Weekly Writing Challenge: Ghosts of December 23rds Past

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Weekly Writing Challenge: Ghosts of December 23rds Past

A day of my past into an insignificant future. 

My past is such a struggle, its painful to remember, painful to relive. 

The day that comes to mind, is pure torture. 

When I was little, my mom wanted me and my siblings to see my dad one last time before he was sent away for years to come. The problem was someone found out. They didn’t like my moms’ last desperate resort. 

I was put in foster care with my twin and the rest of us were spread out by themselves. 

It was one night, only some sort of a 24 hour time period, but it was hell. 

I was so small, and I felt so alone. I had only my sister to comfort me and she was in a comforting mood. We sat, cuddled up together, under a table for hours, crying, until we fell asleep. We forced to eat spaghetti, of all things, for dinner and to this day I can no longer eat that saucy covered pasta. 

My mom was able to pull me out of the system, throwing out her own fears and helplessness for the court to see, a desperate housewife being evicted from her home, with no money, no job, a husband being tossed into prison for the pain he put into my family. We had nowhere to go and she had never been on her own before. (Let alone with 6 kids on her hands.) 

Her utter desperation is what released her kids from . . . ultimate daycare let’s call it.

When we got home, we were never really home. We had to move around, living with different people, never on our own. Never with daddy again. 

I saw him, a few visits to the prison visiting center but it was never satisfying. He never seemed to want to see me, he pushed me away. 

Even so, he wrote letters and drew pictures and made cards; even got a few phone calls here and there. 

One thing I remember most, is being signed up for Angel Tree. There would be a family who would call my mom during Christmas time and every kid would make a list. That family would buy the things we put on our list and say they were from daddy. 

Every year, we would get the call. 

Every year, we would wait for a delivery to out door. 

Every year, we would have the special tags, they were shaped as a tree with Angel Tree written on the top, “from daddy”.

Every year, we would open them on Christmas eve. 

Every year, disappointment rang when my daddy didn’t come home for Christmas. 

 

 

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I realize that I literally just posted, but I got all fired up with that and I have some more I would like to say. 

I rant, a lot. There is just so much pent up aggression inside my tiny body and I have a lot to say. 

My fire was born when I was little, I got it from my dad. (Mine just might be a little bit more tamed to say the least.)

It’s fed by this dumb ass thing we call life. 

Society fills that life up. 

I’m sick of society. 

We started out as a hardworking people. We were more advanced than anybody, always moving forward, working to make our lives better, easier, simpler. 

I think we just got too good at it. 

Our lives are too easy now and we take all of that for granted. We have given over the lead to Europe and Asia, let go of the reins and became worthless pigs only looking for a good time and a burger. 

Nobody tries anymore. Americans have given up hope on life and just stopped caring. The smallest struggle becomes the world and a reason for suicide. The tiniest mistake becomes a hammer to the face and a reason for that first cut. 

All the worst things have become a new “fad” to the public eye. 

Cutting, suicide, and depression are NOT fads. 

Depression is a serious condition, in which the brain has a chemical imbalance and does not function like the regular human being.

Those of you out there throwing your bloody arms out for the world because you don’t have enough attention, are the ones who have given those with a real medical condition a bad name.

There are people out there, so deep into pain and sadness that they just can’t function and truly believe that life on earth is unbearable.  They will lie in wake, struggling to the point where they can’t differentiate reality from dreams/nightmares and slice open their wrists to feel alive again and find some sort of solid ground. 

Then there are those, who lie. They just lie in bed and find boredom. They are so genuinely bored, that they decide to be depressed. They tell people that they are “just done” and need to die because no one cares about them and they show them the cuts on their arm for proof. They take pictures of the blood beading up on their skin and post them to tumblr and instagram, hoping for some kind of sympathy and security that they’re not going insane, they’re just “depressed”.

If you were depressed, then you would get your ass out of bed and get professional help and not sit there, ripping your arms to shreds  and put the pictures on social media hoping for people to give you some goddamn attention. 

Cutting is not an excuse, it’s a problem. 

Suicide is not a show-stopper, it’s an escape. 

Now, I’m not talking to those of you who hid the fact that you were so upset you felt the need to release yourself from mental pain, I’m not talking to those of you who got help for your issues.

I’m talking to the ones who dragged problems into their lives for an excuse to get some freaking attention, because god-knows you don’t have enough of that. 

Where it begins.

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Where it begins.

I guess this is where my story starts; the hardest part is always the beginning it seems. This man is my father, he hurt a lot of people and the woes of my life have started with only the memory of him, the memory of his touch. His touch never violated me through body but through eyes as he sat at the computer lusting through pictures saved on google. He was a man in search of something that my mother couldn’t give him. The touch began its lingering fingers through my sister’s soul, ripped her body to shreds after he bruised my mom and my brother to bits and pieces. He made my family feel worthless and helpless, small, the prey of his treacherous heart. I never knew the full extent of his sickness, he was gone by the time I counted to 4. The letters came and went, the visits stopped at 3. By the age of 7 I was alone with a mother only there to send me to school while she struggled to keep us alive. It was painful for her. And now its painful for me.