Opening Old Wounds

I was a bit shaken when I woke up this morning.

As I lay there startled for no reason in particular, I began to think of the reasons why I would be feeling this way. That’s when the old wounds started to open up again.

There’s a part of my life that I haven’t really mentioned too much here. It happened shortly after Dad died and lasted a little under 10 years and quite honestly, they were the darkest times of my life. During that time, Mom had decided that it would be a great idea to marry Dad’s brother (strange, I know) in order to get her life back on track. It seems she felt comfortable with men who carried alcoholism as their baggage because the man she would marry, Uncle Jesse, was a drunk to the tenth degree.

And this morning, I got a reminder of that nightmarish time of my life. I started to cry once all of the memories started to come back.

There was never a dull moment in the Moreno household when she was married to this asshole, and it was always hard to determine when the two of them were on speaking terms–or how long it would last. Mom would always be sleeping on the couch while The Master would take the bedroom.

But for the most part I just seem to remember living those 10 years very very carefully, hoping not to upset the apple cart and feel the wrath of either Mom or Uncle Jesse. And when we did, it was awful.

The two would argue, yell, fight and scream at each other while my brother and I locked ourselves in our respective bedrooms, only coming out when the dust settled. Even then, we could still feel the tension in the air and didn’t know what to think. It may not have been physical abuse but it was abuse nonetheless.

But there was the time when I almost got into a physical altercation with the man after he disapproved of the way I parked my car in the driveway. I’ll never forget it.

“You have a problem with the way I parked it?” I asked. I must have been a teenager at the time. Uncle Jesse stood up and glared at me as we circled each other a few times, waiting for the other to throw the first punch.

I walked away from it because, for as much as I wanted to start it, in the back of my head I remembered one thing: he owned firearms. Many firearms. And the only thing more dangerous than firearms are the idiots behind the trigger. There’s no doubt in my mind that I could have decked the man and knocked him out cold but who knows how he may have sought revenge.

Like the time he pulled out a knife on Mom and I ended up calling 911.

He denied it, of course.

After Mom had finally had enough, the two filed for divorce and I never saw the man again. I did, however, manage to stick a screwdriver into his new VCR and disconnect the head mechanism as well as blur the screen of his new big-screen TV all to Hell before we packed up and moved on.

While ordered to pay child support, he only wrote one check to Mom. Way to go, asshole.

I often wonder just what was going on in Mom’s mind to not only re-marry shortly after Dad died, but to marry his drunken brother. Yes, Dad drank but he loved us beyond measure. The heartless bastard Uncle Jesse never gave us the time of day or showed us any kind of…anything, except how not to live my life or be involved in a meaningless marriage. Those years of living under the same roof were without a doubt the worst years of my life, and I’m surprised I didn’t turn to other kinds of activities as a result.

How selfish of you, Mom. How dare you take your sons and expose them to this environment for your own selfish reasons. Dad was gone only a few years and here you go marrying some idiot at City Hall. What a slap in the face to all of us. I truly hope that you got whatever you needed out of this clusterfuck of a marriage because, even years later, the wounds I suffered as a result of your relationship are still prone to being cut wide open, even during the sanctity of my dreams.

This probably explains why I’m not in a real hurry to call Mom back. As is obvious by the way I started this post, the wounds are still there.

As for Uncle Jesse, I can’t wish enough bad things upon him if he is even still alive. A slow, painful death would be too kind for him. This is one case which I will definitely not forgive and forget because I’m scarred from those horrible years we spent together. I don’t care how old the man might be by now, but you don’t know what I’d give to have a short discussion with him today. And believe me, it would be short–and most likely physical.

And if by chance the man is dead, then good. That’s less evil roaming this planet and less lives ruined by his presence.

(Note: the details of my dream are far too graphic to describe and were sort of a combination of today and the time Mom was married to Captain Fuckhead. While the timeline was not right and the events may not have happened, they are still a reminder of how awful things were when he was involved in our lives.)