Blood is Thicker Than Water

You would think that my coming of age story was written by the Devil. Some would say that I changed the story as time went on but I didn't

This story isn't going to be the basic high school broken heart or the I moved across the country story. However, it will be a broken trust story. It will show that blood although thicker than water, can still drown you.

Growing up, people were raised to always trust family. We were told that family was never going to break your heart. That isn't true. These people that watched you grow, are going to be the people who know your greatest weakness. They learn who you are and who you will never be.

My coming of age story didn't start in high school, it didn't start when I think the story should have. My story started early, but the drama that made me change who I am completely came along later in my life.

Sure I had the friends who left me and the people I never trusted. But, I never thought that this chapter of my own story was written the way it was.

Let me paint the picture for you.

"I walked into the house with my father and brother. Living in a two-house lot with my mothers' side of the family. Was never something we ever wanted to do again. But, the cards were laid out to be played this way.

My brother had just turned 12 the week prior. Coming home to my mom's family eating McDonald's while mine were scrapping by on pb&js and quesadillas, was a little disturbing. Simply because we had always offered them food when we knew we couldn't afford it.

So my mother requested what I think any other mother would have. She asked for my brother and me, to eat the quesadillas at the second house. Simply because she didn't want us to be upset with the fact that they were eating out and we couldn't.

Somehow this led to a downpour of rage. My mothers' brother stated that he couldn't afford to pay for our meals as well. We acknowledge this, so we said "next time just let me know so I can transfer some money."

For whatever reason he continued to yell, words were being said while the children scattered. Some with fear in their eyes and others with nothing. It was like they were used to the yelling to the anger to the outburst of pain.

The yelling had quieted in my mind the moment my "uncle" screamed at my mother "I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU"

Now, what would you do in this situation? Would you have run and hid? Or stay in between the women who raised you and a threat. I chose the second. With a butter knife in my hand, I pushed my charging "uncle" back. Begging him to stop. Pleading for him to go to his room and calm down. At this point my mother and father were trapped behind my "aunt" my younger brother was trying to help me. And my "grandmother" was telling me to stop hurting her son.

I don't vividly remember what happened next, I think the shock had finally caught up with me. I do know I was slammed against the table and thrown onto the floor. I know my brother's skinny self got through and started swinging at our "uncle". I know my dad put him into a chokehold and told him to relax. I know my "grandmother" put her hands on my mother and father. I know my "aunt" pushed my brother to the floor."

And I know that my PTSD to older men flourished that night. I know being kicked out of the home I was raised in hurt the most. I know being told that this encounter was my fault by the woman I thought would always have my family's back, felt like I was throwing up hot lava.

When my fathers' family asked why we moved out of our home, we simply told half the truth. They were selling the homes. The homes my great-grandfather made. The ones he slaved over for years to put a roof over his children's heads. With time, we told the truth. We told them how my "uncle" put his hands on me, how he threatened to kill my mother, how my "grandmother" let her true self shine through.

Looking back, I realize that within the two years since this event, I am not the same person I once was. I am terrified of taller and stronger men. The sounds from a motorcycle make me want to vomit, simply because he rode one. I know that when my younger cousins' pictures pop up on my Snapchat memories, my heart cries for them all over again.

My family is a mess ,all because a man's ego and pride, showed how he truly felt about us.

My mother says I need to stop writing about this event. Because "I haven't let it go" and truthfully I don't think I ever will. Yes, my coming-of-age story started at the age of 19 and is still being written at 21. Yes, I am still petrified of men. No, I will never forgive and forget. No, I don't ever see myself turning around and holding any of them with open arms.

However, I think it is time that I close this door. I end this chapter here. Written in these words on this site. I finish the chapter with this last sentence:

"yes blood is thicker than water, but I promise you can still drown.."