Other interesting events have included drunk confessions, reckless driving, and once again... Religion.
Well, starting with drunk confessions. I can't handle my alcohol anymore, its a bad thing, it makes me a cheap date. Anyway, one night after work, two of my colleagues and I got drunk. I chewed all my nails off again, and now my hands look like they're homeless. As always, when drunk, you start talking about extremely deep subjects. For some reason I started telling the two "friends" about my dad. Aggression.
The earliest memory I have of my childhood was when I lived in Nylstroom. I used to call it Huunstroom. Silly. The memory I have isn't traumatising, but it has to be explained. Bobby, my sausage dog at that stage, and I went for a walk, I was still in diapers, and my dad obviously freaked when he couldn't find me. He went looking for me and found me, and spanked me all the way home. Lesson learnt.
Another memory was when I was in preschool, about four or five years old. The whole family went grocery shopping, and when we returned, I offered to unlock the front door. It just so happened that I was unable to open the door, because I couldn't fit the key in the hole, and my dad got impatient, and spanked me. I wet myself.
In Grade 6 I was obligated to polish all my dad's shoes. I liked the park and cartoons better, and I really didn't want to spend the afternoon cleaning my dad's stuff. Some people call it lazy. I call it misunderstood priorities. If you've ever watched WWE, you would know what a choke-slam is. At age 12 I got choke-slammed by my dad because of his dusty shoes.
The last beating I got was in Grade 9, if I'm not mistaken... Wynand. My first love. We had an extremely manipulative relationship. I always mention that first, interestingly enough. We made blood-promises by pricking our index fingers and squishing the blood all over a written promise. Mine were always in heart shapes. Anyway, this particular night, we had a fight, and I told him that it would be the last time he ever heard from me. Suicidal messages seeking attention. He phoned my mom and told he that I was trying to commit suicide. She panicked, came into my room and started asking me questions, raising her voice with every word she spoke, until my dad came into my room, and my mom informed him of my intentions.
He left the room for a few moments and came back with our Zambok. If your South African, you would know what it is, if your don't, its a rock-hard, rubber, thing... Some will call it a weapon, some would call it a self-defence mechanism. Its something between a stick and a whip. Ours had a faded red handle. It hurt like hell, the few times my dad got me. I was hiding behind my mom, she got caught in the cross-fire, so did my walls, posters, and closet doors... There were black stripes all over the room, my arms, my mom's arms, my back, and my
legs. I even remember getting hit with a fist at some point, but the chronological order has been forgotten now. I fell to the floor and got dragged outside by my hair. My dad is big and strong. My dad told my mom to make sure I don't "escape". He went into the garage. My hands got tied up with a cable-tie for about 30 minutes. Not to sound sadistic, but this is my favourite part. Ever seen GI Jane? Hands tied at the back, standing on her knees, all beat up... That was me, but with hair...
My daddy shouted at me to stand up, I was getting up, and then I got knocked to the floor again. He pulled on the cable tie somehow, and then I got dragged into the kitchen by my hair. The best feeling I ever had, thinking I was about to die, and telling my dad what a piece of crap he is.
My dad is touchy about suicide. His brother committed suicide. His best friend committed suicide. He was honestly trying to save me. He just didn't know me well enough to understand how my brain works.
He called Wynand's dad, and now that I think back, I really don't know what he was trying to accomplish. Why phone an innocent bystander when I'm the "problem"? Ha! Like Wynand's dad would understand me if my own dad didn't understand me at that stage... Long story short, my hands went purple because my blood wasn't circulating. And when my hands got freed, I started pulling out all the dead hair that was in between my attached hair. It drove my dad nuts. That next day my dad burnt the Zambok, and promised never to touch me again. He kept his promise, and then he sent me back to the psychologist.
Aye! What a life...
So, yes... I'm aggressive because of my dad, that's my own psycho analysis. I like pain, because I'm used to it. I'm fearless, because I've shaken hands with death. I look for trouble, because it keeps me alive. And I like drama, it amuses me.
Shaken hands with death? Um, when I was nine or ten, my grandmother (my dad's mom) came and lived with us. She used to lock me and my sister in the house, way before that... I think I was five or six when she looked after us during the holidays. All the memories I have of her actually. Anyway, she locked us in the house and told us we couldn't play outside, because the kaffers are going to rape and kill us.
At age eleven I had my first anxiety attack. It was just after 19:00, I know this because we were watching the news. My dad asked me to get him another plate of pasta, I went to the kitchen, put my plate in the basin, and I swear I saw a masked man with a gun. I went into the hallway and told my dad that I wasn't feeling well. His reply: "If you're too lazy to do it, I will!" I told him I wasn't lazy, and I apologized. I always apologized. And if you know me, you know how much I say sorry for no reason. I went back into the kitchen, had a glass of water and then I collapsed.
Hate to say I told you so.
My grandmother was the first one there from what I can remember, trying to do the Heimlich maneuver. Then my mom came in. And then my dad. Why I even talked to him back then confuses me. He never listened anyway. I blacked out after that. Apparently I shat myself, and then when I came back, I was on the toilet. I was hyperventilating, blind, I had diarrhea, and I was crying, saying over and over "I'm dying. I'm dying." I didn't die, but everyone thought I was close. This lasted up until just after midnight. I passed out and came back a few times. My lips were blue, because there wasn't enough oxygen in my blood. I was blind for the same reason. Just because I couldn't breathe. I remember my mom getting a brown paper bag and telling me to breathe in and out, but I thought I was suffocating, so, that didn't last long. Five hours of anxiety isn't that fun. But its one of those moments in time I'll never forget.
The first psychiatrist told me to draw a picture of my house. I drew a pretty house, with no door nob. So, no one can get in or out. Then I had to draw a picture of my family. If you take me, my sister, my mom, my dad, and my grandmother, and you put us in a Domino 5, my sister and I at the bottom, my mom and my dad at the top, and my grandmother in the middle, with a house, flowers and trees in the back round, you can see why the psychiatrist said that my grandmother was in the middle of the family, and we won't have relationships until she leaves.
My grandmother was sent to an old-age home, but the anxiety attacks never stopped.
And then I started getting migraines, but luckily I outgrew them. Stress related migraines aren't very common in 11-year-old children.
Maybe I should just shut up when I'm drunk.
And shut up when talking about religion when I'm around my sister, she still believes in Jesus. I don't want to spoil it for her. Its like when you're the oldest child and the younger child believes in Santa Clause, and you know he's fake. You just don't spoil it for them. They have dreams too.
That's the end of my sad story for now...
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