For a very long time now, I have felt like I am in a rut. I had plans, goal and dreams that I put aside to fulfill another part of my life; a family. The yearning to be a mother was very strong within me. When I finally had my first child, it was like an internal light switch had been turned on inside of me. He was the most beautiful being I had ever cast my eyes upon, and he needed me to be strong. He was born a few weeks premature, and although not life threatening, he had a lung infection when he was born, and was in the NICU (Natal Intensive Care Unit), for a week. As much as my scar from the C-section hurt, I got myself out of bed each morning to visit him at the hospital. I also didn't have any form of transportation, and did not have a lot of money, so I walked about half a mile to the hospital each morning to visit with him and also got to visit him again with my husband at night.
Although these circumstances do not seem out of the ordinary, the thing about me is that I am naturally prone to depression. It is something that I have never truly seeked professional help for, mostly due to the lack of money, but I have had enough will to discover it and try to battle it on my own. I grew up in an abusive household. My father was violent towards my mother and brother. He was absent from our home most of the time, and never really worried about making sure we had food on the table or the proper shoes and clothing for school. We were fortunate enough that our mother made sure we never went without the most basic needs. However, I always yearned for the love and protection that a father could offer a family, and having received mostly rejection and what seemed like hate at time from my father, damaged me for a very long time.
It is no surprise that I grew up a very quiet and shy girl with a very low self-esteem. If it had not been for my brother's support, I might have turned out far worse, but he tried to help me in whatever way he could. He would take me outside and play sports with me, and even though I had no desire to play any kind of sport, I did it because I wanted to spend time with him.
My mother was a very traditional. Born in Zacatecas Mexico, she had been raised to remain next to the man you marry, no matter how he treated you. She was very young when she married my father, at the innocent age of 16, she met him at a town carnival. Since he had been to the U.S. and back, she thought that he must must have been a great man. He promised her the world, and she believed him. So, after having only known him for a week, she ran away with him. It was custom for a man to ask a father for his daughter's hand in marriage, but he had convinced her not to, and she left with him. Her father was heartbroken. He offered her to come back home as if nothing had happened, but to please not get married, but she refused, and so they were married. During the celebration, rather than spend his time next to his new bride, he spent it talking with another woman. A lover of his perhaps? My guess is that it probably was. Yet, my mother, so innocent and naive, did not think anything of it.
That was the type of man that I grew up with as my father. Many times he came home with bites on his neck, the type that have to be sucked on; and I knew they were not from my mother. Some nights he came home drunk and insisted that she get up and serve him food. He never asked nicely, he always did it violently, and she always got up to warm him a meal.
I watched my father beat my mother to the point where she was bleeding; I watched him beat my brother with a bat; I watched him drive off with another woman. These are the memories I have of him, and the consequences have haunted me throughout my life.
Although these circumstances do not seem out of the ordinary, the thing about me is that I am naturally prone to depression. It is something that I have never truly seeked professional help for, mostly due to the lack of money, but I have had enough will to discover it and try to battle it on my own. I grew up in an abusive household. My father was violent towards my mother and brother. He was absent from our home most of the time, and never really worried about making sure we had food on the table or the proper shoes and clothing for school. We were fortunate enough that our mother made sure we never went without the most basic needs. However, I always yearned for the love and protection that a father could offer a family, and having received mostly rejection and what seemed like hate at time from my father, damaged me for a very long time.
It is no surprise that I grew up a very quiet and shy girl with a very low self-esteem. If it had not been for my brother's support, I might have turned out far worse, but he tried to help me in whatever way he could. He would take me outside and play sports with me, and even though I had no desire to play any kind of sport, I did it because I wanted to spend time with him.
My mother was a very traditional. Born in Zacatecas Mexico, she had been raised to remain next to the man you marry, no matter how he treated you. She was very young when she married my father, at the innocent age of 16, she met him at a town carnival. Since he had been to the U.S. and back, she thought that he must must have been a great man. He promised her the world, and she believed him. So, after having only known him for a week, she ran away with him. It was custom for a man to ask a father for his daughter's hand in marriage, but he had convinced her not to, and she left with him. Her father was heartbroken. He offered her to come back home as if nothing had happened, but to please not get married, but she refused, and so they were married. During the celebration, rather than spend his time next to his new bride, he spent it talking with another woman. A lover of his perhaps? My guess is that it probably was. Yet, my mother, so innocent and naive, did not think anything of it.
That was the type of man that I grew up with as my father. Many times he came home with bites on his neck, the type that have to be sucked on; and I knew they were not from my mother. Some nights he came home drunk and insisted that she get up and serve him food. He never asked nicely, he always did it violently, and she always got up to warm him a meal.
I watched my father beat my mother to the point where she was bleeding; I watched him beat my brother with a bat; I watched him drive off with another woman. These are the memories I have of him, and the consequences have haunted me throughout my life.
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