True Terror

by Father Luke

Despite what the television and radio talk shows may present, growing up in a violent and alcoholic home is not romantic, it’s not something with easy solutions brought about by swift decisions. It’s not debatable, and it’s not something that has an easy solution, because the problem is not obvious. It’s truly something akin to actual terrorism.

Imagine this. Imagine being barely old enough to talk gibberish, wearing a full and wet diaper, your face dotted with food from this morning’s wrestling match with breakfast. Then imagine the people you love most fighting each other with voices so loud you want to cover your ears and cry. Then the beatings begin. The people you are turning to for trust and security, are hurting one another, and all you want is to let them know your diaper needs changing. What is that if not terror? Who does a baby turn to to begin to seek solace? Is it the Church? How about a City Council member or the Television news? What does a baby do?

Well, you’re a baby, so you cry.

But big kids don’t cry, now do they? Oh yes we do. I do. I cry for my lost youth. I cry about the children still in homes where there is violence. I cry for the alcoholics, still trapped in a situation they cannot win, and who feel they have no way out. Not unless making someone else to blame is a way out. It’s still popular, you know. Blaming someone else for your actions is still making the rounds, even today. I cry for violence in the home, and for the children too scared to cry.
When I was young, I lived in a house where I saw violence; I saw plenty of violence. By the time I was 16, I was a pants shitting drunk, pissing myself in school, and daring anyone to fight who looked at me. I hadn’t yet found drugs. That came when I entered the work world. At home, my Father would disappear for days at a time. There would be a peace in the house with his disappearance. Nerves would settle, like bubbles in soda rising to the surface, popping letting the soda go flat. There would be calm. My Mother’s bruises would have time to heal. The purple welts on my brothers and I would begin turning yellow, and start to fade.

Then it would happen.

The brakes on my Father’s vehicle were old, and they made a sound like someone screaming in pain. That’s very appropriate, as I look back. Because when he would come back home we could hear his brakes a block away. My four brothers and I would look to my mom. She would look to the door and say: He’s here. We knew what to do. We would become petrified. Absolute horror came to live where the calm serenity had lain down for a nap, and we would all prepare ourselves for the worst we could possibly imagine.

But how do you prepare yourself for the worst? Imagination is a funny thing. It can heal, and it can hurt, but a hyper vigilance sets in which allows for suspicion, and keeps one keen to be able to survive in any circumstance. So, you wait. You wait for the worst of it. You wait to see what you will need to do to survive. And, if you haven’t given up, then you also hope. But you learn not to hope too much. For in hope lies hopelessness. You certainly can’t trust those who are in charge. But, you make it. Somehow you make it. You always do.