Regrets of being born
On December 1st, 1966, at eleven a.m., I took my first breath in the Provo Hospital. According to my Grandmother, I was a perfect baby boy, weighing in at six pounds nine ounces. I had always heard the story of how it snowed on the day I was born, and now, as I gazed out the window, I could see the snowflakes dancing in the air. The sight of snow always brought a smile to my face, and when it happened to fall on my birthday, it made me feel like the world was celebrating with me.
However, my initial fondness for the snow and the crisp winter air soon transformed into resentment, all because of my father Jim's mischievous antics of tossing me into snowbanks and forcibly pressing my face into the freezing fluff. The force of his grasp left a trail of hand-shaped bruises on the back of my neck. In his hope for my suffocation, he only became more furious when I surfaced, gasping for air, and revealed that I was still among the living. He would often repeat it relentlessly, until my ears became numb to the sound, and I fell into unconsciousness, leaving me exposed to the biting cold. It was a pleasure that ranked high on his list of favorites, one that he indulged in often.
With every snowfall, the ground transformed into a bittersweet reminder of him, as the white blanket covered everything in sight. Clad only in a pair of worn and shredded boxers, I stood shivering in the snow, my body convulsing with cold while his laughter echoed through the frosty silence. It became painfully clear to me that nobody genuinely cares when I witnessed the neighbor's curtains and doors closing, showing no remorse or willingness to assist a child in distress.
My mother, an indomitable force, partnered with my father Jim, exemplifying both unwavering determination and a disconcerting inclination towards malevolence. Her weight of over four hundred pounds defined her plump figure, and she chose short brown hair to simplify her daily routine, unlike most women her age. The choppy and short waves mirrored the untidy hair of a boy who had received a botched haircut. While many would describe her as fat and lazy, she defied stereotypes by showcasing her impressive speed and nimbleness, particularly impressive considering her larger frame. No matter what angle you looked at her, her nose always appeared slightly askew. The bone constantly reminded her of the three places it had been shattered during rough play with her brothers, bearing the scars of childhood battles. In the eyes of others, she was unremarkable in terms of physical appearance, not meeting the standards of beauty typically associated with women. She had always maintained that her physical transformation directly resulted from giving birth to four children, asserting that her figure never reverted to its former state from when she was younger or before she entered a relationship with my father.
Those who knew Linda were familiar with her unusual bursts of anger. One moment, she exuded an air of tranquility and composure, and the next, an unbridled fury would emerge seemingly out of nowhere. More often than not, when anger took hold of her, she resembled a wild bull causing chaos in a fragile China shop. Her face would implode with red blotches as blood rose to her face whenever anger consumed her. She could have been a good mother when she wanted to, but that was only when she had something to gain by doing so. At least that is the way I will always remember her throughout most of my life.
My name became a joke when my mother Linda named me after a doll she had as a child called Eric. My parents chose the middle name James for me, not to honor my father Jim, but as a constant reminder to me and others that they saw me as their property, to be used and controlled as they wished. When I was old enough to read and write, I never used it. When asked, I would write the letter 'J' with bold, crimson strokes, as if it were a scarlet letter.
The mere thought of my name filled me with disdain, and I often fantasized about being able to change it. Despite my strong dislike for my name and everything it symbolizes. My grandmother and grandfather given upon me the name EJ, a name that constantly infuriated my parents, yet we disregarded their annoyance. I would slyly work our inside joke into conversations, causing both of us to erupt into laughter.
My late grandfather often spoke of my grandmother's strength and determination, even after he passed away when I was just six years old. Drawing on her experience as a war nurse, she teamed up with Doctor Robert Hatfield on the Red Cross, embarking on a journey across the states to train nurses. Her hair, now a stunning silver-white hue, perfectly complemented her captivating blue eyes, creating a mesmerizing combination.
Despite their simple brown color, my grandfather's eyes exuded warmth and serenity, instantly making me feel at home. We had a bond that went beyond friendship - he was my best friend and my rock. Grandma's stories about him working on the Pacific Railroad painted a vivid picture in my mind, complete with the smell of coal and the sound of whistles blowing in the distance.
I would always thumb through the photographs and look in the mirror, standing tall on a footstool next to my grandmother as we would compare my likeness to him. My mousy brown hair and bright blue eyes with a chiseled chin like my grandfather and his pudgy straight nose. My grandmother would always comment on how skinny I was, comparing me to a rail fence. She would poke me in the ribs and feel my bony body, just like she did with my brother Aaron. This would frustrate her, especially when she saw my sister's well-fed and full figure.
Grandma too was short like my father Jim, barely over five feet, but her attitude always made up for her size. Despite her tendency to keep things to herself, she never hesitated to offer me solace and support whenever I was going through a rough patch with my parents (which happened more often than I'd like to admit). Whenever I needed someone to talk to, she would patiently listen and offer valuable insights and advice. Each encounter with her led to the same remark - that I bore an uncanny resemblance to my grandfather, in both appearance and mannerisms. It was always clear to me that she loved me unconditionally.
Yet life was hard even harder still since my grandfather died. She seemed to hold back when it came to interfering with my parents' choices, telling me.
Quote: 'Things will get better they always do. That you needed to stop running away every time things got out of hand. And perhaps they will if you would put in just a little more effort into things that don't make your parents so angry.' End of Quote:
The speech never varied; it was always the same words spoken in the same monotone voice. It baffled me how she couldn't see the anguish consuming me, while the beatings continued without mercy, regardless of my efforts to comply with her guidance. My love for her remained unwavering, but I couldn't help but ponder the reason behind her profound transformation after my grandfather's demise. She, like my grandfather, is no longer alive. Her departure from this world, during my late twenties, left an indelible mark on my soul. In my mind, she is like a guardian angel, never ceasing to keep a watchful eye on me, ensuring my well-being. No matter how difficult things get, it often appears that she is either completely oblivious or too absorbed in her own affairs to see the obstacles I face.
The army drafted my father, Jim, the year I was born, but he never actually fought or carried a gun. He served as a plumber in the Air Force. Cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors. Once he found out, my father Jim had the occupation on my original birth certificate changed after a nurse mistakenly typed "Bomber." Just to say my father Jim had an anger problem when it came to me and my brother Aaron (Danny's character in my series What's Behind the Looking Glass) would not even come close.
Aaron, born on January 17th, 1970, looked just like me, except he didn't have to suffer through the same hideous glasses I had worn since I was three. The more I reflect on it, the more peculiar it appears. Aaron's bright blue eyes sparkled against his mousy brown hair, giving him a unique charm. Whenever we visited my grandmother, she and I always gushed over how incredibly cute he was, agreeing that he was the most adorable younger brother on the planet.
His shorter stature and slender frame set him apart from the other kids his age, making him easily noticeable. He shared a similar struggle with me, facing the same torment of being picked on or bullied because of his height. Like mine, his clothes consist mostly of ragged and faded garments. Our parents wanted to show us just how little they cared about us. Susan and Becky made a show of flaunting their expensive dresses and outfits, while they discreetly purchased all our clothes from a humble secondhand store. Worst then ones found at "DI" known as Deseret Industries. Clothes that had seen better days just like mine, some things you just got used to.
There were moments when we would speculate if my mother had saved them from the trash after the hobo had gotten rid of them. We would often experience moments of unexpected generosity on the street, as people would occasionally offer us new clothes or contribute money towards acquiring them, much like our grandmother would do from time to time. Only to be sold later, in exchange for a handful of money.
In contrast to my sister's flawless dresses, their hair and makeup were always perfectly done. Despite our hair being cut short, both he and I silently endured, avoiding any actions that might provoke anger from her or our father. The consequences of our mere existence were painfully clear to us with each new day. Their motivation for not doing it extended far beyond simply sparing our mother the task of combing it; it was rooted in an entirely different rationale. The haircut, done in that style, left us open to the kids' mocking and embarrassment. Aaron has been my best friend for as long as I can remember, right alongside my grandma. We would always do everything together through thick or thin.
While the others have come and gone, he has remained a steadfast support in my life, always there for me. I would miss him the most whenever I was away. Sadly, he too fell victim to the pandemic, passing away at fifty from COVID-19. The lack of any signs of life intensifies the overwhelming sense of isolation. The void left by the absence of family and friends has made me feel invisible, as if I am fading into the background of everyone's lives. That fundamental truth lies at the very heart of it.
Our father, Jim, and our mother, Linda, harbored an unmistakable and genuine hatred towards us, leaving no room for doubt. It is a mystery known only to him. The atmosphere at home became even more tense when he finally returned from two years of service in the war. My grandmother claimed he was a different person, and his behavior had become significantly meaner. I do not know of his good side since it was never revealed to me. His belt and fists were a threat that was constant, forcing me to flee and endure his relentless attacks, as I became the target of his anger, which was more often than not.
I was never sure of the reason behind it unless it was because he was not as fit as other men that served. Or it was because of his size being four feet five inches tall, slightly bald. Blue eyes on his jawline pointed as drawn down on his face. Jim was a muscular man yet was not a bodybuilder. He had a slow limp in his left leg from a car accident; Riding in the back of a pickup coming home from work. The driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and drove off into a ravine. The impact threw my father out. It must have happened before I was born. His limp would become more apparent when he got angry, which happened more often than not.
He once told me. I too would lose my hair by the time I graduated from High School. If I survived long enough, and if he didn't murder me before then. Yes, there was no love lost between us. Constant tension, animosity characterized our relationship, and a deep-rooted resentment. However, that scenario never came to fruition. It was when I turned twenty-five that I first noticed my hair falling out. Since that time, I have constantly sought a solution to prevent myself from resembling him, and my quest persists.
Despite what people say, the idea of us looking similar fills me with dread. His face, with its piercing stare, was too much for me to handle as I glanced into the mirror. If I possessed a razor, I would be vigilant in my efforts to avoid such a situation. The thought that brings me some relief is that he is dead and decomposing in the fiery depths of hell, where he rightfully belongs. I only wished he had died sooner, but either way, his haunting presence lives on in my nightmares long side of my mother. However, she turned over a new leaf where he never did.
She waited until I was on the cusp of seventeen, the soft whispers of time passing filling the air. The weight of anticipation hung heavy, like a thick fog that refused to lift. Despite the joy she brought to me and Aaron, her presence in our lives was brief, lasting a mere ten years at most. She bid us farewell, her heart heavy with sorrow, the sound of her tearful goodbye echoing in our ears. The scent of grief lingered, a bittersweet reminder of the love we had lost.
As she departed from this life, the reality of the situation became painfully apparent. It was a choice she had to make, a choice between us and the chance to see her two new grandchildren from Susan. The burden of sacrifice weighed heavily upon her, like an anchor dragging her down. Becky, who had never experienced the joy of motherhood, carried the weight of her unfulfilled dreams. With the reality of her inability to conceive was in most way a true blessing, she was never fit to be a mother; she was just as cruel as her sister Susan and our father was, so in a way it was pure Justus.
Aaron and I made a conscious decision not to have children, a choice driven by the haunting memories of abuse inflicted upon us by our own family. The thought of history repeating itself was suffocating, like a tight knot in our chests. We wanted to protect the innocence of future generations, shielding them from the pain we endured. It was a heartbreaking choice, knowing that she favored her other grandchildren over us.
And so, she passed away, her heartache deepened by the cruel realization that she would never have the chance to see me and my brother Aaron alive ever again. The weight of her absence settled upon us, a heavy shroud that enveloped our lives. The scent of loss lingered, mingling with the bitter taste of regret. However, that was towards the end of this story.
During the time he was in the Air Force, we lived with my Grandparents until I was the age of four when he came home for good. We lived in a small apartment house in Salem, Utah, and it's torn down now. It had two small rooms, and a combined living room and kitchen on the side. We moved around a lot during the time he was on base so my mother could be closer, which never was more than a month or two, or until my grandfather put his foot down because of their uncontrollable temper. And her impatience as they tried to raise three children; me being the oldest, having two siblings, my younger sister Susan and younger brother Aaron, and she was pregnant with her fourth child, which she named Becky, and would be her last. My mother, desperate and overwhelmed, attempted to find a solution by either selling, giving away, or even ending my life.
By the time I was five, my father Jim came home for good, but because of his temper and uncontrollable rage. I entered the State Foster Care system for the first time. Which soon became an excuse to solve their problems; yet I was the only one placed while my younger siblings stayed and lived at home. Ever since I was five years old. I was in and out of foster care so often you would think I was a Yoyo. I would be lucky if they found one with good parents, where I would thrive, which was bad. Meaning you are good enough to return home. Other times, they placed me in homes that were just as bad as the one I lived in. They were given the average rate of $2,000 per child per month. Yes, it is true what they say. People's care is contingent upon monetary compensation, and even then, their commitment to buying love is inconsistent.
I vaguely remember a trip to see my Grandmother Southwick, my mother's mother, who lived in Lincoln, Nebraska where my father had met my mother on his LDS mission. She was also a nurse at a local hospital before and after the war. Sitting in the backseat, I could feel the tension rising as my sister Susan and I engaged in a heated argument. Unsure if we were going to her house or coming from it, my primary goal was to get her to leave my brother alone as we traveled down the road. Consumed by rage, Susan's sudden action of opening the car door and shoving me out into the moving traffic left me stunned and terrified, but not surprised considering how much she hated me.
Upon awakening, my eyes widened in surprise as I beheld the figure of my grandmother standing over me, her stern gaze mirrored by my mother's enraged countenance. I tried to explain that Susan had pushed me, but she dismissed my words as lies and placed the blame solely on me for jumping out of the car. I lucked out and only had to deal with a small crack in my skull, a few stitches in the back of my head, and some added bruises. This was also the first time I tried my grandmother's coffee and one of her cigarettes, but the combination of the bitter taste and acrid smell made me quickly spit them out, my face turning green with disgust. I should clarify that she was not a member of the LDS faith. One of the many reasons we never visited my mother's side of the family was the constant bickering and tension. Not so different from home life. As it was.
My grandparents had tried many times to keep me in the home and watch over me and my siblings, but my parents would distance themselves from them. Most likely because my grandfather would stop them. He warned them several times that their children would end up hating them if they did not stop. Sometimes calling the authorities to step in, but the laws were useless to regarding of children and what parents can and cannot do.
It has always amazed me what they got away with, and being so young I didn't understand what was going on. My grandfather's prediction was right, but somehow my sister Susan had the wool pulled over her eyes. Either she was just plain stupid and in denial or she really wanted to be the only child as she pushed the others out of the home and out of her way, using the long arm of the law to get her wish.
I couldn't have cared less, especially since I had just moved out on my own the same day as my High School graduation. I wanted nothing more to do with her or my father and my mother until I was almost sixteen. It was at that point that she embraced a new chapter in her life, embodying the loving and devoted mother I held dear, while my father remained steadfast in his ways. My father's loathing for me knew no bounds; he made it his mission to annihilate me and Aaron, using only his own hands, until the day he took his final breath. Even now, that aspect remains unchanged.
Aaron was a whole different matter as he moved in with me soon after I graduated and had a place of my own; instead of going to Gridley, California with the rest of them. To live with Susan and her recently married husband Shawn Lindsey a week after graduation. Aaron moved in with me as he waited for his mission call and being forced to go in the first place as my parents kept putting pressure on him to go.
Aaron was acceptable to the guilt trip they put him on, as they had already convinced the church to pay for his mission. But most of it was the guilt as they threw it against me for not going and not following my father's footsteps. I couldn't go because of the injuries I received from my father and my last foster home. The injuries I received from my father and my last foster home left me with severe nerve damage in both my legs and arms, which could have caused paralysis for the rest of my life. PTSD and night terrors didn't help either.
But my parents and the people in the LDS church still hang it over my head to this very day. That I didn't go on an LDS mission and not being married by the age of thirty.-Quote from at LDS talk.
Quote: 'A man not married by the time he is thirty is useless in society today. Bear in mind he will never use the priesthood or procreate, so he may enter the celestial kingdom of God. Family is one of the greatest gifts God has given us, without these sacred ordinances, man cannot serve him, but spend eternity in perpetual Hell. Bruce R. McConkie, member of the Twelve Apostles.' End of Quote:
So, it looks like I'm going to hell. For I do not want to be with my family or have one because of the fear of becoming like my father and becoming the abuser instead of the victim.
Susan was just a year and a half younger than me born July 13th, 1968 (character name Peggy in my series What's Behind the Looking Glass). Even though she always liked to claim, she was the oldest by default, considering I seldom lived at home. Therefore, they viewed me as an unwanted visitor, not their actual brother. She would prefer me nonexistent, again no love lost there.
She had the same bearing as her mother, except some would say often; considered her pretty. Unlike her mother, she wore her chestnut brown hair long, so it hung loosely at her waist. Blue-eyed beauty like a porcelain doll and it is not the best description by far. For it is insult too porcelain dolls. Four-feet, three inches broad shoulder like her father's button-cute nose with a fair complexion. Some would say calculating as a chessboard, mean and spoiled. Takes after her father but has her mother's disposition when it comes to getting her way.
My sister Becky (character name Donna in my series What's Behind the Looking Glass) was the last to be born and we had wondered if by chance my mother was stepping out and having an affair, considering she looked so different compared to the rest of us. But who in their right mind would want my mother when we could barely stand her as it was?
Being born in May 17th, 1971, had always claimed she is the prettiest because of her dishwater blond hair. Which came from her mother's side of the family; not sure if that was true or not. I had never met them in person unless I was five, but have seen pictures, most of them in black and white. Unlike her mother straight hair, Becky's hair curled as she kept it shoulder length, blue-eyed dyed blond. Pretty as a picture her mother would always say "perfection." One of her father's favorites, just like her sister Susan. She had the same disposition as her mother when it came to temperament. She could be playful one minute and mean as a snake in the next second and its cruel hard strike but has always been dumb as an Ox when comes too intelligence.