Is it wrong that my first memories of you are ones of embarrassment? Even at four I was uncomfortable to share a bed with my father when he was wearing tighty whities. Unfortunately where else could I sleep?
He had me on weekends, scarce and in between.
One of my first memories of my father involved my favorite childhood food, kraft handisnacks cheese and crackers. I don't remember who took me if it was grandma or my mother, but I remember waiting in line in the cafeteria. I remember knowing that daddy was sick, he wasn't feeling well so we had to go to the hospital to visit him. I didn't like going to the hospital it smelled funny and I had already spent months in the hospital.
When I was three or four my mother's boyfriend, Steve was shaving in the small bathroom on the first floor of our two story apartment in Bellingham. He had a large coffee thermas on the counter of the bathroom right next to the sponges. Even then I was smaller than most children. I was wearing a purple sweatpants and a sweatshirt outfit. I slowly tried to reach up for the sponge... when the coffee container knocked over spilling furiously hot liquid all over my body immediately melting my clothes and skin.
My screams were blood renched you'd think I'd strained my vocal cords. My mother darted downstairs to see what the screams of her child were about, but the look on Steve's face indicated that this wasn't any normal cry for attention. She wrapped me in a towel and raced down to my grandmother's house merely 7 blocks away.
My mother told me that they took me into a small room and locked her out and all she could hear were my screams. She wanted to be there to hold my hand as they tore the flesh from my body, but the doctors felt that it would be even more traumatizing to have my mother, my protector in a role in which she was helpless to alleviate any of the pain.
She told me this was one of the worst moments of her life. She felt so horrid, so helpless, so small.
I was in the burn ward for months and lived off hospital food and the occasional meal from McDonald's. Mother said I was addicted to "chicken" McNuggets. It was then that I also received my first real teddy bear a pink care bear. It was also then that I began my nervous habit of self-soothing. I would run my fingers across the tag of the bear where the washing instructions were printed. This would later apply itself to my class rings and the fidgety nature of moving it from finger to finger, hand to hand.
I laid in the bed with bars for so long that it became absolutely impossible to get me back once play time was over. Mother told me that one time a nurse scolded me and hit me on my hand. My mother had never been so angry and told the women off. I was a small child confined to my bed for hours on end, I looked forward to my walks and small bouts of play. It shouldn't come off as odd or strange that I would want to stay away from the bars as long as I could.
I learned about the smells of the ointments and bandages. My mother would keep them in a small old Snoopy shoes box. We would need to apply ointments from time to time to help with the healing of the scares. Growing up I never called them scares, I always referred to them as my burns.
It was then that I started to think that I was a monster. The large red daggers lining across diagonally through my torso and up across my arm.
"I'll never be pretty," I thought. "No one will ever want me, if I have children they will be ashamed of me."
This manner of thinking went on for almost decades.
Walking through the hospital reminded me of all this. It's funny that I don't remember any thoughts of my father before the accident. There I was for his accident however, poised and ready.
I remember that he was hard to spot and very different than what I was used to. I hugged his leg and proceeded to sit next to him.
He talked in detail about how he and the rest of the guys were feeling about being in rehab. I didn't know what that meant, all I knew was that my daddy was there and I had a great feast of cheese & crackers to consume.
Dad went through rehab for awhile to get cleaned up. My mother had divorced him on the basis of many things, that being a prime factor, the mental abuse, physical abuse, cheating and lying were all factors to the demise of a marriage built on shotgun values.
He would struggle all my life to keep the bottle away from his lips. He was a horrible drunk! There was a time where he had me for visitations. He took me to my Grandma & Grandpa Seaman's house for a visit. By the time we were ready to leave he was smashed and was not in any place to drive. However I and Tracy his future wife (at that point) road around town while my dad yelled at the both of us we needed to go party, I was eight and I was scared.
It wasn't until I was close to 20 that my dad started to clean up. He started to watch his worlds collide and the respect of me lowering with it.
He had me on weekends, scarce and in between.
One of my first memories of my father involved my favorite childhood food, kraft handisnacks cheese and crackers. I don't remember who took me if it was grandma or my mother, but I remember waiting in line in the cafeteria. I remember knowing that daddy was sick, he wasn't feeling well so we had to go to the hospital to visit him. I didn't like going to the hospital it smelled funny and I had already spent months in the hospital.
When I was three or four my mother's boyfriend, Steve was shaving in the small bathroom on the first floor of our two story apartment in Bellingham. He had a large coffee thermas on the counter of the bathroom right next to the sponges. Even then I was smaller than most children. I was wearing a purple sweatpants and a sweatshirt outfit. I slowly tried to reach up for the sponge... when the coffee container knocked over spilling furiously hot liquid all over my body immediately melting my clothes and skin.
My screams were blood renched you'd think I'd strained my vocal cords. My mother darted downstairs to see what the screams of her child were about, but the look on Steve's face indicated that this wasn't any normal cry for attention. She wrapped me in a towel and raced down to my grandmother's house merely 7 blocks away.
My mother told me that they took me into a small room and locked her out and all she could hear were my screams. She wanted to be there to hold my hand as they tore the flesh from my body, but the doctors felt that it would be even more traumatizing to have my mother, my protector in a role in which she was helpless to alleviate any of the pain.
She told me this was one of the worst moments of her life. She felt so horrid, so helpless, so small.
I was in the burn ward for months and lived off hospital food and the occasional meal from McDonald's. Mother said I was addicted to "chicken" McNuggets. It was then that I also received my first real teddy bear a pink care bear. It was also then that I began my nervous habit of self-soothing. I would run my fingers across the tag of the bear where the washing instructions were printed. This would later apply itself to my class rings and the fidgety nature of moving it from finger to finger, hand to hand.
I laid in the bed with bars for so long that it became absolutely impossible to get me back once play time was over. Mother told me that one time a nurse scolded me and hit me on my hand. My mother had never been so angry and told the women off. I was a small child confined to my bed for hours on end, I looked forward to my walks and small bouts of play. It shouldn't come off as odd or strange that I would want to stay away from the bars as long as I could.
I learned about the smells of the ointments and bandages. My mother would keep them in a small old Snoopy shoes box. We would need to apply ointments from time to time to help with the healing of the scares. Growing up I never called them scares, I always referred to them as my burns.
It was then that I started to think that I was a monster. The large red daggers lining across diagonally through my torso and up across my arm.
"I'll never be pretty," I thought. "No one will ever want me, if I have children they will be ashamed of me."
This manner of thinking went on for almost decades.
Walking through the hospital reminded me of all this. It's funny that I don't remember any thoughts of my father before the accident. There I was for his accident however, poised and ready.
I remember that he was hard to spot and very different than what I was used to. I hugged his leg and proceeded to sit next to him.
He talked in detail about how he and the rest of the guys were feeling about being in rehab. I didn't know what that meant, all I knew was that my daddy was there and I had a great feast of cheese & crackers to consume.
Dad went through rehab for awhile to get cleaned up. My mother had divorced him on the basis of many things, that being a prime factor, the mental abuse, physical abuse, cheating and lying were all factors to the demise of a marriage built on shotgun values.
He would struggle all my life to keep the bottle away from his lips. He was a horrible drunk! There was a time where he had me for visitations. He took me to my Grandma & Grandpa Seaman's house for a visit. By the time we were ready to leave he was smashed and was not in any place to drive. However I and Tracy his future wife (at that point) road around town while my dad yelled at the both of us we needed to go party, I was eight and I was scared.
It wasn't until I was close to 20 that my dad started to clean up. He started to watch his worlds collide and the respect of me lowering with it.
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