My dad was a manic-depressive alcoholic self-harmer. He never hurt me or my sister but he sometimes did my Mum. I remember her being so frightened of him arriving back home at night, that she would put up a bed in my sister and I’s bedroom. I remember her reading us Bambi as he staggered through the front door and up the stairs to their room. Her voice trembled as he reached there; she wondered what he might do when he realised she wasn’t in their bed and in our room. All she ever done was try to protect us. Luckily, he just collapsed into their double bed. She continued to read us Bambi, whilst crying. I was 4, my sister 8. I fell asleep before she finished the book.

I never wanted to be like my Mum. But last night, I got beaten by my so called friend. Pushed over and through a huge glass bowl vase I have been lovingly painting. Cut my hand badly. Badly. He smashed my phone apart so I couldn’t ring for help.

He won’t go. I’ve tried to make him. Please, go, please go.

I’ve started a new script. Apart from being beaten, I haven’t given in. I haven’t used. I won’t I refuse. I won’t. I am at my Nannas now. I’m going home. Where I’m going to get a kicking. I know it.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 18th, 2007 at 8:15 pm and is filed under Everyday. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.