Part 1:
My name is Ed. I was born January 3, 1973 in a small town in Western Michigan. The ground was covered in 8” of snow that day and there were subfreezing temperatures.
Cold and covered. It seems fitting as my family life was eerily similar.
Those who saw our family from afar would see a happy and functioning family. They were the lucky ones to be on the outside looking in. Inside the warmth of my home was deathly cold…
I am the youngest of four brothers. My brother who was closest in age to me was 6 years older.
My mom and Dad were both alcoholics. My Dad was an extremely mean and violent whiskey drunk. When you removed the whiskey out of his system, he was the nicest guy you would ever meet. The whiskey-free dad is the one I loved. Unfortunately, he drank ample amounts of whiskey! He was truly Doctor Jekel and Mr. Hyde.
Our home was often filled with people since my parents loved to socialize. There were always people over at the house drinking, laughing, and being loud. At least loud to my young ears. The more they all drank, the louder it became.
As a family, we did go out to dinner, but obviously it needed to be somewhere where alcohol was flowing - typically a bar that served food. When we did go out to have fun as a family, it needed to be a place where alcohol was served. Alcohol made the decisions of how we lived our lives.
Whiskey turned my dad into a monster. As a child, many nights were full of fear and terror as my dad beat my mom. When her beating was done, he then turned his drunk attention to my brothers and myself. His alcoholic terror upon us often turned into pain, welts, and blood.
To this day, some of the torturous nights of violence we all experienced linger in my head like a bad hangover.
At eight years of age, my father came home with the drunk swagger and typical angry scowl on his face. We instinctively knew It wasn’t going to be a good night. I can’t remember exactly what set him off this time, but the angry tone of his voice getting louder and louder mixed with cursing was enough to know it was time to hide. Unfortunately, there are only so many hiding spots in the house and he found my brothers and I…. his next victims.
He violently grabbed us by our arms and threw us on the sofa. He swore at each of us. He shook his head and started pacing back and forth from the kitchen door back to the sofa. Then he stopped and looked at us with disgust for what seemed like hours. A night of torture and abuse was about to begin. He had a gun in his hand and to this day I do not know where the gun came from!
I was so focused on the gun in his hand that the swear words coming from his mouth did not even resonate. He came towards me and I felt the cold barrel of the gun as he put it on my forehead. I thought “This is the end” and I closed my eyes. Suddenly he pulled it away from my head and decided it was time to do the same thing to my brother. He turned to my mom as she screamed and begged him to stop.
“Is this what you want?” he asked in what seemed to be the loudest scream I had ever heard.
He turned back and put the gun on my two other brothers. I thought he was trying to figure out which one he was going to kill first.
My mom acted quickly, grabbed him and begged him to stop. Now his attention turned to her - and he gave her all his attention. He beat her there in front of us. My poor mother whimpered on the ground with blood flowing from her nose and mouth when he tired. My dad was sweating and swaying when he walked down the hallway into his room. The door slammed and he did not come back out that night.
Fast forward a year or so and another one of those extraordinary violent nights happened.
This time my dad was drinking whiskey at home like he did all the time. Walking on eggshells when he was home drinking is not the term I would use. More like walking on glass shards.
The yelling started between my mom and dad that day. It was commonplace when he was drinking so I was not really paying attention and went into my room.
Curse words penetrated the walls and all of a sudden, the sharp crack of breaking glass followed. This was going to be a big fight, I thought to myself. I hope he doesn’t kill her.
Holding my breath, I went out of my room to see what was happening. I wish I didn’t see this.
My Dad reached back and punched my mom in the face. Her lip was already split open.
He turned and grabbed a gas can he must have brought in from the garage. He jumped and grabbed her by the hair and poured it over her head. She stopped screaming as the gasoline flowed over her face and into her mouth.
I am not sure what he said as he pulled out a lighter and held it to her face.
“NO!!!” I screamed. He quickly turned to look at me with anger in his eyes and then turned back to my mom. I thought my mom was going to burn for sure.
“Fuck you,” I heard him whisper to her as he dropped the lighter. He glared at me as he slowly walked out the front door.
That was about the last straw for my young mind. Most nights I hid in my bedroom and hated it when it would get quiet because I was never sure if someone was dead or not.
So of course, I started drinking at an incredibly early age with the grown-ups. Drinks were easily available, and I soon found out I could hide better from reality when I drank.
My older brothers also gave me some marijuana at age seven. My whole childhood was filled with fear, violence, abuse, and alcoholics. Why not escape?
The good news finally came! My mom and dad were going to get a divorce!
Crazy now that I think about it, but I chose to live with my dad. I was 11 years old. I overlooked the violence and terror. He was a great guy when not drunk and I loved him. I was blind and hoping that not being around my mom would sober him up and we would have more time together. I mean I did not like him when he was drinking - but he was my dad after all.
October 26, 1984 – Death in my family
TO BE CONTINUED. Look for PART 2 on March 1, 2024
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