I just want to get better at telling stories, so I thought this would be a great place to get feedback with very low risk. And so, without further ado, here is the story of my first encounter with homelessness.
The year was around 1999-2001. I was around 4-6 years old. I grew up in an abusive household. My parents were at the brink of divorce, and they were pretty much at each others throats everyday with their arguing. Just writing about this gives me the ptsd like shivers I must have felt as a toddler seeing my parents yelling at each other.
My father had a temper. And so, many times you would be punished for no reason at all. Maybe you looked at him the wrong way, or said something without enough respect. I remember one time where I got in deep trouble because I handed him a soda without a can cover. It was just the type of person he was.
And so, yeah, the answer to the question that must be wandering around your heads while reading this is yes, I got beat. But I think there was one punishment that either equaled or surpassed getting beat, and that was getting kicked out. My father was a smart man, but he was also a cruel one. And the combination of the two led to creative ways to make me fear him. And so, I remember one night in particular that occurred when I was around 4-6 years old.
I do not remember why I got in trouble, I just remember being in deep shit. It could have been my fault, it could have not been. I would be the first to admit that I deserved a lot of the trouble I got in, but I do not remember what happened before that night.
The memory starts with my father yelling at me while I was in a laundry room. We didn’t have our own laundry machine, so we had to use a community laundromat. I do not remember how it happened, but I was in nothing but my underwear. And my father was threatening to leave me here by myself. And of course, I was begging, crying, and apologizing to my father to not abandon me. I was putting my hands together, and I was bawling my eyes out. And then he became silent, and then. . . he left.
He was gone. He probably left me out there for no less then 15-30 minutes, but I was more scared then I have ever been. I thought I would never see my parents again, which to a toddler my age meant the world. I thought I was simply going to die. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t know how to do anything. And those couple of minutes felt like an eternity.
But after a while, he pulls up in the white mini-van we use to own, and screams from the window to get in the car. That’s all I remember.
I remember being told how evil I was, or how rotten of a kid I was by my father, and so I always believed I was just a bad kid. It was rough going through those couple of years, but there were definitely some times where I felt genuinely happy. christmas. video games. church. Just to name a few.
Hope you guys enjoyed. Please give some feedback, and share if you can~
It’s that simple