1 of 39

Write now Article Tools

The way that one was raised up during their childhood has a profound effect on them for the rest of their life. For it is during those informative years when one was a child that influences the way that they look upon things. Life can be cruel, or it can be a blessing. Some that have had it bad when they were a child, look back upon their life and want change. Then there are those who have had it good when they were a child and they do not have a clue as to what it is like to want to be able to fit in with the rest of society. Then there are those who never had it good, and when they moved on into society they continued on with the ways that they were brought up only to end up in our correction system.

Remembering my childhood is not a pretty picture, but at the time when I was living it, it was normal in my eyes. Out of the five kids in my family who were brought up in Roswell, New Mexico, I was the fourth in line. Ten years separated the oldest from the youngest. I had two brothers, one who was a year younger than I and the other who was three years older. My sisters were the oldest and everything seemed to revolve around them, at least in my eyes. I was the frail child, for I spent more time in the hospital than what I did at home in my first year of life. Perhaps this is why my older brother resented me so because my mother had to bestow more attention upon me and he probably felt left out. He was no longer the favorite, the one who was babied, the one that mom and dad showered their affection upon. Now we move on to when I can remember my life as a child.

We did not have much, for my father was an alcoholic who would go on binges that would last sometimes for two weeks at a time. Then he would get the DT's and shake, and could not keep any thing down, until he finally sobered up. Then he would stay sober for a couple of weeks, and the cycle would start again. During the intoxicated times, things would get bad, beatings, yelling and screaming, the lip-stick on the collar of his shirt and the perfume smell and the hurt that my mother went through putting up with all of this crap. In my eyes, my mother was my patron saint, even though she was often the one who would beat me. For it was her who would be there sober to take care of us kids. It was her who made us all go to church on Sunday, sometimes stepping over my dad who was passed out on the floor just to get out of the door. It was her, who went and got a job at Glovers Packing House, who was putting

• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: Remembering my childhood?
We want to hear your view. Write now!