all of that.

My dad's Mexican and my mom's Irish, and my mom was really in love with my dad. Once I was born, all the devotion and attention that my father would show my mother was now directed towards me. He still loved my mom and showed her, but in her head she thought that I was stealing all the love away from her. I believe that's what drove her violent nature towards me. The beatings went on from elementary school to junior high. I have a vivid memory of waking up one morning when I was around thirteen years old and asking my mom if we had any toys that we could donate to a school charity. I suggested we donate these stuffed teddy bears we had. I didn't realize that at the time she agreed, that she was high. Throughout the day, while I was at school, she was looking all over the house for 'em. When I got home, I was with my friend, and she frantically asked, “Alex, where are the teddy bears that I had? Each one was specifically for your brothers and sisters. They're color coded for the month that you were all born.”  I remember saying, “Alesia, I specifically asked you if it was okay. I asked for your permission if I could donate these teddy bears, and you said, yes.” She goes, “the fuck I did.” She was high on heroin and meth. I remember she punched me in the mouth, threw me on the floor, and started kicking me in the head, stomping me on the floor. My friend got so scared, he just ran out the door.

My dad was the sole provider for all seven children, so he was barely home. He would work anywhere between ten and sixteen hours a day, six days a week. My mom could never hold a steady job. It’s actually pretty rare that you hear of a father sticking around and taking care of his kids, but he was one of the rare ones. He put a roof over our heads, fed us, clothed us. I had a good relationship with him. I would tell him what Alesia was doing to me, and he wouldn’t believe me at first. He actually walked in on a couple of the beatings, and that's when he started to see what was really going on at home. My mom would beat the shit out of me as if I was a grown ass man, and my dad would rescue me. He was my knight in shining armor. I actually felt like someone cared for me when he was around.