With the lights out, it's less dangerous

(NOTE: This is not an 'x reader' story, this is a list of fictionkin memories. Please be respectful.)      

  One of the most prominent memories I have of my father is of him holding my head underwater for not eating all of my dinner. He usually just hit me or locked me outside until I was 'grateful enough', but this night, he'd come home in a mood. So he ran the bathroom water, and I watched in confusion as he he did it - he'd never run a bath for me, and him doing it now wasn't normal and was honestly fucking terrifying. So imagine my surprise when he pushed me to my knees and leaned me over the tub before shoving my entire head down with one hand - it nearly covered my entire hand. He kept me under until I'd stop thrashing, then bring me up so I could get some air before pushing me back under. I don't remember how many times he did this, but I always passed out afterwards in the bathroom and he'd leave me to clean up the mess it made when I woke up. This is why I feared bodies of water.

Another is that he'd force feed me vinegar when he'd tell me something that I didn't want to hear. It was a kind of... life isn't what you want it to be kind of lesson - that you can't get what you wanted. He'd put it in a square canteen and let it sit for a bit before he'd put me in his lap and shove his hand over my nose and put the canteen in my mouth, and I had to drink all of it before he'd let me go. I used to cry when he did this, but I learned not to after he'd smack me until I shut up, usually either the face or butt, but it'd eventually get to where he'd bend my fingers back, and then my forearm up to my elbow.

The syrup of ipecac is a similar story, one to teach me not to let anyone else see the messes you've made, and especially not clean it up. If I came to my dad (and eventually, my mom) with a problem or a reason I wasn't feeling well, he'd sit me down at one of the wooden kitchen chairs that was too big for me - at first I thought he was just going to talk to me, but then he came back with a spoonful of this gross blackish-purple looking liquid and force me to swallow it. I was confused at first, and he started talking about how my actions had consequences and that I needed to deal with them myself - it took a while, but I got sick on the floor. And instead of tell me to clean up my mess, he told me to stuff it inside me. And so I had to eat it. I remember coughing and retching several times and having to start all over again while he yelled at me for not keeping down, and sometimes he'd make me throw it up again just because he could and tell me to start over.

This one wasn't as bad by any means but it scared me - if i acted up, he'd take me out back and use the hose on me - he had a nozzle thing so that it would be set to a high pressure and he'd push me down onto my knees and it would make a big puddle of mud around me, and the area we lived in had fucking awful conditions when it came to mud and sand, so it quickly became like fucking quicksand. So that was an experience, and it took a long while to get out of it - I don't think there was any lesson behind that one, I think it was just a punishment but I don't know - i like to think they all teach me something so it wasn't just... meaningless abuse.

There was something about a wire leash and a radish, (oar paddle) but I don't know what that was about.

My dad was in the military but was discharged - I don't know if it was honorable discharge or anything like that, all I know is that he came back and he was just cruel. I had hardly known him before he left anyways, since I was only 2-3 years old or something, I don't quite remember. But he quickly became an alcoholic for a while, though he got out of that after a few months, but it didn't help at all with the way he'd treat me and mom

My mom was just fucking crazy. She had to be to stay with that man, seriously. She had always been an alcoholic and I could often find her smoking outside or just rolling something in the kitchen, and I got used to the smells real fucking fast, as much as I hated it. She used to get beaten by my dad as well, but then she stopped crying so he moved on to me. Some part of me wonders if that was because of some weird military training he had going on in his mind - i don't know, maybe he wanted us to become hardened or something? I fucking want to pretend that's the reason and say it wasn't just meaningless, because god fucking damn it, i can't comprehend how someone could just beat their loved ones with no further thoughts - even hitler thought he was doing what was best, but my dad's eyes just looked cold and blank

The rest of our family didn't bother with us, my grandmother stopped visiting when I was just a few months old (she stopped for a period of time to try and give my mom time to adjust, but it didn't happen), but she gave up on us pretty fast after she saw that I hardly acted like normal babies should - i don't know what my mom meant by that, but i was apparently just not like the average baby. My family was kind of the disappointment to their name, so they cut us off entirely so that they wouldn't have to deal with us and just-- actually, i mean, they basically disowned us, now that i think about it.

Fuckers knew what was good for them, at least, I would've disowned me too.

I didn't have many friends growing up because i didn't know how to socialize - every kid was too innocent and too emotional and open, and that just wasn't something that i could be without becoming problematic. So I just sat alone at a table (I actually had a dream about it last night, no one wanted me to sit with them because i was weird and i seemed mean), so I just kind of rolled with what they thought of me - it was easier to become what people think you are rather than fight against it, and i was just 5 or 6 so of course i wasn't going to fucking fight at that age

Alright but my kindergartener teacher. I don't remember his name, and i don't want to. He always wore a yellow hardhat like the ones they use during construction shit, and he'd never give us a straight answer when we'd ask why he wore it every day - he'd give us some shitty spiel about bike safety and bullshit like that, how it could be useful when riding the bus, etc.

One day, he caught me after class - and before I start, let me just say I know some students would give the teacher some weird looks or look uncomfortable around him just in general, but i'd always assumed that was just because he was a figure of authority - no one is supposed to be comfortable around authority. But i was so fucking wrong. He initially asked me to hang back to ask about a black eye i had gotten, and i started crying and told him everything. He seemed calm about it and understanding at first, but as he listened he got this weird look in his eye and i didn't know what to make of it, but i was too fucking miserable to care - i mean, i was relieved that someone finally fucking knew, but it was my downfall.

I don't want to go into detail about what happened, but he raped me. And i never forgot that yellow hard hat after that - the worst part was i couldn't even tell my parents, because they'd just hurt me or tell me to suck it up in their own special way. So that was a long while of being taken advantage of - i didn't fully know what was happening, but it made me uncomfortable and it hurt. I only learned what it was a few years later, and that's when i really became the pessimistic asshole you see in camp camp. I literally cannot stress how hard it is for me to open up to people because of all this combined. Not only does it make me panic, but it twists my insides and makes me want to throw up - and most people know that i have horrible emetophobia, but this just makes me want to heave until nothing's left to just try and get it all out without it ever returning - but that'll never fucking work because every time i talk about anything that haunts me, it just sits there like dead weight and aches in my chest, and it never gets easier to think about.

During elementary school, it got a little bit better until people started to talk about my scars and shit, that was never fun. It escalated as we grew into straight up bullying, and they'd tease me about my sexuality because id never do anything even relatively close to what other kids would do - crush on girls, try and play with them, etc etc. but i didn't know what a sexuality even WAS at that point, so all I could do was take it and agree - my parents never taught me shit so i guess everyone else knew and I didnt, I dont fucking know.

Usually shit gets bad in middle school, but for me it started early with a group of kids who'd follow me home to school - the fucking burn of it all was that my mom would always ask me about my 'little group of friends' and why they'd never come over even though she saw them walk with me to the house. It got so fucking grating and repetitive and i was s o fucking sick of it, so i tried suicide a few times after self harm and shit and that's when they sent me off to fucking summer camp, so that somebody else could make sure i don't fucking off myself - after all, they still needed the money for taxes that they got from having a kid (if you don't know about it, look it up) so they needed me around, but they had trained me to be their perfect little shit.

I'm fucking tired.

So this is why i don't display any type of vulnerability, affection or sadness without exploding with anger and cursing people out, because I always feel the need to defend myself because of my fucking parents!! So that's back, fun.