Nihilist Cowboy

A Sick Man, A Spiteful Man, An Unattractive Man
2021-01-26 07:46:09 (UTC)

Alienation in Childhood part 2

Alienation in Childhood part 2

Trigger warning: abuse and other unfun stuff discussed

From where you’re kneeling it must feel like an 18 karat run of bad luck. Truth is the game was rigged from the start- Benny, Fallout New Vegas

While writing the last section, I realized I left an important part to the story of my alienation. I don’t really want to talk about it, but it is now standing right in front of me. This issue must be discussed before I can move on to what I feel was the center of the feeling of alienation that has plagued my entire existence. Well, here it goes.

If anyone ever reads this, I ask of only one simple thing. Please do not pity me, feel sorry for me, or view me in the lens of a “victim” or “survivor.” Until I started working in the field of mental health, I believed my childhood was awful, that it could not have gotten any worse. Once I started my internship and began to complete psychosocial assessments, I realized that the notion of my childhood and adolescent years being the worse was completely totally false. Honestly, I hear worse experiences on a daily basis from the psych patients I work with.

During graduate school, I chose to put on emphasis on studying adolescent developmental issues including the roles that abuse and substance use play on developing Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD) and Conduct Disorder. If you can believe it or not, trauma can change the structure of the brain. The limbic system in the center of the brain is responsible for the “fight or flight response” that one undergoes in a traumatic situation. Years of stress alter the brain where this mechanism goes 90 to nothing in the snap of a finger. Studies of children in the juvenile justice system show a history of inability to control impulses due to structural changes of the brain from trauma. Of course, other more well-known issues appear such as an absolute self esteem killer and a stunted social development.

I lied a second ago, I actually have a second request to make to the possible hypothetical reader. I also asked to please do not judge my father. I hated him for years until I realized he is a sick man who had his own demons in childhood that he never faced. I forgave him and now we have a close relationship. He is a tortured soul with what I think are several undiagnosed psychiatric illnesses. My dad is one of the most intelligent people I have ever known, but also has absolutely no common sense. He is a walking Merck Manual; I think he should have been a doctor. I will talk more about him at a later time. Ok, now that is out of the way and I have spent a good while procrastinating. Let’s do this.

Mom says her and dad separated when I was about a year and a half old. According to her, my dad was working as an ambulance driver in Dallas working for 24 hour shifts before driving the 100 or so miles back to East Texas a few times a week. That’s where he met Dana, the woman known as the “stepdevil.” I was too young at this point to remember this information. A month before my 3rd birthday, my parent’s divorced was finalized, and my dad immediately took a trip to Vegas and married Dana. He then moved in with her in a seedy trailerpark off of 80 in a quiet suburb about 15 miles East of Downtown Dallas.

Today, I have tried as hard as I can to remember my absolute earliest memory in life. After arguing with myself about which memory was the oldest, I believe I came up with the answer. It was December 1994, Dad got a Super Nintendo for Christmas, he was sitting and playing Super Mario World with Dana’s two sons both a few years older than me. I could smell chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven, looking out the window pressing my face against the freezing glass, I could see Christmas lights and decorations in the yard of the trailer across the street. This scene sounds like a picturesque moment that every millennial longs for, the age of innocence, the problem free life right? Well...
The memory is so vague and distant, but I can see Dana sitting in front of me screaming at me at the top of her lungs. I have no idea what I did to make her mad, but yeah, my oldest memory. Dana looked like the most Karen that has ever “Karen’d.” She had short highlighted blonde hair that never came down to her shoulders, usually a bob haircut, as well as spending time at the tanning booth. For work, Dana was a L&D nurse at the local hospital, yet she absolutely hated this kid right here.

I had some incredibly happy memories as a kid, ones that can be discussed later, such as playing with the donkeys at Granny’s house, or being drove around on the four-wheeler by my grandfather at their farm. These memories will be written down in time.
Because my dad could not behave, my grandmother (Mam) started driving me to my dad’s house. The year was 1997; Dad and Dana just bought a house in Canton, which is about halfway between Dallas and my hometown. My heart would start to race when we started the 45 minute drive to Canton; the tears started to flow when she passed the city limits sign and I was just a hot mess when she pulled off in his neighborhood. She dropped me off, talked to him for a bit, and left. At that moment, 48 hours of hell would begin, this was a ritual that took place every other weekend.

The neighborhood was the typical late 20th Century middle class development. Coming off the main North/South road in the town you would come across a Pizza Hut buffet on the left (do they even still exist?) next to a fire station and behind it was a Brookshires. On the right there was an old gas station that was converted into a video rental house one side and another a Chinese Takeout. Turning at the video rental store to the right you went up a sharp inclined, passed a quarter car wash on the right and you were in the neighborhood. Unlike the contemporary developments built in the last 20 years, the yards were larger, and the houses were ranch houses built low to the ground. This is a stark comparison to the postmodern suburban hell that are the newer subdivision that have sprung up everywhere since everybody and their mother is moving to Texas, I hate those boxy Mcmansions with the 9/10 foot ceilings, the light grey bricks with a white stone porch for bonus points, with names like “Meadowland Estates,” or “Oakbriar Farms.” Ok, that is enough of my complaining of gaudy residential architecture, let’s move on.

Taking a sharp right past the car wash you would enter onto the road of white poured concrete. Large post oak and elm trees lined the streets. After a bend in the road, there is a gradual incline and it was the 3rd house on the right. Long, narrow, dark grey bricks, and black shingles was what awaited me every other weekend. A two car garage was on the left hand side of the street facing side which ended where the porch began. The porch had three small white columns which ended in a holly bush right past the door. On one side of the front yard was a small post oak, and the other was a giant crabapple. Opening the front door, and inside my biweekly prison was a small, tiled hallway which opened up into a living room. The living room had dark green carpet; the kitchen was on the left with new faux tiled linoleum floor. Directly through the living room was a finished glass sunroom. Turning right, you go into the hallway. My stepsister Kristi’s room was the first on the right, followed the bathroom, and finally the last room on the right was the room that would be my half sister Lauren’s room. Directly across the hall was the master bedroom where my dad stayed. At this point, I shared a room with Kristi who was two years older than me. Returning to the kitchen, a door went out the far side to the garage, the area of the living room furthest from hallway and closest to the kitchen was a giant dining room table.

The dining room table is where I have the first clear memory of abuse. This was 1996, my first year in kindergarten. A typical fall Friday night from what I can remember, Dad and Dana was going to take Kristi, my stepbrother, and I to Discovery Zone in Dallas. Dana sat my dinner plate in front of me and it was full of macaroni and cheese. There is a chemical in processed cheese that I cannot tolerate, thus every time I eat process cheese (macaroni and cheese, queso, Kraft singles) I have explosive puke. I took a few bites and puked over the floor.

“Scott! He is faking it, he is doing it on purpose!” Dana yelled out.

In a rage, Dad ordered me to “Come here boy” he grabbed a chair and slammed it in front of me.

“Grab the chair!” he yelled out while picking up a wooden spoon off of the counter.
After being hesitant to grab my hands on the chair he put a firm grip on the back of my neck and proceeded to whoop the tar out of me, I looked up and his normally bright green eyes were bloodshot and full of rage. After taking the spoon to me and making me clean up my puke, we loaded up in the car and went to Discovery Zone like nothing ever happened. Keep in mind I am not exaggerating any of this… So the next night Dana sat down another bowl of macaroni and cheese and well the same exact thing happened, wooden spoon. The mac and cheese episode happened for a while until I guess they got tired of it.

The entire weekends were full of avoiding getting screamed at by Dana or getting the belt or wooden spoon from Dad. Now, I would by lying if I said every moment there was awful. Dad put a trampoline in the back, Kristi, stepbrother, and the neighbor kid TJ spent hours jumping on it. We would all explore the woods behind the neighborhood, go into an abandoned house. Dad would take us to the science museum at Fair Park in Dallas, stepbrother listened to Nirvana and watched Beavis and Butthead. I tried watching it and Dana got the belt after me.

It is 1997, and my sister Lauren was born and around this time is when I remember things started to escalate. Dad wanted me to live with him so “his family would be complete.” I would be told that my mother was white trash, she did not really love me, and when I protested him, I would either get slapped or the belt would come off. Eventually, when he figured out I did not want to live with him, the escalation continued. I would be called white trash, and then the fat shaming began. I have seen pictures of myself at that age and I was a normal BMI, but every other weekend I was called “fatty, fatso, chunky,” and would hear on a daily basis “You are a little fat piece of shit just like your mother.”

They took us to Hurricane Harbor in Arlington one day, I am not making this up but on the way home, Dana was sitting in the passenger seat of the van just laughing. When asked why Dana said, “because Zach looked like a beached whale swimming today.” Normally, going to theme parks and vacation is what every child looks forward to. We went to Six Flags a few times a year and Sea World in San Antonio every few years. Also included was the occasional trip to the beach in Galveston. I dreaded the vacations. Without fail, every single time we went somewhere we would have lunch at a roadside park. This scene played out the same, either Dad or Dana would make sandwiches and hand them out to us. My sandwich was always made with white bread and Kraft Singles. I have never liked white bread and then of course the cheese that I absolutely cannot eat. So, I would throw it up which would end up you guessed it, being pulled into a bathroom or behind a tree and getting spanked.

From what I have been told, in the divorce decree, it was decided that Dad would buy my school clothes. While Kristi and Lauren’s clothes were purchased at Town East Mall in Dallas, I was only allowed the cheapest clothing that Walmart offered. Lauren got shoes at the Disney Store, I got Payless. In the 4th grade, my aunt and uncle got married, while Lauren and Kristi both received new outfits, I had to wear my school clothes because well… “Zachary is just too fat for anything to fit.”

There was a period of time in the 4th grade where I was not allowed to wear anything over at my dad’s house other than old sweat clothes, honestly do this day I refuse to wear sweatpants. Dad worked nights the weekends I was there leaving Dana free reign to do what she was doing. This time in particular we were at the table eating lunch, Lauren being 4 years old came over and dumped queso all over me. Dana turned around and started screaming to me about “making a mess.” I was told I was not allowed to change my clothes. Dana spent the next few minutes dressing Lauren up, Kristi put on her name brand clothing and we went to Town East in Dallas. The entire place was packed since it was a week before Christmas. Everybody dressed in their finest except me walking a few steps behind them wearing a nasty pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt covered with dried up queso.

The clothing was just the beginning, if we were ever out of line we would get slapped. If I ever told my father I hated being at his house, I would get hit. I had to call Dana “mom” and if not, I would get hit. One of the worst experiences was when I was picked up and just did not want to deal with them that weekend. I guess I cried about “not wanting to go” or something along those lines. He did not take too kindly to that. The entire 45 minute drive he hit me, called me a “fucking scumbag” several times he would pull over to the side of the road and tell me to “get the fuck out of his car” I would try to escape and he would pull me back in the car and continue screaming. This was early February and still cold outside. About halfway to his house he took an exit from the interstate and drove down a back country road. It was now past 6pm and the sun fell below the horizon leaving just a faint orange glow in the sky. He pulled off into the woods and made me take off my clothes. He told me he was going to throw me out into the cold naked because “I was an ungrateful little shit who did not love his father.” Again, he pulled me back into the car and we drove home. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention my 4 year old sister was in the back of the car. We pulled into his driveway and just like magic, he put a smile on his face and we went inside the house like nothing ever happened.

He converted the garage into a giant master bedroom. The old master bedroom became my room shortly after the previously mentioned events. This is when he began working nights. When this happened, I spent most of the entire weekend trapped in that room. Because of the adjoining bathroom, I never had to leave except to eat. I was told by Dana to not leave the room because I would “disturb my father while he slept.” After waking up at around 8am, we would all 3 sit at the table and eat breakfast. Afterwards, Kristi and Lauren sat in Kristi’s room and I returned to the back room. We came out for about 30 minutes for lunch, then we got a few hours In the living room after supper, off to bed around 8:30, 21-22 hours a day stuck in that room.

The room had dark green carpet and white speckled painted walls. The bunk bed from Kristi’s room was now in that room in the corner; the bed had Tommy Hilfiger sheets with white and blue comforters. The sheets on the bottom were white while the top and red sheets. Then a green and white dresser against the opposite wall, a small nightstand and an unused computer desk with a green desk lamp were all that occupied the room. A world and US map hung up on the wall above the big dresser. A small closet was on the wall across from the bed.
There was not a TV in the room or anything to keep me occupied really. On the Fridays at school before I went over there, I would check out a bunch of books from the library to read. Unfortunately, I would be finished with the books by Saturday mid-morning. I would spend Saturday afternoons staring at the maps, this could be why I am now a human GPS, silver linings right? I would lay on the bed and dreamed that Ron and Harry were sitting in the car from the Chamber of Secrets on the roof watching over me. I would lay on the bed and watch the shadows slowly move across the walls. The glow from a streetlamp flowed into the room, I did not have any curtains. I would watch the shadows dance across the walls until I eventually fell asleep. Sometimes, when sleep would just not happen, I would stare out of the window into the backyard and think about running away.

Spring break during 4th grade, we went on a trip to Colorado, while I do not remember that much about that trip I do remember getting out of the car and feeling the cold mountain air for the first time, I said something that pissed off Dana and she threw me down into the snow and held me down. We walked into the hotel and she reached up to slap me and I blocked her and pushed her back, Dad came in and pulled me into the hotel bathroom and hit me with the belt until I could no longer feel anything. We went to Rocky Mountain National Park the next day, and I can remember Dana making jokes about throwing me through the ice of a frozen lake where we were standing.
I have one more story to share regarding that trip. One would know that the Texas Panhandle is just one giant cattle ranch with feedlots galore. Every time we would pass a feedlot, Dana would scream at me for “farting in the car” and roll down the window blasting cold air in my face. Even today I wonder how she had the intelligence to become a nurse.

I could share more sad stories, but I think you the hypothetical reader get the point. Anyways, Summer 2001, I was about to start the 5th grade and was going to stay at my dad’s house for 2 weeks. About two days later on my 10th birthday, he announced that he was “moving with his family to the Caribbean.” Both Dad and Dana got contract nursing jobs in the US Virgin Islands. I was made to believe that I was an asshole because I chose my mother instead of him. He would tell me he had to move away this “his family” because of me. That night, he pulled me aside in my room and told me that he was talking to Dana and they were going to try and have another child, a son. His explanation was he “needed a son to be proud of.” I just was not doing the job I suppose, I was a failure in his eyes at 10 years old. He took us to eat pizza in town, Mam and Pa were there, Dad walked to his car, gave me a hug and got in and left. In a matter of 3 days, I went from thinking I was going on a regular crappy visitation to just him being gone. I got in Mam’s car and they took me back to their house. Although I was only 10 years old, I can remember having the biggest feeling of relief that I have ever felt. I thought that my life’s problems were finally over.

The older I was the meeker I became. While some kids would have been able to stand up to bad things, I was not able. I laid down and cried, cried for my mother and Granny. I told everyone I could tell about what happened. Mam would not believe that her son could ever do any such thing. Mom called CPS, nothing happened.

I felt cut off from my classmates at school, from my family, around the 4th to 5th grade is when I started to experience bullying for the first time. I can look back and say that this was the beginning of my alienation that has lasted for over 2 decades. This experience was a starting off point for my eventual feeling out of place in society.

I left out so much during this period of life, but I plan on returning to discuss other subjects. This exercise is broken up by categories and not in complete chronological order of how things happened.




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