Fragments Of Me (Time)


Adults always complained about time.

Never enough time for this; not enough time for that.

My parents were at a dinner party; while I stayed at my friend’s house. I was summoned to the phone.

Barely eleven, I listened to my mother sobbing. Apparently, my drunkard father slapped her in front of all their friends. “Please check  on the house.”

Two flights up, I unlocked the door with a spare key. Moonlight filled the dark apartment.
Terrified, I walked through the quiet living room until I reached the long hallway leading to the back of our home.

I froze.

The man I hated for all of my young life, the tyrant who abused us, lay on the floor with a gun resting inches from his hand.

Fear, relief, joy, and sadness flowed through me like light through a prism.

Fighting the urge to run away, I approached him. The rise and fall of his back confirmed he lived.

Time for my first adult decision even though I knew it meant a beating the next day.

Dropping to one knee, my trembling hand reached for the gun. The weapon appeared to weigh a ton.

I thought of tucking it in my pants like they do in the movies. Then a odd thought crept into my mind.

Whoever said dog is man’s best friend didn’t have a pee-pee.

Shoving the weapon in my jacket pocket I ran out and didn’t stop running until I reached the black railing overlooking the East River.

Removing the gun from my pocket I stared into the barrel.

Why would anyone want to end their life?

There by the river, in a city of eight million people, surrounded by a magnificent skyline, I never felt so alone.

Making my second adult decision, I tossed the gun into the river.

That little boy stood there another hour, admiring the crescent moon, the river, and the city he called home.

He wouldn’t help but wonder…..

If time was as precious as people say, why do adults waste so much of it on hate and violence.


293 thoughts on “Fragments Of Me (Time)

  1. Oh my.. Your growing up story sounds like my papa’s.. It was horribly horrible – took many years to grieve it out – forgive and live a good life.. He has been an amazing gentle husband and father.. He asked me to write his story as his final putting to rest the demons that robbed him of peaceful sleep.. I did and he is so grateful.. I’m really proud of you and the little I know.. You chose to rise above it all and love ❤️

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Smiling. Thanks for your kind words. For a few years I was miserable and bitter, then I realized the only person I was hurting was me. Why allow my childhood ruin my life years later? I made a vow to be the exact opposite of him. Thank you for sharing your own experience with your Dad. I am happy that he was able to overcome it and break the chains of abuse that are often passed down from generation to generation. Thank you so much for reading and contributing your thoughts and experiences.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. It is sad to think of father’s who didn’t try nor change. My Dad is often in my thoughts. He totally overcame his impoverished childhood. Thanks to a truck driver who took him home in the wee hours of the night, since at age 11 he hitch hiked to Covington, Kentucky to help his mother by working to pay Rent. His friend, who was older and wiser, drove him in his semi to the top of Cincinnati. He told him he could become “someone” if he went to school, tried hard for good grades and got into a work co-op program at U of C. Dad listened and did this, became a nuclear engineer and “rocket” part analyst, testing metals for their ability to withstand heat. But, he had a father who was in the mental ward, results of his military service, dying while my Dad was in his 20’s. So, my Dad saw my Mom across campus and trailed her path, joined organizations she also belonged in. Mom viewed him as a “punk.” He showed over time a drive for improvement. When they married and had kids, he practiced with a cloth diaper and old fashioned diaper pins so he could change diapers, (Mom saud there was blood on the diaper fron trying to learn how to poke through the cloth whilr protecting babys skin. He chose in the 1950s, to bathe us, read to us, build us bookcases, a sailboat sandbox with 3 sections and playhouses. When he died he had asked we include his humble beginnings story, learning goal setting from sweeping out a White Castle in a state where there were no Labor laws. People make me mad when they blame their past and roots, which makes me mad at your Daddy. He could have loved this precious boy, YOU, in the photograph, Andrew.

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Smiling. Thank you for contributing your family story on this post. It was amazing. It makes me furious to hear people blame their past or parents for the mistakes they make later in life. I never used the abuse as a reason to drink or try drugs. I have stuck to my guns & never laid a finger on a woman or my daughter. The memories have faded and no longer bother me, but I do wear them like badges to make sure I break the cycle of violence that’s so often is passed down from generation to generation. Thank you so much for stopping by to read an comment.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. I am very glad you didn’t get upset for my lengthy story and am very proud (as a new friend) of how you handle your life! 🙂 You also pass on the pain and anguish as lessons learned for others to read.
        You are exactly correct that the past should be used as the impetus to let others know your story which shaped you into a deeper thinker and warmer person. Glad we are connected in writing now. Enjoy your weekend, A.

        Liked by 2 people

    1. Carrie, I just had a few dozen notifications appear out of no where, this being one of them. It was hard for me. I try to use these scars like medals of honor in hopes of never being an abuser myself. Thanks for stopping by to read and comment. Appreciate it.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Your welcome! By the way do you reblog?

        After my dads third wife left him his second wife (my first stepmother) appeared at his office – my dad was a chiropractor – with her daughter he had adopted while they were married and her children.

        She was the one who gave my father the hepatitis C virus that took his life and it was only after my dads death that I began to wonder if I had took her life during the time she abused me if my dad would still be alive.

        Like you not once did I ever think of harming her during those years.

        That’s why I could really relate to the experience of your dad’s abuse.

        I’m really glad that you survived and became a better man as a result; especially since so many who are abused end up becoming the monster and go on to harm others.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Yes, many people do end up turning into monsters after a life of abuse. I was determined to be everything he was not. I refused to become like him.

          Reblog my own posts, I rarely do it. I try to always post fresh stuff.

          Permit others to reblog my post, of course I allow it.

          Thank for sharing your story, I know that must be tough.


          1. I was nine years old when this started for me and this April I will turn 59 which will be the 50th anniversary or half century mark since my parents divorce. It is an emotional time for me especially since I’m still dealing with the fallout and my mother insists on following the same pattern of behavior that led our family to where we are today. Not even the suicide of my youngest brother could make her see reason and alter her ways.

            Here is the link to the poem I wrote to my first stepmother a few years ago – I’m certain she had passed on long before I wrote it as a way to close out her part in my past. Since on the day of my dads funeral she was notified that she her hepatitis C infection status had gone from being a carrier to active.


            Liked by 1 person

              1. Thank you!

                It isn’t easy. What really hurts though is that I had to advise my youngest brother to give up his parental rights to his children because his first wife and her husband were vindictive enough to use them to destroy him.

                He didn’t want to but finely followed my advice after his daughter told him that she would have no problem with telling a judge he’d hit her when he’d never abused her.

                The night he took the fatal overdose one of his second wife’s coworkers (he was separated from her at the time) called not just my brother but the spouses of all of her coworkers. Informing them that their spouses were having an affair. My brother didn’t know he been lied too and in the emotional state he was in it pushed him over the edge.

                That was on Thanksgiving.

                The next day my mother called and asked me to step outside the restaurant I was in and informed me of my brothers suicide.

                Of all my brothers he was the only one who admired me simply because I’d worked at an auto parts factory for over a decade. He told me that during a family meeting after my 7th stepfather’s funeral – that really floored me to learn that I’d had a positive impact on his life.

                Years later over the phone during an argument one of my other brothers told me that it was my advice that killed our brother. I knew it wasn’t true but it still cut deeply.

                Two years ago my mother and I had to go pick up him up and bring him to her home after his wife sold the house she’d inherited from her father and kicked him to the curb.

                At the time his breathing problems required him to breath oxygen and he got around on a scouter. He fought so hard to keep things together until that day she informed him she’d sold the house and that he was not welcome to come with her. He has never been the same since and is totally disabled.

                Liked by 1 person

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