There’s Always a Beginning

I feel like everything I say, everything I feel, is so childish. Useless. I feel like I can’t trust anyone anymore, like I have no one to talk to, no where to run. I feel trapped in a corner with someone hovering over me so that I can’t escape. I’m tired of feeling this way. Sometimes, I just want a way out. It doesn’t matter what way… Just some way…

Hi. I prefer to remain anonymous, so I’ll go by Shadow Crescendo. SC for short.

I get major anxiety when it comes to introductions, so I’ll skip that. How could I ever tell you about myself in one little blog anyway? That would completely defeat the purpose of me blogging. So here goes.~

There’s Always a Beginning

Ever since I remember, even as a little child, I have never felt whole. There has always been an emptiness somewhere in me. I never felt complete. I’m sure that in the beginning, the first few years, there was some ounce of wholeness, but it was quickly whittled away as things became more and more clear to my eyes; as I grew more of an understanding with the world. Anytime that I have thought back to the past, I can’t recall good memories; they’re all bad. Any good memory that I can think of ends badly. Of course, you may think that I’m just looking at the glass as half empty, but that isn’t the case. One can only be so optimistic before it all is just shattered and taken away from them. There’s always a beginning to these things- this negativity. So I’ll do my best to share my beginning.

The first time I can remember being truly punished was when I was about four or five. My mother worked for a mortgage company, and my father was a trucker. My father, being a trucker, would be gone for days at a time, working at night and sleeping during the day. Since he worked at night, when he was home, he would be asleep when I was awake. My mother worked normal hours (usually), but it still seemed as if she were never around, either. Now, being the age I was, I would usually go to daycare while my mother was at work. But not this particular day, for my father was home. My mother decided that she was going to leave me at home with my dad, knowing he would be sleeping. You’re probably thinking something along the lines of, What is wrong with that woman?!, but you have to understand, I wasn’t your typical child. I was much more mature than the average five year old. For example, instead of toys, I wanted baby wipes to clean the rocks on the fireplace, and I could make chili from scratch on my own by the time I was four. I was taking care of myself at a very early age, but, of course, I was still a five year old. I was bound to make mistakes.

Anyway, my mother left me home with my father. I remember getting up early with my mother and watching her put on her make-up for work that day, and that’s where it all begins. Now, you’re probably thinking, What does your mother putting on make-up have to do with any of this? Well, I’m getting there.

I asked my mom if while she was gone I could put on some of her make-up; the most girly thing I will probably ever ask a person. Well, she said no, for me to wait until she got home from work. As if she knew I would do something stupid, she said, “If I find out you got into my make-up, you’re going to be grounded.” Then she went to work.

I had never been grounded before, so I thought otherwise. Time past by. I watched TV, I made myself lunch, I played with my toys, but it was like the make-up in the next room was haunting me. You can obviously see where this is going.

My father was in there, asleep. So, I knew I had to be quite for when I snuck into their bathroom. I quietly opened my father’s bedroom door and quickly, but silently, darted to his bathroom. I closed the door before turning on the light, for I didn’t want to risk the light shining in his face and waking him up. I looked at my mother’s counter and saw the make-up bag and a few other make-up accessories scattered on the surface. I tried to memorise where everything was, so that when I brought it back, it would all be in place and I would have successfully fooled my mother! I grabbed all the scattered materials and gently set them in the make-up bag, turned off the light, and quickly ran to my bathroom.

A short time later, I had perfected my new face. I thought I looked marvellous. My mother thought otherwise when she caught me.

I remember distinctly having the water in the sink running full blast, trying to scrub the make-up off, and my mother walking into our apartment, calling for me. I remember panicking and locking the door, for I didn’t want her to catch me with the make-up on my face. She started to bang on the door, telling me that if I didn’t open the door, I was going to be in loads of trouble.

I turned off the water at the sink and opened the door.

The next part was a bit of a blur. I remember being forced to take a shower and then being punished.

Now, again, you’re probably thinking, How is this relevant to the beginning of a terrible life? I understand a good spanking  and a lengthy grounding for what I did, of course. But, my question to you is: What punishment should end with the child receiving bruises?

Remember: “There’s Always a Beginning,” and it only has gotten worse since.

~SC

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