Cycle of Violence

So, I think I've made it pretty clear that my father isn't the most balanced, rational person. Part of that is down to unfortunate genetics; he never had a chance at being completely normal.

But he could've been better; not normal, but less messed up if it hadn't been for his own childhood.

He was abused, far more than he ever did to us (not that I'm excusing him.) His father was a coal miner that made his family's life a living hell until he died from black lung. His mother wasn't much better; she just couldn't hit as hard.

I won't go into the details about how many times he saw his sisters thrown against the wall, or how many times he had to cover the bruises, how many times he had to sneak food because they refused to feed him.

His sister tried to poison his father, and none of her siblings objected.

That pretty much sums up how much they hated him.

Around forty years later, my brothers and I wished my dad would get into a car accident on the way home.

We tried to convince my mom to just pick up and leave, even though we had nowhere to turn.

I've read about the cycle of violence; I've seen it in action.

The pain of being abused pales in comparison to the pain of knowing that your father became what he hated and doesn't even see it.

The Game Board

For some reason, my dad decided to take my mom away from Georgia and go live in the woods. I think it might've had something to do with getting her away from any family that could help support her, but I haven't ruled out the possibility that he was running away from his mistresses. Or the FBI. He's done some pretty shady stuff. But anyway, he took us out to the backwoods of Montana, where I ended up growing up.

For most of my life, we had very little contact with the outside world, other than the occasional trips into town. I'm not even sure that counts, honestly. The town was a bit like a Twilight Zone episode; tiny, isolated, and nothing ever changed. We grew up with no electricity, and therefore no phones or televisions. For a good while (until we set up some water barrels and put in our own pipes) we had no running water, and had to use an outhouse. Which isn't actually all that bad, until you start thinking about spiders and packrats and all the other creepy crawlies that could be thinking about chomping down on you. Especially in the middle of the night.

Also, kerosene lamps. I still miss the smell.

We never had much money. At all. One year we ended up hunting and relying on our garden for food. I never even knew we were poor. Everyone in that area was.

While all this probably sounds like I'm complaining, I loved growing up like that. If I had a sane dad, it might've been close to perfect.

Except for winters. Winters were always difficult.