Childhood.

This is a miserable, long winded, depressing, indulgent exploration into my childhood. It's long and may be upsetting.

Read at your own discretion.

I'd say to my friends and loved ones reading this blog, don't let it upset you, I wouldn't be 'me' without the childhood I lived through.

I spent the first five years of my life locked in a bedroom. As bizarre as that sounds, that was my introduction to life here on Earth.

My father was a sadist. Whatever he could imagine doing to me, he'd do. My first real experience of physical pain was when my father punched me in the face shortly after I'd learned to walk. Why? The reason was because I'd passed him in the hallway of our home and as he was coming towards me, I said hello. His response was to grab me around the throat, push me hard against the wall, raise his fist to my face, and punch me. No blood, no broken bones. But I was dumbfounded. I couldn't understand why my face hurt so much. I was so shocked I couldn't even cry.

My mother, tended to me while my father walked off. My father also used my mother as his punch bag. Sometimes, when my father had gone out of our home for whatever reason, my mother would let me leave my bedroom. I'd roam the house, and in those times, I'd often notice blood on the wooden floors. I was a child, and couldn't understand. Mother lied about it, and being a child I believed her. Her favorite lie was that it was magical blood, and it came out of the floor. She told me all kinds of shit. Why didn't she clean it up? I think she'd given up trying.

Nonetheless, five years passed, and I spent most, but not all of them, locked in a bedroom for my own safety. My father would leave me alone there. I was safe as long as he didn't see me. So the bedroom was a sanctuary of sorts.

Pissing in any container that'd hold my urine was a thing as I got a bit older. Before that I'd lie in my own piss till mother turned up. I'm not typing the other things I had to do to keep ticking along.

Social services? The police? Uh, Uh, they didn't exist back then, not in the forms they take today. And the term 'severe mental illness' and help for that didn't exist back then either. Maybe good old dad should have been sectioned.

You may think my mother had great sympathy for me. She didn't. I was little more than a stray cat she felt obligated to feed. She never spoke to me and when I spoke to her, she usually lied to me, probably to shut me up.

I started to fold within my own mind, there was no place else for me to go. And here's where my blog starts to get fucked up. You may think my blog is already terribly fucked up, but now it has taken a turn into real fuckery.

Satan came to visit me.

In my bedroom.

Perhaps it was a child's mind finally snapping, and creating creatures to talk to through loneliness and isolation. Perhaps it was something a little more supernatural. It doesn't matter which way the blog is viewed. I write from my own perspective, not the readers.

We're not talking about some weird old pervert uncle taking advantage of me here that I've turned into 'Satan' through childhood trauma either. I'm talking full on out of the shadows in the dark fire and brimstone smelling of shit and sulphur SATAN! Oh. Yeah!

I was a child. A young child. And yet in those times, in my bedroom, he was the only friend I had. He spoke to me. He comforted me. I had no concept of religion. I hadn't heard of God. But Satan, in that bedroom, for all those years, he spent those years comforting me. And in the end, he saved me. My father was killed when I was five years old.

I didn't find out how my father was killed until I was 17 years old because my mother wouldn't talk about what happened. Eventually, she told me on an incredibly rare occasion she could be bothered to say more than a single sentence to me.

I won't type what happened to my father. He died in a way befitting the life he led. It was not a pleasant death. I've never felt anything more than indifference about it. Not happy, not sad, but in a practical sense, his death changed the course of my childhood.

I grew up with Satan. I grew with Satan. And my life has been influenced by him ever since. Some of it I've put in journals, some I'll never type of. I'm sure the Vampire Rave blog police will come along and say 'Oh why can't you type it, what evil things have you done?' I've never done an evil thing in my life. I know the pain evil causes people and to make anyone go through the pain I went through as a child? I'd rather die.

The evil I suffered? The evil I grew up in from my father? It was a compost. A compost that my love grew out of. The more pain I suffered, the more compassion I had for life. Every punch, every kick, every drop of blood, made my fucking heart burn in love. I needed to give love more than I ever needed to receive it. That was me as I was a child and that is me now. I burn within love, it consumes me.

I had a string of girlfriends growing up, my past made me more attractive not less. Yet none of them lasted. They weren't for me.

I wanted something else. I wanted monsters.

Oh, no! Monsters! You can't have monsters! Monsters don't exist.

Don't they?

I write my poems about her.

I'd finally found a place for my love, and it was crucially near the end of my wish to remain on Earth, for my love was overwhelming me, it had started to kill me, consume me, and destroy me.

My love had become too big and too deep to keep shackled inside my own heart, and no one could contain it. None of the women I'd been with could handle it, the ones I knew before my wife? They feared my love. They ran from it. She didn't. And she took it, and she chained it, she chained me, and she saved me, because my own love was killing me for it had become too much for me to bear.

She took my pain away, she eased me, she gave me an ocean bed to lay my love upon, and she welcomed the waves and turmoil within me. She took it all, until I became a small star within her universe, for she is so much more than me. She holds me in a way I have never been able to contain myself. I only know peace within her love. I'm lost without her. I'd die without her.

She stopped me from screaming myself to death as my love had become so powerful and so overwhelming, that the only place it found solace was at her feet, kneeling in tears from the deepest love I have ever known.

Everything melts away, there is no universe, no world, no people, no God, no Satan. All I see is her, and we scream in unison because when we stop, our love overwhelms us, so we feed off each other knowing there is nothing but eternity to love deeper and deeper and deeper. There is no limit ever, and we fall, forever entwined, matching, meeting, biting, forever bleeding, forever healing.

My every atom, pulsing to the beat of her heart, thud, thud, thud, thud, endlessly. I reached a point where I no longer have a heartbeat. My pulse becomes so fast there is no longer anything to count, just this endless continuing thrumming sensation that emanates around us. It's beyond humanity, it's beyond life, and it's all her. She is all the universe, and I'm falling forever, inside of her love. There are no words really. None. If you've felt it. You know. And if you haven't. I haven't the words.

Part Two: Three Fathers.

I wrote about my father recently. This blog continues my exploration into my life as a child with him. If you found Part one distressing, I'd advise you not to read this one.

Writing my last blog was therapeutic. So I'm going at it again. And delving deeper. As I say, if the last one upsets you, don't read this one.

Was my father an evil man? I don't know. I had no concept of evil as a child. These days I try to believe my father suffered from mental illness, but when I sit and think about him, all I come up with is his premeditated and deliberate cruelty. And the great pleasure he took in my suffering.

Everything in my father's mind seemed to be about causing me physical and emotional pain.

I have no idea how I came to be born. My father beat my mother frequently. She cried every day. She never smiled. He was always angry. I still can't fathom how they ever made love. Most likely I was born from rape. But that is a subject I can't type about here. It might explain why he hated me from my birth.

Anyway, on to calmer things.

Between birth and the age of five, I spent most of those years locked in my bedroom saving me from my father's violence.

Despite that, I had several encounters with my father when I was out of my bedroom, where he didn't physically attack me upon sight.

That might sound like a strange thing to say, but the times when my father didn't attack me upon sight were uncommon.

And those are the occasions I want to write about.

And on one of those occasions, I asked him to help me. I was around four years of age.

I had a small wooden train and one of the wheels had broken off. I asked my father for help. I hadn't been taught to ask for help, I simply reached out to him instinctively.

He looked at me with a neutral expression. He didn't speak.

I asked him for help again while showing him my broken train.

He didn't speak.

I asked him again. At this point, I'm pretty sure I had started to feel like I was getting ready to start crying. I guess even children have refined instincts about how things are going to go.

I started crying.

He started laughing. That's right. He started laughing. The kind of laugh when someone surprises you with a hilarious joke.

I cried harder. My body had taken over the situation at that point, and it was all about how my body felt, and it felt upset.

I showed him my train.

He started to roar with laughter and I mean full-on belly laughing.

I remember how deeply I started to sob. The kind where your breath starts to hitch repeatedly. I sobbed. And he roared with laughter.

My mother came in and took me to my bedroom. I don't remember what happened after.

It was my first experience of learning never to ask an adult for help again. It screwed up my education completely in the years to follow because I couldn't bring myself to ask any teacher to help me when I was stuck in lessons. I had to self learn everything.

I asked no one for help when I was growing up. Ever. I couldn't understand that most people were not like my father. I couldn't bear the pain of refusal.

Despite my father battering me, I still loved him. I felt a certain way about him and that was that. How he treated him didn't change my love for him.

Unfortunately, this led to some of my worst emotional times with him.

My birthdays were no events. I'd sometimes get a present from my aunt and uncle. One birthday I got a fountain pen from them. An odd present but I was happy with it. It was mine. I took it to show my father. He was sitting in his chair. I passed it to him. I may have been four years old. He looked at it, took the pen out of the lovely box it was in and gave the pen gave back to me. I knew not to say a single word to him. I went to my mother, she didn't help me get my box back. It ruined my birthday.

One of my worst memories that really caved me in emotionally as a child was when my mother bought me a birthday present.

I was shown love from her in the form of a birthday present, and it really opened up new feelings inside me as a child.

Something inside my brain switched on and it felt good. It felt nice. I hadn't accessed it before. I had an experience of feeling loved.

My mother gave me a present.

And me being me, a child being a child, I went to show my father. His behavior toward me before didn't count. I still at this point trying to bond with him.

Anyway, my mother bought me a small spinning top. I'm not sure if they make them anymore. You'd push down on it and it spins around. I took it to show father, again, sat in his chair, and as soon as I gave it to him, he stood up, took a painting off the wall, and hung my spinning top high up the painting's nail. I didn't even ask him to get it down for me. But what happened next, was one of the worst emotional experiences I've ever experienced to this day.

It was the first time I experienced sorrow for another person. I felt sorrow for my mother. She had bought me this present, it was like the physical entity of love that I'd felt for the first time in my life that day, and I couldn't take care of it.

The love she had given me had been taken from me and was hanging high above me and I couldn't reach it. I tried. I jumped. I wasn't anywhere near the top. I couldn't reach it. I tried to climb up the sheer wall, I clawed at the wall, my heart broke. It broke. The first time, my mother showed me love and I failed her. I screwed my eyes shut and pushed myself into the wall.

I don't remember what happened after that.

My father used to cut glass at home. For picture frames. Back then the world wasn't as it is now. And people made what they wanted. One day, a sunny day, he was cutting a small glass sheet on the floor, using a hand glass cutter, and by his side was a pile of glass shards glistening in the sun.

I already knew what blood was. I'd seen it on our floors and tasted it in my mouth. But this was something new. Father asked me to pass him the glass shards. I wanted to please him, so I pushed my fingers into the pile, a small pile, only a few inches in width and height. And then I felt a new pain, one I hadn't experienced before. And I didn't like it. It was so horrible. So sharp, and then the blood appeared coming out of my fingers. Bright fresh blood in the sunlight from the window. I couldn't understand what was happening. Why were my fingers doing what they were doing? I screamed. My mother came into the room. She took me away and washed my fingers in water. They were throbbing. They were going numb with the cold water. She wrapped them in a towel. They were still bleeding they wouldn't stop. I had glass in my fingers. She used her own fingers to take the shards from my fingers. Her fingers bled. And eventually, she let me go to bed. I don't remember what happened then. I just don't remember.

Things just got worse. My father became more violent. He started hitting me harder to the point I'd feel the heavy thud of his fist against my head and felt like I wanted to throw up. I felt wretched. I was always in pain. He always went for my head. And if I wasn't near enough, and he was sitting in his chair, he'd kicked out at my legs.

And around that point, I was confined permanently to my bedroom. I had all my meals there. I remember feeling worthless as my mother used to fry kippers for my father's breakfast every day and I could smell it in my bedroom, but she never brought any for me. I always got some food, but I never got any kippers.

I spent my life in that room and before Satan came to love me I used to just stare out of the window. I felt mindless. Like a zombie.

My mother didn't even sort out basic hygiene. Looking back. She could have provided a bucket. I'm not typing how I managed. I spent most of my early childhood stinking of piss.

My father was killed at my age of five and when he died, I was released into a different life of sorts. My mother was like a ghost. She was there, in the distance, yet never spoke to me. And I learned not to speak to her. Instead, I grew up with Satan. Make of it what you will.

I'd sit in my bedroom — even after father was dead — and I'd listen to Satan speak to me in rhyme. He has a lullaby, a rhythm within his language, and it's musical, it beats, it sings, and the words are not remembered for being words but through the rhythms they sound like, and I learned to speak the same way. I started speaking in rhymes and eventually, tongues.

Some of the more religious readers may say tongues is a holy language. Tell my mother that. She didn't feel very holy around me. Not that she listens to anyone any more. She's dead. Like my father.

Anyway I didn't know any better and I didn't have a lot of things to occupy my time, but I loved rhyming. I did it all the time, it was my favourite thing. It made me feel happier than staying in my usual mood as a child, which sucked.

I was just being me, passing my time, always with a sense of sadness under the surface, everything I did felt tinged with sadness, even talking with Satan was spoiled. Even that was tainted by my mother's behaviour towards me.

My mother blew her top off eventually and became angry with me, and she told me to stop. She didn't say stop what. Just stop. Like I was supposed to know what she meant. I'd started to not like her very much at this point anyway.

It was the first real anger she had ever shown towards me and the first time she had ever shouted at me. It was my first experience of making someone angry at me that hadn't started off angry at me.

I didn't like it.

I started staying away from her. She left me alone in my room.

I only had contact with her at meal times and felt uncomfortable around her, so I started taking my meals to my room despite my father being dead. I think she preferred it that way as she never came to take me back to have meals with her, so I stayed on my own.

I started to understand that I preferred not being around people.

When I was seven or eight, a man came to our house, from the local church. I can't remember what he was, a vicar or something similar, and I was very wary of him, mainly because he was a man.

He spoke to me quite kindly. I started to warm to him, despite all the shit my father had done to me, and I was able to listen to him. He asked me some questions. I can't remember what. I did try to answer. Then my mother took him into my bedroom. I don't know why, but I suddenly felt really sad and started crying. I don't know what went on in my bedroom, I just sat in my father's old chair just feeling sad and crying. The vicar left. My mum seemed happier.

Nothing changed. In hindsite she clearly tried to shift Satan. It didn't work. Satan was mine. All mine. He made me happy. Satan gave me something to focus on and involve myself in. I wanted him. I needed him. He was all I thought about. I went to sleep thinking about him and woke up to check he was still there.

Was Satan physically sitting in my room? As mentioned, perhaps just the delusions of a child's snapped mind. Or something else entirely. Readers choice.

I never saw the vicar again. My mother seemed to actively dislike me around that point. I left her alone. She left me alone. I didn't care. She made sure I had meals. I didn't need anything more. I had very few clothes, I didn't care. I spent time in rhymes with Satan. It was all I wanted.

Mother died earlier than she perhaps should have. There's only so much shit I can fit into a blog.

I don't need any comments or sympathy. My childhood helped me find the deepest love, beyond life, death and heaven. I exist within love now, in ways I'll never type, never say, there are no words for what hell's love feels like; its devotion, it's care, its fury, its wrath, it honours me, bows to me, not because I'm stronger than it, but because it wanted to love me, it felt for me, and above all else it showed me that an angel will always be an angel, even when the world calls him Satan.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjfAkugD0Fo