As I near the fourth year anniversary of my son's death by accidental overdose, I feel the need to add a page to his
website. I have begun a journey of a thousand miles, and it all began with one step........or maybe it began with step one!
I recall writing on one of the pages in this website that one day I would reveal my story. I will try to do that now.
John was a severely abused child. I can't begin to tell you the horror that my two children were exposed to in their
lifetimes. I was severely abused also, a battered wife. I can remember my husband using his fists to hit me, balled up with
all the force that he could muster, while the children would beg him not to hurt their mother. Once he had expended his strength
with his fists, he would knock me to the floor, and proceed to kick me with what energy he had left.
He always denied that John was his son. I remember the ride home from the hospital, when his mother, sister, and himself,
picked John and I up to go home. None of the three of them would speak to me for the forty minute drive. I remember being
so puzzled, not understanding why the three of them were ignoring me. My husband shared later that it was because all three
of them "knew" that John was not his son. The time immediately following the birth of our son, I was abandoned emotionally
by my husband, Donnie. He would not touch me physically or emotionally for many months to follow. He would tell me that he
didn't want to touch me after I had gotten pregnant by another man. The fact that this just was not true made absolutely no
difference to him, there was no reasoning with him on the subject.
Not only was he not there for me, more importantly, he was not there for John. He would not touch him, would not look
at him, would not acknowledge him. This, I believe now, permanently scarred our son emotionally.
I can't specifically remember when the abuse with John started. I just remember it escalated over the years. Donnie was
sent to parenting classes in one instance, and he never attended. No one ever followed up the abuse allegations, reported
by a primary school guidance counsler. Donnie was never forced to follow through.
John could never do anything right where his father was concerned. But, my God, he tried. That child, I believe, would
do anything to gain the approval of his father. I can't tell you how many times he would ask me why his father didn't love
him. Each time I would assure him that he was mistaken, of course his father loved him. But I lied, because I was asking myself
the very same question.
I remember one time in particular, John had scratched a radio in the kitchen. Donnie went balistic! He screamed
and ranted and raved for what seemed like hours! I kept trying to calm him down, to no avail. Finally, he lunged for John,
and started beating him. I don't mean spanking, Donnie didn't spank. He BEAT. I tried pulling him off, like I always did,
or pushing John behind me to shield him, but this time it didn't work. Donnie was so furious that his strength was incredible.
The only thing I could do to help John at that time, was to throw him on his bed, and throw myself on top of him. I worried
for a split second that I would smother him, he was just a small little boy, but then Donnie started pummelling my back with
the blows that he intended for that little boy, and I could think of nothing else by to protect my son.
Funny how I thought I was protecting the kids. Protecting them would have meant taking them as far away from that monster
as I could. But I did the best I could at the time. I didn't know any better.
Another incident that stands out in my mind is the time that my daughter, Shelly, accidently left the door to the rabbit
hutch unlocked. The rabbits got out, went into the woods, and were chased and eaten by dogs. Shelly was devestated. Her poor
little heart was broken, and Donnie, in a rage, grabbed her from where she was in the woods, and beat her every step of the
way to the house, took her to her room, and threw her on the bed. I came running from where I was in the kitchen when I heard
all the commotion, and ran to my daughter, but it was too late. The memory was already there, and I didn't get to her in time.
All I could do was run to her, to sheild her from a repeat attack, and cry with her, and tell her how sorry I was.
These are but two incidents of hundreds! I could go on and on and on, but it would not serve any purpose. The fact
is that my children and I were abused severely. Burning Bed abused, for those of you that have seen that movie.
The last words that John heard from his father were, " I hate you". Donnie was screaming at John, telling him he
was never welcome back in his house ever again. He told him that he hated his guts, and never wanted to lay eyes on him again.
He told him he was worthless, and called him every name in the book, and then some. This was the very last memory John had
of his father. He died less than two weeks later.