Back To Blasting

At the age of 12, my dad was getting pretty bad. I absolutely hated going with him for overnights or even just for an hour. It was never fun, and it was always a regrettable time. Night time was the worse. He’d always yell for me from his bed, “Poopa, come lay with daddy,” he would say. Poopa was my nickname my parents gave me when I was only two years old.  It always happened when he’d think I had enough time to fall asleep. He would rub my back, sometimes over my buttocks, and my inner legs. Then I would pretend to wake up and have to go pee. I would just sit at the table or crawl back into  my cot bed while praying he would just leave me alone.  Most times he’d pass back out and wouldn’t call me again.


At the age of 14 the hatred for my father grew and grew. Over the years I watched as he would get drunk (on nights he’d take me) and fight with men, maul over different women, and cause his oldest daughter (me) more and more trauma with every visit. For instance, watching him argue with a women and watching the back of his hand connect with her face in front of me. I watched as he pushed her to the ground. When she stood up she grabbed the phone and dialed 911 and through the phone before he could reach her. He said,” you think the police are going to protect you”. The look on that poor women’s face when he grabbed her hair. I wanted to yell for him to stop, but all I did was stare and watch it all happen. When the cops showed at the door his anger didn’t subside at all. I watched my dad punch one of the cops right off the porch and down over the stairs. Another cop grabbed his arm to force it behind his back and that ended with the cop on the porch floor as my father walked back into the house, shut the door, and locked it. He yelled he would kill us if they came in. I could hear the cops outside talking and the whole house was lit up from the cop car lights. I was praying they would just barge in and end all of this, but it wasn’t happening it seemed.  Dad was screaming, OH, was he screaming at that women. I was crying and when my dads harsh look fell onto me, he grabbed a knife out of a draw and said,  “your on her side too”? He screamed it a few times, before saying, “Well isn’t that just fucking nice,” and stabbed himself twice in the stomach. I was in complete shock and in the midst of it all the women screamed out the door and about 7 or 8 police officers came barging in. I never moved from where I was standing and my sight didn’t leave the vision of my dad kneeling on the floor with blood stained fingers. The rest of what happened that night is a blur, but I remember my mother not happy having her daughter being brought home in the middle of the night by a police officer.

To Be Continued….





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