(no subject)
This is an autobiographical essay I had to write for English, it was focused on sensory details and the like, she said we could embellish, so this is not the EXACT truth. (Keep that in ming, peas.)
Lydia Brown
Mrs. Lord, Period 4
English 2 Honors
27 September 2004
Release from Agony
“Slam,” whoops, I didn’t mean to slam my door. To my own astonishment, I watched myself grab my mother instinctively and embrace her lovingly. It was as if I was watching myself in a play and, "WAIT…is that ...me, am I the mom?" All of a sudden my mother's heaving chest was so tremendous on my own that it seemed to triggered a thought, as I cradled her and stroked her uneasy arms, clothed in her rough yet comforting robe, "shouldn't it be the other way around?" As I sat there with my mom, she clung to my feeble arms as if they were her stronghold. I thought back on the event that led me to this moment, this turning point.
"Do you, Leslie, take John to be your lawfully wedded husband in sickness and in health...?”
"I do," my mother answered confidently.
My joyful days of bliss came to an abrupt, screeching halt the day that my mom got remarried to my ex-stepfather, John about a year ago when they sealed the deal. I will agree with her, that he was very splendid in the beginning, going out during the night and filling up her gas tank, bringing her flowers, taking me with him to go grocery shopping, and cooking for our family (which wasn't all that difficult considering he was our next door neighbor). My ex-stepfather pushed my mom to no end to let his four children move in with us when they were still just dating. He had been married twice before, and his older boys were from the first marriage and the little girls from the second. Little did I know what would later become of this "united" family, and how John and his four children would wreak havoc on my family's lives. I began to loathe him slowly as time went on, and he became way to "comfortable" as my mom likes to put it these days.
A little less than a year after they got married, I was on my way home from a youth group event at church when a sudden chipper wind caught my scarf and I went running, not knowing I would be stumbling into a scene of a fight, that would trigger an explosion of contained fury, between that of my eldest brother, Bruce, and my eldest stepbrother, Little John. "Crunch, crunch," I jumped back in sudden surprise, and as I knelt down in the dark night to feel what I had come across in my front yard, the cool, rough concrete on my fingertips sent goose bumps slithering, like a snake, up my spine. As I was kneeling there, it seemed to me that the ground was holding a story. I had come across shards of broken glass; I put two and two together and realized it was from my kitchen window. I ran into the house hoping to find an idle baseball or object and name it the culprit. I found to my surprise my nose burning with sheer irritation and at once I recognized it, it was the fresh scent of smoke, whether it was from marijuana or cigarettes I was not yet sure, I ran into my mother's room, finding only a monstrous villain bellowing who resembled my ex-stepfather, but had taken on a very startling appearance. He reminded me of both Jafar and Scar from the Walt Disney movies I watched as a child and feared most. He was full of an uncontainable rage just screeching at my mother, and me, as well, as I entered the shaking room. In those few seconds, that seemed like an eternity, I was almost sure that I had seen a faint black gas spilling out from behind him headed toward the ceiling. Then the gas vanished as quickly as it had come, and I was left with uncertainty. To me it was as if my family was being put to the test once again to withstand the hate, abominate contempt, intense detestation, abhorrence, and antagonizing hostility forged onto my already broken family. The heart of our family had just begun to be glued back together, but the bonds were weak and easily disintegrated. The bonds this time around were obviously broken and the somewhat large pieces, it seemed, were demolished to such small portions that it seemed they would never recover and the gluing process would take an eternity if it was ever successful.
I crawled upstairs as quickly and quietly as I possibly could and stole away into the room I shared with my sister, Megan. I asked her what had happened, and she tried the best she could to relate the information she had observed back to me. According to her, there had been a fist fight between Bruce, my brother, and Little John, my ex-stepbrother. Apparently, Little John had gotten into my mother's face, yelling a sea of profanity at her face, and being taller, staring her down, apparently letting her know who was boss, and letting her know he'd be happy to demonstrate his power as "THE boss." My brother, Bruce, then, hearing the commotion ran downstairs, and stepped in and stopped the quarrel, embarking on a new one, rightly defending my mother. As she was describing the events I could just taste the puke-prone, sick to your stomach smell of weed wafting and sneaking its way through the house, like one of Satan’s minions determined to cause pain, it was unmistakably that such scent that I had been subjected to unwillingly a thousand and one times when my once-respected brothers and sister decided to have parties while my parents were away. Megan, my sister, told of every lethal punch submerged into an alarmed and undefended area of skin and the acrimonious cry of utter anguish in a knee-jerk reaction. She vividly described the swollen eyes mistaken for huge, deformed plums, of the alert counter attacks that my stalwart, gorilla-framed brother executed, the shrill, glass-shattering caterwaul erupting through my mother's sweating hands which she mistook as mufflers, and frantic yet detailed prayers whispered from an unknown source. Megan stopped as she saw the same droplet of moisture I felt fall on my trembling shoulder and I looked down to my amazement and concluded that it had originated from me. I remember in that moment that I tried to concentrate on my romantic piano music dancing through the air in a waltz to my thirsty ears, the "drip---drip-------drop" of my leaking shower, and the uneasy rumble of my other stepbrother's discommodious snoring.
Just as Megan had ended her tale, I was filled unfocused infuriation when I looked back on the many times in the past year or so when I just listened and stood by as so many things had happened in my family. The pungent, unpalatable aftertaste of blood resting in my mouth as I restrained myself many a time by biting my tongue until it bled, and clenching my fists to keep from running full force right into John's keg he called a stomach and punching him till my strength failed me and I passed out in agonizing exhaustion became a usual occurrence. Nonetheless, I would just let it happen, and this time it was not only the fact that John was three times larger than I, but also that he was under the influence.
"Bang, Bang," the choppy yet deliberate pounds on my door as my stepfather, John half fell and half stumbled into the room I shared with my sister, revived me from my daydreams, back to reality. His blood-shot eyes with lightning bolts of blood streaming out from a black hole were terrifying and the strong scent of alcohol embedding him was unbearable. He ran a few lines of profanity that made no sense, at all, to any educated person, and my mother ran in after him, shoved him out, and locked the door. My stepfather moved on to HIS children's rooms telling them to pack their things quickly. My mother instructed me to call our neighbor Aurore and ask her to come over. I only recollect the heavy fragrance of 'Pink' on her neck as Aurore whisked into the door as a guardian angel would have done, in my mind. She stood with me and my sister in the kitchen as we waited for the family to leave. My little stepsisters’ uvulas dangled in the back of their throats as they constantly yawned after being awoken from their slumber by the heart-stopping alarm of doors slamming. I was drawn in by their naive faces unknowing and wrinkled with confusion. In those last few moments, I directed arms into jackets and pulled the glacial zippers up tight to their little chins, these precious gifts from God that had been taken for granted by their real family had been loved by ours. As I kissed the little girls atop their heads, the Suave for kids, wild watermelon shampoo and conditioner slept on their heads from the bath they had received from me earlier that day. I listened to the rumble of the engine as it fought and finally triumphed to start. The intense glaring, red headlights of John's Thunderbird reminded me of the piercing red eyes of Satan himself, or at least the picture of him I had conjured, and then the car glided backwards and rode away like a fleeing panther, delighted to be set free from its ever claustrophobic "home." In my heart I will never vindicate John and his god-awful family.
Am I supposed to be the one to vanquish all of your fears, Mom? Am I going to have to mature to the level of a 42-year-old adult in 27 seconds, when I should have 27 years to do so? Why would you put this burden of mass proportions onto me God? How do I make sense of this gigantic amount of deceit, betrayal, and unreturned loyalty? I wish I could transform into a gargantuan Hercules and beat the slobbery, living daylights out of that wretched, worthless, deplorable creature, I can not call him a man, for he has no heart as far as I’m concerned. Alright God, I...guess I'm a better Christian now, I guess... I'm...stronger, I guess I can now help others through sharing my testimony, I guess... I guess I gained a chunk of strength and maybe my story will give someone some inspiration in a time of need. Thanks God, I feel invincible!
Lydia Brown
Mrs. Lord, Period 4
English 2 Honors
27 September 2004
Release from Agony
“Slam,” whoops, I didn’t mean to slam my door. To my own astonishment, I watched myself grab my mother instinctively and embrace her lovingly. It was as if I was watching myself in a play and, "WAIT…is that ...me, am I the mom?" All of a sudden my mother's heaving chest was so tremendous on my own that it seemed to triggered a thought, as I cradled her and stroked her uneasy arms, clothed in her rough yet comforting robe, "shouldn't it be the other way around?" As I sat there with my mom, she clung to my feeble arms as if they were her stronghold. I thought back on the event that led me to this moment, this turning point.
"Do you, Leslie, take John to be your lawfully wedded husband in sickness and in health...?”
"I do," my mother answered confidently.
My joyful days of bliss came to an abrupt, screeching halt the day that my mom got remarried to my ex-stepfather, John about a year ago when they sealed the deal. I will agree with her, that he was very splendid in the beginning, going out during the night and filling up her gas tank, bringing her flowers, taking me with him to go grocery shopping, and cooking for our family (which wasn't all that difficult considering he was our next door neighbor). My ex-stepfather pushed my mom to no end to let his four children move in with us when they were still just dating. He had been married twice before, and his older boys were from the first marriage and the little girls from the second. Little did I know what would later become of this "united" family, and how John and his four children would wreak havoc on my family's lives. I began to loathe him slowly as time went on, and he became way to "comfortable" as my mom likes to put it these days.
A little less than a year after they got married, I was on my way home from a youth group event at church when a sudden chipper wind caught my scarf and I went running, not knowing I would be stumbling into a scene of a fight, that would trigger an explosion of contained fury, between that of my eldest brother, Bruce, and my eldest stepbrother, Little John. "Crunch, crunch," I jumped back in sudden surprise, and as I knelt down in the dark night to feel what I had come across in my front yard, the cool, rough concrete on my fingertips sent goose bumps slithering, like a snake, up my spine. As I was kneeling there, it seemed to me that the ground was holding a story. I had come across shards of broken glass; I put two and two together and realized it was from my kitchen window. I ran into the house hoping to find an idle baseball or object and name it the culprit. I found to my surprise my nose burning with sheer irritation and at once I recognized it, it was the fresh scent of smoke, whether it was from marijuana or cigarettes I was not yet sure, I ran into my mother's room, finding only a monstrous villain bellowing who resembled my ex-stepfather, but had taken on a very startling appearance. He reminded me of both Jafar and Scar from the Walt Disney movies I watched as a child and feared most. He was full of an uncontainable rage just screeching at my mother, and me, as well, as I entered the shaking room. In those few seconds, that seemed like an eternity, I was almost sure that I had seen a faint black gas spilling out from behind him headed toward the ceiling. Then the gas vanished as quickly as it had come, and I was left with uncertainty. To me it was as if my family was being put to the test once again to withstand the hate, abominate contempt, intense detestation, abhorrence, and antagonizing hostility forged onto my already broken family. The heart of our family had just begun to be glued back together, but the bonds were weak and easily disintegrated. The bonds this time around were obviously broken and the somewhat large pieces, it seemed, were demolished to such small portions that it seemed they would never recover and the gluing process would take an eternity if it was ever successful.
I crawled upstairs as quickly and quietly as I possibly could and stole away into the room I shared with my sister, Megan. I asked her what had happened, and she tried the best she could to relate the information she had observed back to me. According to her, there had been a fist fight between Bruce, my brother, and Little John, my ex-stepbrother. Apparently, Little John had gotten into my mother's face, yelling a sea of profanity at her face, and being taller, staring her down, apparently letting her know who was boss, and letting her know he'd be happy to demonstrate his power as "THE boss." My brother, Bruce, then, hearing the commotion ran downstairs, and stepped in and stopped the quarrel, embarking on a new one, rightly defending my mother. As she was describing the events I could just taste the puke-prone, sick to your stomach smell of weed wafting and sneaking its way through the house, like one of Satan’s minions determined to cause pain, it was unmistakably that such scent that I had been subjected to unwillingly a thousand and one times when my once-respected brothers and sister decided to have parties while my parents were away. Megan, my sister, told of every lethal punch submerged into an alarmed and undefended area of skin and the acrimonious cry of utter anguish in a knee-jerk reaction. She vividly described the swollen eyes mistaken for huge, deformed plums, of the alert counter attacks that my stalwart, gorilla-framed brother executed, the shrill, glass-shattering caterwaul erupting through my mother's sweating hands which she mistook as mufflers, and frantic yet detailed prayers whispered from an unknown source. Megan stopped as she saw the same droplet of moisture I felt fall on my trembling shoulder and I looked down to my amazement and concluded that it had originated from me. I remember in that moment that I tried to concentrate on my romantic piano music dancing through the air in a waltz to my thirsty ears, the "drip---drip-------drop" of my leaking shower, and the uneasy rumble of my other stepbrother's discommodious snoring.
Just as Megan had ended her tale, I was filled unfocused infuriation when I looked back on the many times in the past year or so when I just listened and stood by as so many things had happened in my family. The pungent, unpalatable aftertaste of blood resting in my mouth as I restrained myself many a time by biting my tongue until it bled, and clenching my fists to keep from running full force right into John's keg he called a stomach and punching him till my strength failed me and I passed out in agonizing exhaustion became a usual occurrence. Nonetheless, I would just let it happen, and this time it was not only the fact that John was three times larger than I, but also that he was under the influence.
"Bang, Bang," the choppy yet deliberate pounds on my door as my stepfather, John half fell and half stumbled into the room I shared with my sister, revived me from my daydreams, back to reality. His blood-shot eyes with lightning bolts of blood streaming out from a black hole were terrifying and the strong scent of alcohol embedding him was unbearable. He ran a few lines of profanity that made no sense, at all, to any educated person, and my mother ran in after him, shoved him out, and locked the door. My stepfather moved on to HIS children's rooms telling them to pack their things quickly. My mother instructed me to call our neighbor Aurore and ask her to come over. I only recollect the heavy fragrance of 'Pink' on her neck as Aurore whisked into the door as a guardian angel would have done, in my mind. She stood with me and my sister in the kitchen as we waited for the family to leave. My little stepsisters’ uvulas dangled in the back of their throats as they constantly yawned after being awoken from their slumber by the heart-stopping alarm of doors slamming. I was drawn in by their naive faces unknowing and wrinkled with confusion. In those last few moments, I directed arms into jackets and pulled the glacial zippers up tight to their little chins, these precious gifts from God that had been taken for granted by their real family had been loved by ours. As I kissed the little girls atop their heads, the Suave for kids, wild watermelon shampoo and conditioner slept on their heads from the bath they had received from me earlier that day. I listened to the rumble of the engine as it fought and finally triumphed to start. The intense glaring, red headlights of John's Thunderbird reminded me of the piercing red eyes of Satan himself, or at least the picture of him I had conjured, and then the car glided backwards and rode away like a fleeing panther, delighted to be set free from its ever claustrophobic "home." In my heart I will never vindicate John and his god-awful family.
Am I supposed to be the one to vanquish all of your fears, Mom? Am I going to have to mature to the level of a 42-year-old adult in 27 seconds, when I should have 27 years to do so? Why would you put this burden of mass proportions onto me God? How do I make sense of this gigantic amount of deceit, betrayal, and unreturned loyalty? I wish I could transform into a gargantuan Hercules and beat the slobbery, living daylights out of that wretched, worthless, deplorable creature, I can not call him a man, for he has no heart as far as I’m concerned. Alright God, I...guess I'm a better Christian now, I guess... I'm...stronger, I guess I can now help others through sharing my testimony, I guess... I guess I gained a chunk of strength and maybe my story will give someone some inspiration in a time of need. Thanks God, I feel invincible!