Tag Archives: abuse

Empathy. Blessing or a Curse?

Being an empathetic person has plagued me long before I even knew how to define the word.  As a child, it was easy for me to cry thinking about the misfortune of the world around me.  People used to call me an “old soul” while referring to the sad look I carried in my eyes and the troubled expressions I made growing up.  As long as I can remember, all I’ve ever wanted to do was make the world a better place.  I could never understand war, hunger, or hate.  I could not comprehend human suffering or why we were doing nothing to stop it.  As I grew up however, and learned the politics of the world, it made sense and began to trouble me in a whole new way.

My mother had an awful childhood that I knew about far to early.  I feel like I have always known about the abuse she suffered her whole life.  Her childhood is a nightmarish story of sexual abuse followed by the physical and emotional abuse she endured while being married to my father.  When I look into my mothers eyes I can see that pain, beyond the smile and the laughter and it physically hurts.  I can literally feel that pain deep down in the gut of my soul.  These feelings of empathy have a lot to do with the mama’s boy I am today.  My heart breaks for her.

My father always told me that I was going no where in life because I have always hung out with the underdogs.  To a degree this was very true.  I have always identified with the different, obscure and weird people of the world, I am one.  This is what lead me to the road of addiction, and the ability to not feel my feelings kept me there.

In a relationship, I think I’m pretty selfless.  Who knows what he would say about me, but when it comes to matters of the heart, I feel like I loose all control.  I die inside when I make a mistake because I can feel what I have done to that individual. It hurts and I get upset not only because they are upset at me, but also because I don’t want the person I love to feel the feelings that I know that they are feeling.  Its very hard for me to lash out or say something mean because I will instantly regret it as I watch those words tear into the person I love.  When it comes to an argument, I appear to be a pussy, not contributing to the verbal beatings that are taking place.  The phrase “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” is the most ass backwards thing I have ever heard in my life.  Bones repair themselves while words cut deep into your soul and scar your brain forever.

I’m a teacher because I want to change someones life.  I want to make a difference.  I want my empathy to be a good thing while I try to understand and relate to my students when life has them down and they want to quit.  Its beginning to make some sense why I am the way that I am.  We all have strengths and weaknesses, mine just happens to be the same thing.

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Auto Biography Of An Addict Part 1 (Childhood)

The names in this story are not changed (except mine) cause I don’t give a shit…

My name is Dolce Minaj  I was born on March 16, 1980 to a married mother and father.  My mom was 21 and my dad was 25.  I was the first born, now known as the oldest, of two children.  My mom was the only girl of 5 kids and was a victim of sexual abuse from both her brothers and her father.  She was a lot like the person I would later become.  My mom was energetic, outspoken, and a hairstylist.  She tly had a heart of gold but was mostly misunderstood because of the mental health issues that she suffered from.  My dad was the oldest of 6 kids and the exact opposite.  He was quiet, selfish and never wanted children.  In his defense he always had a job and supported my small family the best he could.  I did pick up a few positive traits from him, the number one thing being his entrepreneur spirit and the ability to talk his way out of anything.  While digging up feelings to write this auto biography I realized that I could not recall one vivid memory of my dad interacting with me as a child.

Most of my childhood memories are of my brother and I doing normal kid stuff.  Our early childhood was spent in Frankfort Square, IL.  The neighborhood of small starter homes had many starter families, and many kids for us to play with.

I can recall at the age of 5 knowing that I was different from the other kids.  I gravitated towards girls and “girl” things.  The bullies on the block where a few years older then me and were twins.  Joey and Jason would called me “Davidrella” and other names to insult me for the feminine way that I acted.  (I have to note now, that Jason currently owns a gay bar and preforms as a drag queen in the south suburbs of Chicago.)  When I was 6 years old, my parents sent me to a Catholic nun physiatrist because of my behaviors and concerns about my sexuality.  When alone in the cold office while sitting on the wooden floor the nun opened up a large closet full of toys.  I was asked to choose whatever toys that I liked that were in the closet and to play with them.  At 6 I knew what they wanted, and I wasn’t going to give it to them.  I told myself not to play with the girl toys and I picked something gender neutral instead.  The verdict was that my dad should spend more time with his son, and I should be fine if they didn’t want me to grow up with homosexual tendencies.  That never happened.  In grade school the names and taunting continued.

I was always the one boy in a crowd of girls.  In 4th grade we moved to Carol Stream.  At Evergreen School, it was apparent I had a problem and the teaches collectively were going to do something about it.  I found myself forbidden to talk to my friends anymore.   I watched the girls play at recess not understanding why I was to stay away from them.  I spent recess sitting alone while avoiding kick balls being deliberately aimed for my head from the other boys in the school.  I sometimes wonder if my parents were in on this, or if it was all the idea of the administration.

It was 1990 and my parents decision to move to Carol Stream so we could be close to the rest of our family.  This is when, as a family, all hell broke loose.  My dad was sneaky.  He was a liar and a cheater.  My mom was crazy, angry and spent all of her attention on her children while she ignored her husband.  When they argued, it was common to see my Dad hit my mom. Also, just as common my Mom would attack him right back. No one should ever hit a woman, however my Mom was harsh with her words and had an angry steak along with a “my way or the highway” attitude. Vases were broken and holes put into walls.

The following year and a half were crazy. After 11 months in that house, my mom had enough. While at bingo with my Grandma and Aunt she met a looser named Bill. I have no idea what she saw in him. I am assuming it was the attention that she never had. She filed for divorce and we got an apartment in Wheaton with Bill. Despite his white trash appeal, he was actually pretty good to my brother and I. We liked him because he did the things that our Dad never did. He took us fishing, taught us how to shoot a gun and other things that that we were missing without a male role model in our life.

He was a coke head, and also beat my mom. Again she would beat him right back. He always had guns in the house and actually set one off on accident. The bullet went through the dining room wall, through the refrigerator, and luckily got stuck in the door. The bullet had enough force to open the freezer door as it hit my Mom in the head. If that bullet did not get stuck in the door it would have hit my Mom in the head.

Six months into that relationship, while thinking she was doing what was best for her kids, my Mom left Bill and we moved back in with our father. I remember crying that day, harder then when they told me about the divorce, because I didn’t want to go back there. My parents re married and shortly after that my Grandpa died. My Nana moved in. My parents were at their worst. My Dad actually attacked my Mom in front of my Nana and me as my Nana screamed in terror watching her only daughter get beat. She was helpless, and on oxygen. Not being able to do anything else but call 911, I did just that and my Dad fled the house without even putting his shoes on. the marriage only lasted 9 months. Shorty after the divorce my Nana died. I was 15 at the time. She was the glue that held the family together and nothing has ever been the same.

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