by Gary Davis

Created on: July 03, 2007

I'm sitting here typing. I am starting to give you my essay on family conflict. Aptly, there is sad baroque music playing in my ears to block the drivel of my children who have no idea how much I want to cry right now. After all, men aren't supposed to cry, right? I've been crying all my life.
The first memory I have was being in a hospital at age two when I had pneumonia watching my parents leave the hospital promptly at eight o'clock together. I remember throwing myself to the pillow face first and sobbing until I blacked out. I thought they were leaving me. That is how I felt the rest of my life.

At age four yelling and screaming in our home is all I can remember. Crying; throwing; slapping; dirty looks; and tension. This was my life.
Then, there was the neighborhood we lived in. Since my dad wasn't adept at making money, we lived in a poor, very tough neighborhood. Fights were how arguments were settled. Sometimes chains were used; sometimes pieces of wood were made into weapons. I was always fearful.
Alcohol constantly marred the judgment of my parents. Violation of their marital promise created jealousy and violence. I was slapped. I was yelled at. When I had a chance to go to two college courses in the fourth grade, I was stopped by my father who said that it would make me an "Egghead".
Each parent hated the other in-law. Each in-law hated the other. All the siblings hated each other. We were isolated even from neighbors.
Today I'm full of anger. I was too little, you see, then, to protect myself physically or emotionally. I had to learn that you don't solve problems with your fists.
I remember I couldn't have friends over to our house like other kids. Our linoleum floors weren't' taken care of. They peeled off. Then the "under-flooring rotted and soon, our floors were dirt complete with bugs.
I lay in bed at night afraid my father was going to kill me because my mother told me he was going to. My father told me my mother was going to leave us all at any time.
My mother couldn't cook, so, we were often hungry. It wouldn't have mattered if she would have been able to because we rarely had groceries.
I started out a hopeful straight-A student. I wanted to be a doctor. I ended up a "D" student who could care less what happened to what the future held.
I can remember clearly the time I declared my freedom. I was thirteen. It was Christmas. I had asked for a microscope as a gift. That one present was all I got and, my parents fought all Christmas morning. Finally my

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