Splitting Tables and Breaking Bottles: Growing Up in the Storm

Every family has a backstory, but ours felt more like a series of structural collapses.

Before my parents ever met, my mom already had a child. When she got with my dad, they had three more together—making four of us total. I was the youngest of the bunch.

They were never married, and back then, my mom didn't even know how to navigate food stamps or the welfare system. She was completely out at sea without a map.

"Nobody Wants a Houseful of Drama"

When things got bad, she’d try to leave. She’d pack us up and crash with relatives, but let’s be honest: nobody wants a woman and four kids moving in, especially when it comes with the inevitable drama of a drunk boyfriend showing up on the porch, begging, yelling, and demanding we come back.

I can’t even imagine the hopelessness she felt. Overstaying our welcome was guaranteed, so back to him we’d go.

Things would get good for a little while. Then he’d get drunk, and like clockwork, the physical abuse would start all over again.

The Axe and the Classified Ads

I remember one story that sums up the madness. My mom was sitting at the kitchen table, reading through the classified ads trying to find a job so we could leave. My dad walked up, swung a full-sized axe, and smashed it right into the table, splitting it clean in half.

I imagine he hit the table leaf perfectly down the seam.

But I have to keep it real for anyone reading this: my mom was no angel, either. I don't know how she was in her youth, but I definitely remember plenty of 1980s "tough love." My brother told me about the time she broke a wine bottle over my dad’s face and ended up breaking his collarbone.

She used to say that when he was strung out on booze, he’d come at her like he was still back in 'Nam.  She said that pot was the best thing for him.  

Untreated PTSD Meets Toxic Love

I believe my mom really did love him, but she couldn't turn off that trained killer in him when he was drunk. He was carrying heavy, untreated PTSD—and in the process, he gave it to her, too. It's kind of like a contagious disease.

For the most part, he didn't lay hands on us kids. My mom did claim that when I was a baby, he threw me across the room because I wouldn't stop crying. Since she’s passed away now, I’ll just call that hearsay. I'll never know if she was dead serious or just talking out of dark frustration.

Living with her meant living on an emotional pendulum. By the time I reached elementary school, she was either super happy or totally consumed by rage—hardly any middle ground.

At least once or twice a week, the heavy words would start flying:

• "I would have a life if it wasn't for you kids."
• "Your dad didn't do a damn thing."
• "I fucking hate you kids. I wish I never had you."

It felt like an everyday thing back then. But even as young kids, we understood the ground truth: both of our parents had serious mental health issues. We just had to learn how to survive Vietnam's dominoe effects.

A Way Out (Sort Of)

Eventually, a friend finally tipped my mom off about government housing and how the welfare system worked. When I was two years old, she grabbed that lifeline and moved us into public housing.

She got us away from him. But trust me, the story doesn't end there.