Permanently Broken

"Faye... Sweetheart..." Cliff began. "If you like potatoes so much, I would like to be your Mr Potato-Head. But there is something about me that I want to you to know."

We sat down on the floor, only our knees touching. I wanted to give him space but at the same time offer him the assurance of connectedness for whatever he was going to say to me. It couldn't be as dramatic. Or could it?

He opened his mouth a few times but no words came out. His face contorted into an anguish trying.

I lit a cigarette and waited patiently. Finally he said, "I... I just do not know where to start. Would you like to know about my... childhood?"

"I would like to know everything about you, Cliff. But only when you are ready and feeling comfortable to talk about it."

"I will never be 100% ready, but I hope you are. I am telling you this because I want to be honest with you..." Cliff said, and I nodded an okay.

And so he began.

"Kinda like you, I don't remember much about my father. I think he passed away of heart failure when I was a kid. And growing up was the most painful process I had to go through. Isn't it great if a person can just turn into an adult without going through that period of adolescence' confusion, self searching, etc?

Even though there was no dominant male figure during my childhood, there was never a shortage of men coming in and out of my house. For my mother. No. She was never worthy a mother..." Cliff trailed off, his fists gripped tight until his knuckles were white.

"She was always drunk. She was nasty when drunk, even nastier when not. One day at the age of 15, I was at home and as usual, I saw a man leaving from the bedroom. It was a regular sight and nobody ever took any notice of me, and I, of them. A moment later, the drunk woman appeared at the bedroom door, saw me sitting there and blasted 'What the fuck are you looking at?' With anger, she stormed towards me and I can still remember smelling the alcohol under her breath and the effort she needed to keep her eyes focused. Suddenly, she slapped me real hard. That was the first time she hit me. I wasn't a little boy anymore then, so I stood up and held her arm before the second blow landed on my face. I was confused.

The drunk woman was crazy. One moment she was all crying and apologetic, and asked 'What have I done?' The next second, anger would flare again. She threw herself at me and she..."

When Cliff paused his narrative here, I could see that he was broken.

"Cliff, I'm sorry this upsets you... you could..." I didn't even know what to say. I placed a palm on his balled up fist, hopefully to remind him that we are breathing a present air, not the past.

"No... if you want to know someone better, he gotta tell his story. And every telling is different, as it is now....

So, yea... not only did the woman physically abused me, she abused me sexually too. I did not fully understand how does a mother show love, how does a family function, what is acceptable, what isn't. I was confused, I felt violated. I became withdrawn. If there was one thing I learnt from my mother, is that I never want to be like her. I loathed her and everything she did. I disown her.

Unable to really speak to anyone about this, I started to express myself on paper. My only tool was a black pen and any piece of paper. I draw my thoughts vividly, the abuses, guns and wounds, broken and bleeding vases, bottles, death, drunk naked woman, dark stuff... everything with just black ink.

One day, my school teacher found my stack of drawings and she was horrified. I guess my artwork may suggest that I was a potential psychopath capable of doing something like random shooting at school. She hauled my ass to the counsellor, they called him Brother Nat.

So, there I was, seated opposite Brother Nat at his office, with my drawings sprawled across his desk. I vowed that I will draw in shapes and shades in the future, something so abstract that no one in the world will look at my artwork and judge me.

I still remember Bro Nat calmly collected the drawings and place them aside without much looking at them. He asked a few questions, but I had resolved to be dumb that day. Long story short, we scheduled to meet regularly and Bro Nat gradually cracked my shell of defence. His spoke kindly and with wisdom, and with humor too. He treated me just like a regular kid in school, not some dangerous freak.

Slowly, I told him about my mother. It was then that he put things into perspective and led me to understand what I previously didn't. Every time I had a counselling session with him, he would pray for me. It was compassion, not pity, oh I would hate people showing me pity. Bro Nat showed me the light, introduced to me a greater power that is God. To a certain degree, what was damaged begun a process of internal healing. God lifted me out of the pit and brought renewal in me, which I am truly grateful for.

We all know that Rome wasn't built in a day. It took us several years, and a Bro Nat that never gave up. I wanted to be kind and wise like him when I grow up."

Cliff's voice of bass took another break.

Oh, so that was what he wanted to tell me. I caught his eyes and smiled.

"Thank you... for telling me all these," I said, and really meant it. We all love a story of redemption. How life can truly be beautiful after all the rottenness, and it doesn't only happen in story books.

"Faye... there is more."