Jesus does not want me...continued
Strange to blog on a topic with this heading.
Please I'm not being a hypocrite or brining any religious order into disrepute.
I'm sharing my life story on this blog. Maybe I can help others in the same
situation. I'm not a qualified psychologist or doctor with multiple degrees.
I'm just a simple person trying to make sense of life in general.
A life you want to forget... BLOG
2
Trust is broken, you doubt everything...
Abusive parents do play an important part in any
child's upbringing. He was a big guy, strong hands with a firm chin. A
deep voice echo's through the house. "We are going to the Wimpy, you
children need to get dressed, we want to go" my sister is four years older
than me, frail built. If a brother could comment a pretty girl. She,
starting puberty, was a lesson I would never forget. My dad was a bouncer
in the evening as a second job, at least, this is what I was told. My
sister and I spent many nights away from the house, sleeping over by uncles,
granny and friends of the family. I guess I was too small to remember the
details. I was only in grade 3. Being a boy, your attention to
grooming yourself was prompt. Jump into whatever can be found in
the wardrobe, don't bother about brushing your hair, I had done that this
morning. My sister on the other hand, spent time in the bathroom. Is that not
what all woman seem to do? No harm in doing this. I was just being a
pain.
She was in the bathroom getting dressed, I
proceeded to bug her consistently, my fault. The door was closed, there was
never a key in any door. Why I cannot tell. I did not consider that she
was becoming of age and wanted her privacy. This is what a bedroom was for. To
get dressed that is. I burst into the bathroom, she shouted. "Gary, get
out, I'm busy". I was a royal pain in any girls' butt. She pushed the door
closed with a loud bang! This was officially war. What I thought was a
simple game would turn into a nightmare. "Seconds from disaster". I
kept opening the door, she kept getting more frustrated. I can remember to
the second, opening the door and not pulling my hand back in time. Her
frustration peaking, she kicked the door closed. A sharp pain shot through my
body. The smile on my face turned to pain. Looking down to the floor a small
white finger lay. She had kicked the door closed, my hand was in the way. I got
such a fright. "Sis, my finger is off" I shouted. "Leave me
alone Gary!" I clenched my hand closed the blood was everywhere. I picked
up the lifeless piece of flesh from the floor and tried to stick it back. To no
avail, the finger would not stick. "Sis, my finger is off". At this
point she peered out from the bathroom. I saw her face turn from
extreme anger to complete shock. "Please don't tell mom, please don't
tell mom" this was the only words she could utter. I said with tears in my
eyes, I won't, I won't. The pain was getting bad. The blood was on the
carpet on the door. I put my hand in my pocket, trying to hide what had just
happened. The lifeless finger in my other hand. We held each other
tight. a deadly silence pierced the air. "We need to tell ma" I
was past white in colour, turning blue. The passage was long to the kitchen... we both knew
the consequences. Please understand the fear of losing a finger was
not as great as approaching my parents. My mother, where do I start?
Eccentric, laughing constantly at her own jokes, you know, I don't really know her except for always
pulling people down. You know they are both pastors. "Ordained"
through a church in Bedford view, back in the 80's. Story has it that they did
not live the best of lives either. They have great faults, I remember my sister
telling me how they would bring other men home and my dad would watch how they
have sex. She was "an exotic dancer" and my dad was just perverted.
But, Jesus came into their lives and forgave them their sins. We as children
just had to follow. No choice in any matter. Now that I think of it, who really
is the cause of my problems? The passage was long, dark and a scary feeling
always hung round the rooms. My sister and I walked hand in hand, down the long
passage. The lounge, had a long oval table in the centre with a short pass you
went into the kitchen, the kitchen was large, and you could sit 6 people around
the kitchen table with ease and still have room for more. Steel table and
chairs typically those of the 70's did not greet your posterior with kindness,
they were designed for short periods of time. The kitchen did not beckon for
visitors, cupboards like a flaming gloom from a burning volcano said you
are not welcome. Like the days of old they sat at their rightful places.
My dad closes to the door, my mother on the opposite side of the table.
There was an Erie silence in the kitchen, both of us still holding onto each
other’s hand. “I squeaked in a sombre voice" Ma, my finger is off" I
proceeded to show her the piece of finger that was detached from my right hand.
The mood instantly changed, that volcano that gloomed in the distance now had a
voice, one of extreme shock, the outburst of anger filled the room. Screaming
and jumping around. A thousand and one questions that no sane person could make
sense of flooded the room. My dad leaping towards the ice bucket in the fridge
saying "put it on ice", "put it on ice" I guess he was
right. Kitchen doors flew open and the fly screen bashed hard as he readied
himself for the exit to the car. I turned back before leaving the house, seeing
my sister standing some distance from my mother, fearful and scared, tears
filled the top of her shirt. I said “MA, please don't blame her, it was
my fault I was bugging her, I was opening and closing the door". There was
no response. I remember waving at them, my dad now like a demon set the
sluggish vehicle into motion. I have no recollection of the road to
the emergency rooms, but we got there fast. A 6 story building dark brown,
the smell of antiseptic filled the air. Strange how cold emergency rooms
are. They don't show any patient with extreme stress any kindness. Someone said
when you die you see a white light in the distance which beacons you. I get
that, it’s the light from the ceiling which blinds you. I remember the doctor
saying to my dad, you did the right thing by placing the finger on ice, maybe
we can stitch it back. He stood looking down at me like an arch angel, covered
with a white mask, only his eyes I saw. They showed no mercy, he had to do his
job, repair what human anatomy was broken, severed or missing. In a soft
voice he whispered. "This is going to hurt a bit". Pain I cannot
explain, shot through my body, countless injections to stop the pain, but was
it? He was making things worse. A long tweezers type instrument went under my
skin and pulled the severed veins back to the front of the fingertip. He
promptly proceeded to sew the finger back on. Covered my hand in what
seemed to be a whole sheet of linen. “He must come back to see me, I need
to see if the finger will heal or else we need to amputate. Ok, this
seems odd to any sane person. If I may, finger off, finger on, but still need
to amputate if needed. What confidence in your own work, considering I was
not under anaesthetic or had a choice but to watch how the tweezers were pushed
deep into my hand, long needles, blood and clenching teeth coupled with great
fear was the outcome? My dad was furious, cursing and swearing at us
for doing this to each other. Consistently yelled at in the car on our way
home. What can you do as a small child but cry, He was dangerous and corroded
with anger. We arrived home, the car stopping inches in front of the gate.
A light appeared and two small figures appeared in the distance. My sister and
mother waiting to hear the outcome of our ordeal. I gave them both a hug and
said with a tear stained face. "I'm sorry, I will not do that
again". My sister grabbed me and held me so tight, peering over her
shoulder the marks how my mother beat her were going blue, the bottom of her
legs and top of them, was this to show my dad that she had vented her anger? Was
this to show me that justice was served? It was not her fault, why did she not
listen to me when I spoke, surely if someone admits to their guilt enough
is said. Must their always be a negative reaction to a negative situation. I
trusted my mother not to vent her anger on my sister, I trusted her to
forgive us both as I was just playing the fool. Some might say it’s a parent’s
only recourse, but to hit her blue like that was something that I can
never forget. My sister went to bed early crying, she was my
friend my only solace in this torn up family. I lay on my bed looking at the ceiling,
feeling the throbbing finger come to life, I could not sleep. The strange
feeling never surpassed in that dark and lonely house, I ran, I always ran, it
felt like someone was always watching you, burst into my sister’s
room, fear always compelled me to sleep next to her. The dim light of
her bedside lamp showed the carnage of my mother’s fury, moving aside
for me I said "can I lie her by you sis" she smiled and moved
over. I held her so tight and cried saying repetitively "I'm sorry,
I'm sorry". She now sowing caution not to bump the hand, held
my arm and said it's alright Gary.
It is then that things changed between my sister
and I. She just pulled away through the years, I'm a loner by nature secluded
and shy. Naughty, which boy at that age isn’t? I wish I could turn back time
and rather walked to my room, left her alone. I had lost more than a finger
that day, trust, my sister and leaned that even an apology with blood
soaked clothes does not bring forgiveness.
