Between A Rock And A Hard Place

A dilemma is when there are only two options presented as a solution to a problem – and you can only pick one. Have you ever been in a dilemma where both options seem sinister, but you have to pick the lesser of two evils? Where you are stuck between a rock and a hard place? My rock was staying in an inhospitable environment surrounded by chaos while my hard place was adventuring out into the unknown alone. I had to choose between my drug centered, abusive family and myself. 

Growing up with them was half of what every child dreams with the other half consisting of where nightmares derive from. I have memories of shopping trips with carts jam packed with anything and everything I wanted, but also am able to recollect going to bed scared and hungry surrounded by tumultuous shouting and objects shattering. Because of the drug dealing, the providers in the family were in and out of prison leaving the non-providers to fend for themselves and the children by obtaining entry level jobs with little pay causing massive struggle. As a child, I had no idea though why sometimes we were rich and other times the adults stopped us before going into stores with the classic “don’t look at nothing, don’t touch nothing, don’t even think of nothing.”

At 9 years old, my father was stabbed to death over drugs. I could write novels about the obstacles that resulted. School was and always will be very important to me as my father had worked hard with me when he could to try to give me the stability that he never had which he believed could be achieved by an education. But, after his death, I was constantly criticized, degraded, and called “the white girl” for being even the slightest bit interested in my own education. I would be told things such as “you think you’re so f - ing smart because you know big words and read books.” 

By the age of 12, I was the black sheep of the family. I just could not see eye to eye with them. Being that the substances that were handled within my family were the type to drastically alter one’s perception, mayhem ensued daily. Physical altercations occurred at every family get together, children’s birthday parties, and weddings. They had never heard of the phrase “putting your pride aside” or maybe never grasped the concept of what life really is. Stuck in some type of alternate reality where the remedy to all of their problems is a mixture of getting drunk, getting high, and putting their hands on somebody. I was not able to understand why they decided to live by such unscrupulous ethical codes and, as my sister describes it, my “problem” remains that I am never afraid to voice my opinions or concerns. 

My so-called issue was mostly a complication with my uncle who took the place of head honcho from my father when he passed. I have never met a man who needed such validation from everyone in his life to the point of bleeding out of places where the sun does not shine when he got frustrated. He would be inches from your face, spitting and yelling, until he was red in the face and had no more air left in his lungs. He did not like the fact that I was able to calmly communicate my feelings without need to raise my voice or call anybody anything other than what is on their birth certificate. This mixed with his self-medicating caused the storm of my life one night. 

I was 19 years old, it was the day after Thanksgiving 2017, and I was having a great time until my uncle appeared in the doorway of my room with his eyes bloodshot. I laughed and said to him “oh my goodness, you look so high” to which he admitted to popping a Percocet, but Percocet does not do that to you so I knew it had to have been something else. I wrote it off and went back to reading my book as he continued standing there staring at me. Next thing I know, he is taking my dresser drawers out of my dressers and emptying them on my bed. At this point in my life, I was used to such strange behavior and I already knew that no matter how I handled the situation, I would have escalated it, so instead I went to get my grandmother to get him to stop. 

In his delusional, intoxicated brain, something I said to my grandmother was disrespectful, so he punched me in the back of my head three times until I fell to the ground. All 100 pounds of me, jumped right back up to protect myself. My grandmother got between the two of us as he jumped on top of me and continued to punch me as my body was being crushed under the weight of my grandmother and uncle. As this sort of predicament was a regular occurrence, my 14 year old little cousin came into my room in an attempt to pry his father off of me. Somehow a knife appeared in my uncles' hand and he tried to stab me, but I grabbed the blade.

The blood from my hand being almost split in half sent everyone into a panic and the cops were called. My grandmother started crying telling my uncle to leave before the police arrived. My “family” told the cops that I gave myself three hematomas in the back of my head, I beat myself up, I stabbed myself in the hand, and that I tried to kill myself. The moment I heard those lies, I just screamed.. which did not help my case. I screamed out of horror, out of disgust, out of betrayal. Not much else was said or done after that as I was ushered away by two paramedics. Remember, my uncle was now in the what you would call “boss” position and without him, there would be massive struggle meaning a side had already been chosen.

In the hospital, I had plenty of time to contemplate the decision I was about to make. I had no need for that drama, those feelings, and those people anymore. My rock had shifted into a mountain and, while standing at the peak, I decided to jump. Not knowing where I would land, who I would have by my side, or how I would do it solitarily. I fell to the bottom of my hard place, but I have been climbing ever since.