I really had no idea what to call this blog post but I felt like I needed to included a list of stuff I’ve survived that I shouldn’t have had to go through in the first place. These may be as disjointed as broken limbs or they might have order. All I know is these posts will be pollyfiller for my backstory. Stuff that has made me who I am and I would love to have never happened in the first place. I’ll try keep to some semblance of a time line where possible. Right now I’m not sure if these post will be individual memories or a cluster f*ck of pain. I’ll just keep going because some stuff needs to be said, even if it raises awareness to sh*t that goes on.
I know this shouldn’t really seem like a point from someone who wasn’t born in a 3rd world country but this is one of those things I’m proud I survived. Let me explain… my mother …well on top of everything else, she had problems having children. This was before proper IVF and it wasn’t a case of she miscarried once or twice. (If you’ve met her she’s probably already told you this within the first 5 minutes of being in the same room as her, as if it’s a badge of honor.) She miscarried 12 times. I was her 13th child, the first to live more than 24 hours, the first one. (You think that would make me infinitely special right? ) I often tell myself, my mother’s problems couldn’t kill me when I was born, so this is new incident/accident/trauma is nothing. Yet what she does and has done has still messed me up on a deep level. I tell myself when I’m wounded/moping/struggling to cope that “I was the 13th, the brake in the cycle. I must have survived for some reason.” It oddly motivates me in a way that if my mother was normal, would not work. I sometimes put my strength and my resilience down to surviving being born. The amount of stuff I have survived, the injuries I’ve just got up and walked away from, everything seems connected back to this strength. I must have been a stubborn bastard since conception.
2. Target Practice.
So I’ve mentioned before that I live in an utter sh*t hole, but would you believe me if I said it was worse when I was growing up? “How?” you may wonder. Well simply put, kids in gangs with guns. Yep, I lived in a painfully white ghetto. I was young, just started junior school, my sister was still tiny, and I used to love sitting in the front window and reading or watching the stars. Until one day, I was shot at, by a petty group of 12 – 15 year olds wielding modified (and illegal) air riffles. I have been thankful of double glazing ever since. The ball baring shattered the outer glass and cracked the second pane. Cold night air stung the tip of my right ear, as if the ball baring would have just skimmed me, but I never blinked. I wasn’t frozen in fear, but angry at the worthless brats who had trespassed on my parents land to shoot at me. The police didn’t care and I don’t remember them turning up. Those kids had something against my family and that wasn’t the only thing the had done. I lost count of how many times they stalked me, tried to attack me, tried to set the house and our garage on fire, etc. If anything this event in my life has made me hate guns. They are the choice of weapon for the weak, the lazy, and the honor-less.
3. Head, meet drain pipe.
I think I’ve mentioned that I was bullied as a child and by many types of people. Whether it be classmates, peers, teachers, adults, family, at one point every one and their dogs seemed to try their hand at bullying me. One of the worst times was when I was still in Primary school. I would defend those who needed help, the one non-white child, kids who got bullied etc. I often had two people who would talk to me if their other friends weren’t in that day. One was as skinny as a twig and looked as fragile as a little bird, the other had sh*t parents and asthma. One day the class bully/idiot had decided to corner us. He punched the bird like girl and she was knocked clean out. He then tried to strangle the girl with asthma after throwing her inhaler as far as it could go. She had a bad asthma attack and panic attack and collapsed on to her knees. I knew I had to act fast. I wasn’t going to leave the girls defenseless to go get help and the only play ground monitor was at the other end of the yard. So as the little monster turned to me with his fists out, I realised there was only one thing to do other than fight, (Which I didn’t want to do because fighting was supposed to be bad. However in my school it meant you were ‘troubled’ and got helpers and gifts and days out.) I feigned fear. I screamed as loud as I could. The monitor came running towards us. However my reward was to have my head smashed repeatedly into a cast iron drain pipe. The monster child got away with it and got treated to an afternoon with the towns football team. I got a dislocated jaw, half a bruised face, lost a tooth and no one even bothered to call a first-aider or my parents.