Shattered Moonlight

This isn’t the first time that I’ve written about my abuse, nor will it be the last. The first time I ever opened up to someone other than my girlfriend was in my psychology class. Not a single person in that room had an ounce of knowledge about my life, but they only knew me for what they could observe me doing. What shocked them most was what I had to go through at the hands of my abuser.

But what can I say about my father? Can I say he was a loving person? Can I say he cared for me, and only wanted the best for my life? Can I say that he taught me things I would never have learned otherwise? Can I say he even tried to make my life better?

Yes, I could. I’ve known, throughout my life, that my father’s intentions were to make my life better. I also know he did the exact opposite.

His abuse began when I was 3 or 4, possibly earlier. I don’t even know what type of abuse you’d say he did to me. Hell, let’s just say everything except for physical. I was neglected, verbally and emotionally abused, and for a short time, I think I was somewhat sexually abused.

The first thing I remember him doing to screw up my life was a pretty bad one. I had fallen asleep on the couch, and he went to take a shower. My mother was at work when I awoke, and being a young and innocent child, I wanted to see him. I got up and wobbled across the living room, as I was still getting used to walking, and tried to see him. There was one problem: I suppose he didn’t want me to come up and interrupt him, so he put a gate at the stairs.

The gate was at the top of the stairs.

I crawled up the stairs to find a gate blocking my way. I either tried to stand, or to grab the gate and yell, cry, or whatever to garner his attention. Whatever my intentions were, I remember trying to stand, then watching my whole world spiraling. I heard myself falling backwards, rolling head over heels, confused beyond all reason. Soon, I felt the back of my head collide with the stone landing at the bottom.

I don’t remember much after this, but I do remember crying as loud as I could for a long time. It was at least 5-10 minutes, and looking back, I know my skull had at least fractured. I felt the most unbearable pain as I waited an eternity for him to come and help me.

This was bad enough without any of the other stuff he began doing when he and my mother divorced. Foremost, due to my diabetes, he would force me to eat on a strict schedule, and he would feed me foods no toddler/child wanted to eat. I remember he often would give me spinach with bacon in it. To this day, I cannot figure out what prompted this combination, but I would never get what I wanted.

And, on the subject of health, he forced me to join karate. This would’ve been fine, if it had been a kid-friendly class. Every other person there was an adult. I was forced to learn complex maneuvers that I could not do, and I would be yelled at and/or scolded whenever I did it wrong. You see, the instructor was a hardened, ‘old-school’ sensei, and insisted I get it right by screaming until I did, or until he tired of me. My father would never intervene, ‘because no student should ever correct or interrupt his sensei.’ On top of this, the man would rave about horrible subjects that no child should hear, which could’ve warped me badly.

I finally stopped going when I went home to my mom one day and said, “Mom, what’s rape?” Keep in mind, I was five, or less.

On the days I was with my father, especially after I ‘quit’ karate, he would drill me with ‘Hooked on Phonics,’ math flash cards, or he would make me do a puzzle of putting all the states in the correct places on the map. This would go on for hours, even if I had a headache, or was tired, or was bawling my eyes out because I didn’t want to do anymore. In fact, instead of being sympathetic and letting me stop, he’d yell instead. “Kevin, you have to do this now!” “Kevin, you’re disappointing me. I expect you to do this, now get it done.” “Stop crying or you’ll never finish!” He’d make me do as much as I possibly could fit into a day, even if my only friend came over to try and play. He’d simply say, “no, he’s busy right now.” I was almost always alone, because he wouldn’t even stay in the room as I did them. When I finished, he’d check my work. If I got any wrong, he’d tell me to do the whole page again, or we’d do extra flash cards. In fact, I really can’t remember spending time with him, outside of those flash cards. Whenever I was there, I was lonely and tired. I began to hate being at his house, but moreover, I was terrified of him.

Soon, things got even worse. I stopped ‘using the bathroom’ at his house, unless I absolutely had to. I didn’t feel safe enough at his house to do this. Unfortunately, he soon noticed, and he had his own ‘solution.’ He confronted me one day, and honestly, I’m only remembering this now as I’m writing it.

“Have you been using the bathroom?”

“Uhm… no.”

“Come with me.”

“But I don’t have to go!”

“Yes you do, now come with me.” He finished as he pulled me into the small bathroom.

“I’m going to give you a pill to help you use the bathroom. Take of your pants.”

I was too scared to question him, so I did so. He made me bend over, and I felt him push a suppository into my rear. I felt his finger a bit as well. It burned wildly as he left, but he refused to shut the door, because he ‘wanted to be sure I went.’ Needless to say, I would. This happened at least twice a week, until I was about four or five. If you asked me what I was thinking when I decided not to use the bathroom, I would have no idea. If instead you asked me to explain my actions, I could do that.

Freud theorized that there are 5 main stages to child development, and the second is the Anal stage. In this, a child would express their desires or fears of control by how openly and wantonly they had bowel movements. Children who learned to use a toilet at a very late age would fear or hate order, and are more prone to disrespect. On the other hand, children like myself, who held everything in, were seeking control. He said that children who behave this way undoubtedly feel a lack of control, and are using their body to control one of the few things they felt they could control. I certainly had a lack of control over my life, considering every single hour of my life was dictated.

On one of these more traumatizing days, where all I felt was the pounding in my head and the burning of my rear, I decided to finally take some sort of action. Mom would call at around noon everyday, and I answered the phone in our upstairs computer room. He, as always, hovered directly over my shoulder throughout the conversation.

This is when I said, “Dad, may I have a minute alone on the phone?” (I never watched television, and due to the HOP, I had a very well formed vocabulary.)

He looked surprised, “sure.” He said, and he left. I waited as I listened to him go down the stairs to the ground floor.

“Mom, I’m really scared. Dad’s being funny today and I don’t want to be here. Can you please come get me?” My voice was high pitched and I was beginning to cry, but I made sure to keep my voice quiet.

“Sure, you just-” This is when I discovered people could pick up another phone. I learned the term ‘eavesdropping’ that day.

“Kevin, hang up the phone.” I heard my father’s voice, darker than I had ever heard it before, and I did. I hung up the phone without another word, and curled up in the chair, shaking badly as I heard him screaming at my mother. His voice thundered through the house, and I began to cry badly. I thought he was going to hurt mom. Worse yet, I was almost sure he was going to hurt me.

“IF YOU EVER THINK OF TAKING MY SON AWAY FROM ME, I’LL SUE YOUR ASS AND YOU’LL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN!” Was the last thing he said, as he slammed down the phone. I didn’t know what half those things meant, but I do now.

He stormed up the stairs, barging into the computer room. His face was dark red, and he was shaking and screaming loudly. It looked like he was going to explode. I was silently praying he would.

“DON’T YOU EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN! I AM YOUR FATHER, AND YOU WILL SPEND TIME WITH ME! YOU’RE BAD, BECAUSE YOU DON’T RESPECT ME!”

He stormed out again, slamming the door shut. I sobbed in that room for what must’ve been hours. He never came up to check on me, and I never left the room. I just cried, curled up in a fetal position on the chair as I felt guilt and shame and fear, and a whole swarm of other emotions a father should never make his son feel. It was a long time before I would think of disobeying him again, and even longer before I would.

A child’s life is precious. Every child, no matter what, is a gift. More so, each child has a unique gift to share with the world. A child, so full of beautiful innocence, wonder and potential is like moonlight. When you treat a child this way, it’s like the moonlight has become glass, and that precious moonlight shatters.

Soon, he married again. I didn’t want him to, but my opinion never really mattered to him. Almost as soon as the marriage was official, the trouble started. She would yell at me over absolutely nothing. She would treat me like garbage, and shower her son with praise. She would’ve treated a rat better than she treated me.

One incident I remember particularly well began at a friend’s house. Her son, my stepbrother, and I were at a friend’s house. We were playing dodge ball with a giant physio-ball and my stepbrother and I were on the same team. He kept throwing the ball at my head and calling me crude names. This went on for several minutes where I repeatedly asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t. I did the mature thing and left, returning home quickly. I had hoped to keep it quite and not mention anything, because I didn’t want it to escalate to something worse, but his mother stopped me.

“What are you doing home so soon? Where’s my son?”

“Well… I… we were playing a game and we were on the same team, but he kept throwing the ball at me instead and he kept making me feel bad, but I didn’t want to fight him or get in trouble, so I left.”

“Oh. Why don’t you go in and read until your father gets home?”

“But can’t I play on the computer?”

“No, go read.”

“Why can’t I?”

“If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”

When my father came home, she ambushed him, so I couldn’t give him my side of the story. In fact, he never talked to me once about it. I was punished for three days, and was not allowed to do anything.

No one ever explained my ‘crime’ here. In fact, it looks as though I was punished for doing the right thing. Things like this happened as often as she could make them happen.

Before I go on, I’d like to explain something. Everyone should know that divorced parents get a visitation schedule that they must adhere to. In most cases, visitation would be every other week for the parents. Well, my father didn’t like that, so my visitation was basically every other day. I’d spend Monday with him, Tuesday with mom, Wednesday with him, Thursday and Friday with mom, and every other weekend would alternate, but if my father was going to pick me up, it would only be after he got off of work at one o’clock. Mind you, it was a 45-minute drive between my mom’s house and his. My life was ruled by his schedule, which did several things to me.

Foremost, I could never keep a friend. Every time my friends would look for me, I would not be around. My friends eventually stopped coming around entirely. I asked them why they never came over once, and a friend said, “We never know where you are, and when you’re around, it seems your dad is always showing up to get you. It’s just hard to hang out with someone when you aren’t there.”

Second, and quite possibly more important, is the fact that I was never able to keep up with my schoolwork. I would always forget a book or an assignment at one house or another, and I wouldn’t be prepared for school. Other times, I would forget a book in my locker or at the other house, and I wouldn’t be able to do my homework. If he found out I missed an assignment, or that I wasn’t able to do my homework, he’d explode. I remember one unfortunate time.

“Why aren’t you doing your homework?”

“Because… I don’t have any.”

“Do you think I believe that? Don’t you lie to me, why aren’t you doing it?”

“I can’t, I don’t have my books.”

“WHAT? Why not?”

“I left the book at mom’s!”

“That’s inexcusable! You should’ve brought your books in your backpack.”

“But that’s a lot of books! They’re heavy, dad. It hurts my back to carry that much.”

“It doesn’t matter! You have to get that work done, so carry those books to school everyday if you have to. I don’t want to see you unprepared ever again.”

Is this a bad time to mention I have minor scoliosis?

One of the other hateful parts of my youth began taking a more distinct form as well. This aspect is religion. I know it is not a negative for most. I also know many pull positive experiences from religion. I am not bashing religion, nor do I think religion is ‘bad,’ but with my father, it was. He was a Christian, I believe. I was never fully sure. Either way, he’d drag me to church every Sunday that I was with him, even though it was depressing, to say the least. Ever time the congregation rose to receive the ‘host,’ I’d feel left out. You see, I have Celiac disease, and the host is a piece of flatbread, which I cannot eat. My father would leave me alone to sit in the pew as I watched everyone go up, and one by one, eat that which I cannot. I would feel isolated, but worse, I’d feel like a heathen. I’d feel as though I was damned from this religion, as I had a disease that, should I worship God “in full,” would kill me. On top of this, the priests would preach that all those that God loves would be blessed with good health and a whole, loving family. I would think on how I had neither, so does that mean God does not love me? Or am I not a child of God, but some sick, twisted creature?

Worse still is the practice of confession. I have two HUGE problems with it. One, is that all peoples are encouraged to confess their sins every two to four weeks. What if you hadn’t sinned? This practice says, “Even if you haven’t sinned, you’re still a filthy sinner, so come admit what you’ve done.” My second is solely based on principle, but I figured this out at an early age. No matter what you do, it is preached that with confession, God will accept you. If you are a vicious serial rapist/murderer, with a hobby of eviscerating your victims and eating their innards, Christianity says ‘God forgives you.’ Horrible people can almost feel justified by God’s forgiveness. Why should sick bastards get peace of mind and absolution, when they’ve destroyed the lives of hundreds, even thousands?

Regardless, every mass, every prayer, every reading, and every communion would drive that point deeper, until a dagger, coated with venomous religious custom, was buried in my heart. Now, if I enter a church, I begin to feel as though I can’t breathe. I wind up breaking out in a cold sweat, and I have severe anxiety when in any sort of church, but only while a sermon is in session. I can go to, say, St. Paul’s cathedral in New York City without the slightest problem.

The only problem I ever had there was that I was extremely thirsty and almost drank the holy water. (I wouldn’t actually do it… with people around.)

To make matters worse, he had a tendency for throwing parties and get togethers. This wasn’t bad though, what was bad was that I had to often help with, or do, most of the cooking. I’d slave away in the kitchen for hours, usually an hour or two into the party itself as he chatted it up with the guests. If I asked to stop, he’d become angry, saying that he badly needed the help and if I didn’t want to help, we could just stop throwing parties. Obviously, he wouldn’t have stopped, I would’ve just been grounded.

My father didn’t just stop at the ‘emotional’ aspect of things. He’d frequently point out that I was overweight, and would force me to join a variety of activities, despite my protest. I was on a swim team for four years, and the only reason he let me quit was because we were moving out of the town, and I wouldn’t be able to get there.

I came in last for every race. The only two I ever won in all four years were by accident. Once, the people running the show screwed up and had me race a kid three years younger than me. The other, I was the only one in the race. This was almost worse, because instead of concentrating on whether or not I was winning, all I could think of was how long I was taking.

He also forced me to join gymnastics one year, despite more protest, but he let me stop about a month in. This was not an act of kindness, but because I was no longer capable of doing it. I was kicked in the face, and severely displaced one of my teeth. I had to get it numbed, hammered back in place, and wired to the other teeth with braces. Several years later, the tooth died.

When we settled in our nice coastal community, he made me join a gym. This was his reasoning:

“Now that we live by a beach, you’re going to want to look good. Since you aren’t willing and aren’t able to play sports, we’ll just work out at a gym. If you don’t lose weight, you’ll never get a girlfriend. They’ll think, ‘Ew, who’s that fat kid?’ If you work out and lose weight, then you’ll look good.”

Keep in mind, I had lived by the beach with my mother for about 6 years prior to this, and never cared. I was 13, why would I?

These comments, among others, persisted for some time. This went with weight and waist measuring every two to four weeks. I remember them all.

“Hey, you’ve been looking a little pudgy lately. We’re going to have to work twice as hard at the gym today.”

“Have you been eating right? It looks like you got heavier.”

“You’re waist is a quarter inch larger than last month! We’ve talked about this…”

In fact, his comments got so bad, and came so often, that I eventually became anorexic. I put a new zeal towards fitness, but would barely eat. It started off gradually, with me cutting out snacks, cutting out ‘seconds’ and doing more exercises, but as my eight-grade year drew to a close, it became much worse. I would skip lunch almost every day, skip every other breakfast, and barely touch my dinner. I must’ve eaten about four hundred calories a day, which is far less than I should’ve been eating. I exercised twice as hard, and for longer, with every passing week. Though I managed to drop a lot of fat, I could barely keep my muscle, because of my low calorie intake. I often sated any hunger by drinking an excess amount of water, and holding a toothpick in my mouth, so I wouldn’t be tempted to eat.

One time was really bad. I had lost about 15 pounds, and my clothing was literally beginning to fall off my body. I hadn’t eaten in four days, and I was trying to keep my stomach quiet. I believe this was late July. I was with a few friends, one of whom is now my girlfriend of twenty months, and the heat was really getting to me. Your body needs calories to regulate temperature and other things, but since I had no food, I had no way of staying healthy on a 90 degree day. I was becoming faint, fast, and my friends were getting worried.

One of them asked, “Why aren’t you eating? You need to eat! What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m too fat. I can’t afford to eat, or I’ll gain weight.” My voice was monotone, as if I were a zombie. Actually, with my pale skin, ragged clothes, sunken eyes and otherwise frail body and mind, I wasn’t far from it.

The worst thing he ever did was also during my eighth grade year. I had just settled into the school district, after having already changed through six different schools, and I was really enjoying myself. I was heavily involved in my drama club, and took part in three performances. By the third, I had a lead role and was one of seven of the vice presidents. I often compared our club to Snow White, as the president was a quite but strong-willed girl, and a friend of mine. Each of the vice presidents had a wildly different personality, and like the seven dwarves, behaved very differently. We worked well together though, and had a very fluent and interesting way of working together.

One day, my father turned to me and said, “You know you aren’t going to that high school. We’re going to take a look at the great vocational schools around here. They’re the top high schools in this state.”

I was shocked. I actually rebelled against him. “No, I don’t want to.”

He too, was shocked now. “What? You mean you want to go to some god-awful school with a bunch of kids who aren’t intelligent? You want to give up this opportunity?”

“I’m not saying that, I just want to be with my friends.”

“Yes you are! You’re throwing your life away for a bunch of people who probably won’t be your friend a year from now anyway. You can make new friends at your new school, when you get in.”

“I don’t want to go!”

“To bad! My son is going to a good school, and if you think you’re going to tell me you’d like to stay in Long Branch, and then go play video games, you’re wrong! You can just sit in the dining room until you come to your senses.”

And so I did. I wasn’t allowed to see friends or use appliances until I said I’d go.

Unfortunately, I got in.

This sank in around the end of eighth grade. I realized I was going to lose my friends, and thought that I would never see my beloved district again. Around the same time, my drunkard of a stepfather left the family- again. This time would be for good.

I finally lost it. All these things had built up to a point that my mind couldn’t tolerate. I became severely depressed for around two weeks. I just had no more life, no more energy, left inside me. I felt worthless and empty. I barely spoke to anyone, and when I did, my voice was faint and hollow. Even friends of mine that were emotionally aloof from others were coming up to me, hugging me, assuring that everything would be ok. Even worse was that I became violently temperamental. During this period, when people would make fun of me, I’d simply ignore it. Every so often, I’d snap. I nearly strangled a friend of mine in the middle of class for throwing a paper ball at me. Another time I slammed my fist down on a different friend’s hand as he reached to look at my answers on a worksheet, and nearly broke two of his fingers.

Then, it changed. Most emotions are like a dimmer switch, and content would be at the middle setting. My life had become a regular ole’ flip switch; either the light was on full blast, or it wasn’t on at all. In the span of, oh, a minute, I could flip from suicidal depression to spontaneous and reckless elation. I woke one morning feeling strange, as if my heart had become a battery. I wanted to run and dance and shout for no reason, and I was racing about my house, talking at a million words a minute. In school, my friends were giving me odd looks for my sudden change, and wondered what had happened.

I had thought my depression was simply lifted, but it took turns with the extreme happiness, and each mood would last several days at a time. As time wore on, with school getting closer and my friends getting more distant, these moods became faster and even more extreme. I could swing back and forth up to 10 times a day. With some research, I came to the conclusion, albeit not a professional conclusion, that I had developed bi-polar disorder.

Did my father help? No, of course not. When I was quite and depressed, he’d make things worse by harping on my weight, commenting on how I never hung out with any friends (along with adding speculation that I didn’t have any) or telling me to get ready of the coming school year. When I was excited, he’d continue with his comments, along with telling me to calm down, or say that I couldn’t hang out with my friends unless I did my chores, went to the gym, and went to Mass if it were a Sunday. He’d also force me to leave a friends house to eat dinner, though I would tell him I was not hungry, and wouldn’t eat when I got home. When I was with friends, my moods would somewhat stabilize, and I’d feel ok. My father always took me away from this.

I begged him, almost every day, to let me not go to that school, but to no avail. He’d rant, rave and yell about how horrible my district was, and how ‘there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d let me go there.’ I began to feel horrible, violent impulses. I wanted to bash him over the head, set him on fire, and leave him for dead. As my sanity degraded, I also developed traits of Dissociative Identity Disorder. This can present in many ways, most commonly in blackouts. I never had blackouts, a fact I attribute to my being ambidextrous, but I did feel its control. I would have long and usually enlightening conversations with ‘my dark side,’ and even ‘feel’ its presence next to me. My mind would be filled with impulses to maim him, to kill him and be free of his tyranny. I would even see how to do it- one of the most complex methods that ‘it showed me’ was to wait until he fell asleep in his armchair, then sneak into the liquor cabinet. I’d grab a frying pan and bash it over his head, so he stayed unconscious, and pour the bottles contents over him. I’d also pour some on the floor, light it up, and watch him burn. After a few minutes, I’d call 9-1-1 to report ‘a horrible accident’ and claim I’d been out for a walk.

I think what stopped me was knowing I’d lose my Xbox 360, and likely go to jail.

When school came around, he began putting such added pressure on my already fragile mind that it broke down even further. I spiraled into a semi-psychotic episode, for though I wasn’t a raving lunatic, I certainly wasn’t in a normal state of mind. I would be kept awake every night because the hallucinations of my ‘ex’ friends would talk loudly in my room. They’d only start talking when I shut my eyes. When I’d open them, the visions would say ‘go to sleep. You aren’t part of this anymore.’

My father, as always, refused to let me back to my old school. With most of my free time gone, I tried to stop hitting the gym as much, so that I could see my friends more. This wasn’t allowed, and I actually had even less time, as he insisted I study at least an hour a night. This made me laugh, because I never read a word. I just stopped everything academic. I wouldn’t do homework or class work. I wouldn’t study, and I wouldn’t participate in class. In a week, my grades dropped below 50.

This didn’t get the point across. In fact, the school called home, and he blew up. If his words had been knives, I would be confetti. I was so elated that I barely listened to him. In fact, I think I hummed ‘Riot” by Three Days Grace during his rant. He never noticed.

He didn’t even notice I was upset until I dragged a utility razor across my wrist. I was sobbing in my room at my mothers, alone and hysterical, with my ‘dark side’ begging me not to. I put about 13 cuts in my wrist before I noticed something odd- I wasn’t bleeding. Was this my ‘dark side’ taking effect? It is part of my mind, so it should be able to. Or, was this fate saying my time is not yet done? Either way, I only bled a single drop from the group of deep cuts.

Needless to say, my mom found out that very night (when I showed her) and I went straight to the Emergency Room. They weren’t deep, and my mom is a trained nurse, but she wanted to ensure I could receive mental health care and other such things. This I did, though I bounced around from person to person. The first psychologist, who would later be my last, was great. He was funny, and he was concerned with me being well, as opposed to behaving well. My second I only saw once before I said I wasn’t comfortable with her. She focused on my Diabetes, and though it has always been a problem, I didn’t attempt suicide because of it. My third psychologist made everything worse, even though many revered him.

“So, you’re unhappy with your visitation schedule, and would like to change it?” He said to me one day.

“Yes… I don’t even want less days, I just want order… I want to stay at mom’s house on weekdays, and go to him on the weekend. I know I would never have a free weekend, but it would be worth it to make things less crazy.”

“Ok, that’s understandable. Let’s bring your parents in here and I’ll talk to your father about this.”

“What? No! You can’t do that!”

“Why shouldn’t we discuss this with him?”

“Because, I’ll be going to his house today. If you tell him I want to change the schedule, he’ll flip out. He’ll claim I don’t love him, and he’ll make me feel bad and I’m just not ready yet.”

“Kevin, this needs to happen. Step outside and let your parents come in.”

Sure enough, he did the exact opposite of what I wanted, and he told them. As we left, my father was silent. He didn’t speak another word to me that evening, except for ‘pass the salt.’ The next day we were at my bus stop, waiting for the bus to show up, and he burst into tears. Sobbing loudly, he said, “I can’t believe my own son doesn’t love me. He doesn’t want to be with me.”

“Ye… yes I do.” I began to cry.

“No you don’t! If you were a good, loving son you wouldn’t be putting me through this. A good son wouldn’t make me suffer like this.”

I was crying now too, just as the bus pulled up. I could barely choke out ‘I love you.’ I was crying silently for the next hour, my heart broken.

However, my mom had finally helped me to convince my father I couldn’t stay at the vocational school any longer. On my birthday, I returned to the beloved (albeit crumbling) school district. I hid my scars beneath a wristband, and tried to see how things would work.

The school year went on, with the visitation schedule driving me mad. I was still emotionally hazardous, and tended to lash out at those around me. My grades were still low, as my mind simply did not have the clarity to retain and process complex information.

That January, I began dating the girl I mentioned earlier, though she is a grade ahead of me. She gradually helped me stabilize my emotions, and helped make me more confident. With her help, I decided I couldn’t live with him any longer, and decided to act.

In the middle of the school day I went to our School Based Youth Services and asked to use their phone. I had being seeing the school teen-psychologist for some time, and though she did not quite grasp the emotional struggles I’d had, she did understand my paternal problems. I called my mom and said, quite simply, “I’m not going back to dad’s. Not today, not ever. I can’t do this anymore. I need your help in winning this fight, and I need you to understand.”

She did, true to form. Throughout my life, my mom has always been my shining light. She’s always protected me, and helped guide me. She’s also made me the person I am today. She didn’t let me down, and since that day, I haven’t spent a single day with him.

At first, I began seeing my original psychologist again, as he does family counseling. We were trying to see if things could work out. During the first session, I shut down. I couldn’t move or speak to either of them, mostly because I caved under the pressure of being there. The next sessions went better, but I never wanted to spend time with him. In fact, I had a major breakthrough.

“You have to come home sometime.” My father said.

“He is your father, Kevin. You have to spend a little time with him, once in awhile.” My psychologist concurred.

I thought about this, and finally said, “No… No I don’t.”

I informed them I no longer needed family counseling, as we had reached an impasse. I was never going to return to life with my father, so coming to the meetings was a pointless effort. I thanked the doctor for all of his help, said my good byes to my father, and parted ways.

However, I am not insolent. In today’s economy, money is essential. I return to do some lawn work for him for about an hour or two a week, to earn money. I’d have more clients, but illegal immigrants have stolen all my potential customers, as they work for low wages and can do a lot more work than a 16 year old.

All I went through with him has changed me in huge ways. I have panic attacks if I’m ever around anyone who is yelling, but if they are other guys of my age, I become very violent when provoked with screaming. I nearly broke someone’s nose a few days ago for screaming “HA!” when I answered a question wrong, because it startled me so badly. I still have traces of Bi-polar disorder and Dissociative Identity Disorder, and I always will. I am highly against strict religions, and religious customs. Whenever someone talks about having a great father, I either scoff at him or her, or leave the conversation, or I call them ‘lucky’ and add a horrid little anecdote.

I have learned things about life that no one of my age should’ve had to learn. I am far more mature and responsible than my peers, as I know the dire consequence of stepping out of line. I take my education and my health far too seriously, and often wind up hurting my social life, because my psyche is twisted around such values. The order of chaos has ruled my life and left a permanent impact on my thought process. Though I have limitless potential and very high proficiency in a number of subjects, I will always have these shadows writhing around me. I am gifted, and yet, I am damaged; I am shattered moonlight.

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