She walks back towards the entrance to the school, and I watch her as the air she normally breathes into me is sucked away until I’m nearly suffocating.
* **
Present…
Death has been on my mind my entire life. Even as a small child, I recall begging God to take away my suffering. I couldn’t handle any more pain.
One particular instance, after my father beat me with his belt and locked me in the hall closet, I vividly remember imagining all the ways I would kill myself.
All the ways that a seven-year-old boy could conceptualize.
Jumping off the roof of our trailer seemed like a good option at the time, though in reality, I would have been lucky to escape with a broken bone or two from that unexceptional height.
Running away always felt like an option, but even as a kid, I couldn’t fathom leaving my mom. I lived with a monster, but I needed my mommy.
One early morning after a brutal beating from my old man, I walked right across the closest two-lane highway near the trailer park, praying a car would take me out.
I was eight.
People knew. My teachers, my friends. But no one did anything.
Why would they? I was a troublemaker, and he was one of the boys in blue.
I’d get in fights at school, unleashing my raging emotions on bullies who reminded me of my dad.
I’d end up in the principal’s office, but no one cared why I did it. They didn’t ask me why a fifth grader knew how to throw a right hook so well.
My father would sign me out, promising to work with me at home, and then beat me until I was purple.
Eventually, as puberty approached, and I got bigger, mydad couldn’t lay his hands on me without feeling the exertion. I wouldn’t flinch at his fists. In fact, I could take quite a few punches without ever losing my balance.
That pissed him off, and it made him drink more, take it out on my mom more.
But that wasn’t acceptable, so I played along. I would let him think that he hurt me. I’d pull away and try to dodge his evil, but I always let him get his final blow.
Once the fighting got so bad that the school complained to the local police department, and my dad’s job was on the line, he put me in karate. Not to help me, but to justify to his coworkers that he was a good father.
Luckily, it did help. Through the initial apprehension, I found a safe place for the first time in my life. I was surrounded by kids who were like me, channeling their emotions and budding hormones into a physical escape.
My sensei was the first positive adult role model that I ever had. He listened without judging, taught me without critique, and shaped the man that I would eventually become.
I finally stopped fighting and started flourishing in school. I even went my entire Freshman year of high school without getting into any disciplinary trouble.
I was still seen as a troubled teen, but I didn’t care. I found purpose in martial arts, and I was fulfilled for the first time in my life.
It made my dad angrier. He’d hit me harder and spew vile remarks at me because he knew he couldn’t affect me physically. So he attacked me mentally.
I was still left with the bruises.
My sensei was the first person to see the truth behind the marks.
He went to the police behind my back to report his concerns, but it only made everything worse. My father’s harassment spread to the karate dojo.
He left parking tickets, placed speed traps, and even went as far as accusing my sensei of being a pervert.
Unfortunately, since he had offered me refuge, it didn’t look good from the outside, and the burden of public opinion ultimately meant he couldn’t keep the business afloat.
He shut the studio down, but he never blamed me.
