manutd12
New Member
- Joined
- Oct 10, 2009
- Messages
- 26
- Gender
- Female
- HSC
- 2011
Im doing Standard English, and Iv completed 1/4 essays, and my creative writing. (Trials are next week). Today I went to see my English teacher and she tore my creative piece to shreds saying that its not detailed enough, for god sakes its 3.5 pages of awesome writing but she wants background knowledge of my characters, and she thinks its to fantasy.
I shall post my story here, and Id LOVE Opinions.
I am outside the door of my childhood home, looking through the fly screen, it’s not the same view as I got as an abused and tormented 16 year old, but it still flashes distinct images of my past, the flashes represent the haunting vocal abuse which decayed my emotional wellbeing, and the scarring physical abuse which left permanent markings on my body.
Let me give you an insight into my tumultuous Life, I grew up in the city of Glasgow in Scotland, this city like my family home was infiltrated by sectarian divide.
My father Jonathon was a devout Catholic, while mother Catherine was a practicing protestant, followed by six siblings, consisting of four brothers and two sisters.
Because I was the youngest in the family my mother decided against my fathers will, to raise me as a protestant because all her other children were raised as Catholics. Since my mother made that decision my father has never let her or I live it down. Jonathon hated the fact that his youngest boy was practicing the opposed religion, that his own blood was following a path that he believed would lead to hell fire. To my father, I was not his son, but just some scrawny lad who would never belong to his humble divide unless I changed my beliefs.
My father practiced several forms of abuse upon me and my mother, it was his way of showing his disgust in my mothers action, what confuses me still to this day, was hat he married my mother knowing her practicing religion and was Ok with that, he probably thought he could somehow change her mind of thought, and bring her over to his side of the fence, but anyway back to the abuse. His physical abuse to my mother was profound; he did not let her live one day without telling her what an “unholy bitch” she was. Everyday after school we would come back to a shaken mother who had blotches of blue spots on her arms and inner thighs, my father acted like he did nothing wrong, my mum followed his actions so she doesn’t disturb the functioning of our home.
When he wasn’t killing my mother slowly, he was lashing out his disgust on me. I was a promising footballer, playing out the weekends as a Rangers School boy, but the emotional and physical abuse I received from my father was enough to derail my footballing abilities. Jonathon would pound me to the floor on a daily basis, either by using his own bodily force or hard stone objects that he would find nearby, after the physical bashing he would then scream words to me that would make me feel shit about myself, telling me “you’re a bloody worthless scrawny kid, you think your going to make it as a footballer, you’ll be lucky to get a job as a rubbish collector, I don’t know why god wasted space by creating you, your nothing but an unholy retard who is on the thoroughfare to hell”. His words would forever leave my thoughts, at 16 it would slowly kill every bit of confidence and personality in me, but now those words only motivate me to achieve further greatness in my life.
They say home is where the heart was, but not in my home, our home was where the pain and suffering was. My father turned my siblings against me, and made them disgusted of their mother. I asked myself everyday how one human being can treat another like that, but I realized my father was not the man of god he thought he was, but rather he was an absolute monster, an antichrist so to call him.
My mother and I kept quiet of our disastrous situation, in fear of creating a bigger monster of im. And besides back in my youth the Scotland Yard were not too concerned with domestic violence cases, they to were biased pricks and if you got the wrong police officer further implications would occur. But as I turned eighteen I felt a sense of guilt as I was sculling Whiskey down my throat, with my closest lads at the pub, I just knew my mother would be at home suffering at the hand of a catholic monster. So as I downed my last pint of whiskey, I confessed to the lads and they were horrified, one of the boys Chris whose father was a police officer, had directed me to his father and I confessed everything showing him the bruises and scars on my body, but in order to prove my statement he had to see for himself. So I took him to my place, were my father was pounding down on my mother, the police took charge of the situation and arrested my father.
A couple of months down the track, they sentenced my father to 35 years imprisonment in one of Scotland’s highest and hardest security prison. Catherine and I could finally rejoice in the freedom we’ve been longing for. I got my footballing career back on track, when my former club found out about my situation, two years after I started to play with the big boys, I got a high paying senior contract at Rangers Football club and made my debut in the Champions League against Manchester United. The money I earnt on a weekly basis was enough to get my mother out of her ‘prison cell’ and into a new apartment in the centre of Glasgow, I got myself a new pad, with my girlfriend Stacey, life was on the up for me. My mother was finally happy, she had got herself a new job, was attending regular counseling sessions and was reconnected with the activities she loved doing, my six other sibling reconciled with my mother and I , and were devastated when they found out the true details of our abusive suffering.
That same year, four years after my fathers imprisonment we were all having Christmas dinner, at my mother’s apartment, were a phone call came through telling us my father had been killed in prison by his cell inmate. It came as a shock, but I wasn’t upset because I had suffered too much pain at the hands of this antichrist, no one shed a tear for his passing, it was all just a relief for us.
My mother and I rejoiced in freedom 10 years ago, now as I stand outside my childhood home as a 26 year old professional footballer, fathering two beautiful daughters. I see my family, in my newly renovated childhood home. Stacey’s who is now my wife, is cooking up in the kitchen, while my mother is reading a story to my daughter’s Elizabeth and McCarthy, this image is a very opposing image to the one I got 10 years ago. I didn’t belong to old childhood home, but a little renovation and love can make someone finally believe that home was were the heart is.
I shall post my story here, and Id LOVE Opinions.
I am outside the door of my childhood home, looking through the fly screen, it’s not the same view as I got as an abused and tormented 16 year old, but it still flashes distinct images of my past, the flashes represent the haunting vocal abuse which decayed my emotional wellbeing, and the scarring physical abuse which left permanent markings on my body.
Let me give you an insight into my tumultuous Life, I grew up in the city of Glasgow in Scotland, this city like my family home was infiltrated by sectarian divide.
My father Jonathon was a devout Catholic, while mother Catherine was a practicing protestant, followed by six siblings, consisting of four brothers and two sisters.
Because I was the youngest in the family my mother decided against my fathers will, to raise me as a protestant because all her other children were raised as Catholics. Since my mother made that decision my father has never let her or I live it down. Jonathon hated the fact that his youngest boy was practicing the opposed religion, that his own blood was following a path that he believed would lead to hell fire. To my father, I was not his son, but just some scrawny lad who would never belong to his humble divide unless I changed my beliefs.
My father practiced several forms of abuse upon me and my mother, it was his way of showing his disgust in my mothers action, what confuses me still to this day, was hat he married my mother knowing her practicing religion and was Ok with that, he probably thought he could somehow change her mind of thought, and bring her over to his side of the fence, but anyway back to the abuse. His physical abuse to my mother was profound; he did not let her live one day without telling her what an “unholy bitch” she was. Everyday after school we would come back to a shaken mother who had blotches of blue spots on her arms and inner thighs, my father acted like he did nothing wrong, my mum followed his actions so she doesn’t disturb the functioning of our home.
When he wasn’t killing my mother slowly, he was lashing out his disgust on me. I was a promising footballer, playing out the weekends as a Rangers School boy, but the emotional and physical abuse I received from my father was enough to derail my footballing abilities. Jonathon would pound me to the floor on a daily basis, either by using his own bodily force or hard stone objects that he would find nearby, after the physical bashing he would then scream words to me that would make me feel shit about myself, telling me “you’re a bloody worthless scrawny kid, you think your going to make it as a footballer, you’ll be lucky to get a job as a rubbish collector, I don’t know why god wasted space by creating you, your nothing but an unholy retard who is on the thoroughfare to hell”. His words would forever leave my thoughts, at 16 it would slowly kill every bit of confidence and personality in me, but now those words only motivate me to achieve further greatness in my life.
They say home is where the heart was, but not in my home, our home was where the pain and suffering was. My father turned my siblings against me, and made them disgusted of their mother. I asked myself everyday how one human being can treat another like that, but I realized my father was not the man of god he thought he was, but rather he was an absolute monster, an antichrist so to call him.
My mother and I kept quiet of our disastrous situation, in fear of creating a bigger monster of im. And besides back in my youth the Scotland Yard were not too concerned with domestic violence cases, they to were biased pricks and if you got the wrong police officer further implications would occur. But as I turned eighteen I felt a sense of guilt as I was sculling Whiskey down my throat, with my closest lads at the pub, I just knew my mother would be at home suffering at the hand of a catholic monster. So as I downed my last pint of whiskey, I confessed to the lads and they were horrified, one of the boys Chris whose father was a police officer, had directed me to his father and I confessed everything showing him the bruises and scars on my body, but in order to prove my statement he had to see for himself. So I took him to my place, were my father was pounding down on my mother, the police took charge of the situation and arrested my father.
A couple of months down the track, they sentenced my father to 35 years imprisonment in one of Scotland’s highest and hardest security prison. Catherine and I could finally rejoice in the freedom we’ve been longing for. I got my footballing career back on track, when my former club found out about my situation, two years after I started to play with the big boys, I got a high paying senior contract at Rangers Football club and made my debut in the Champions League against Manchester United. The money I earnt on a weekly basis was enough to get my mother out of her ‘prison cell’ and into a new apartment in the centre of Glasgow, I got myself a new pad, with my girlfriend Stacey, life was on the up for me. My mother was finally happy, she had got herself a new job, was attending regular counseling sessions and was reconnected with the activities she loved doing, my six other sibling reconciled with my mother and I , and were devastated when they found out the true details of our abusive suffering.
That same year, four years after my fathers imprisonment we were all having Christmas dinner, at my mother’s apartment, were a phone call came through telling us my father had been killed in prison by his cell inmate. It came as a shock, but I wasn’t upset because I had suffered too much pain at the hands of this antichrist, no one shed a tear for his passing, it was all just a relief for us.
My mother and I rejoiced in freedom 10 years ago, now as I stand outside my childhood home as a 26 year old professional footballer, fathering two beautiful daughters. I see my family, in my newly renovated childhood home. Stacey’s who is now my wife, is cooking up in the kitchen, while my mother is reading a story to my daughter’s Elizabeth and McCarthy, this image is a very opposing image to the one I got 10 years ago. I didn’t belong to old childhood home, but a little renovation and love can make someone finally believe that home was were the heart is.
awww... its bullshit, those strories start from -10 and work their way up. 
