Jonathan Ante:  

I was raised in a large English tutor in the rolling hills of Kentucky. My family lived a short distance south of Cincinnati with woods, fields, trees, ponds, streams; a playground any kid could ever dream of living in and yet... My parent's world seemed not as happy as mine was. I am not sure exactly how things started to change. But I vaguely remember growing up with a father who drank a little too much at family gatherings and dozing off while driving us kids home at nights. I sat in the front seat to keep a close eye on him out of fear in case he may have needed my help. Over the years; mom developed a nasty temperament. I vividly remember her pulling us kids around by the hair; twisting our arms. We received daily lickings with dad's leather belt. We probably deserved it but if we truly were innocent; then she'd tell us that it was for something that we got away with. We never knew when it was coming. When dad came home from a long day at work; mom would scream at him to do something about us kids and he would hit us too. Dad gave us "love-taps" as he called them. Our bodies were covered with welts and cuts. If that weren't enough then I received black eyes and the had my hands pushed into scalding hot water if I was caught stealing food. Every time I got beat; I learned to disassociate from it; to numb the pain. I didn't feel the pain as much if I pretended mentally to be an "outsider" peering in. No one ever knew what happened behind those closed windows at home. It was a secret held in shame... a seed instilled in me to hate myself... I hated myself at seven and I still carry that shame with me today. People around us noticed; some called the police, but when I was younger we didn't have the child abuse laws that we have today. Most people would look the other way. As each year went by, I got harder and meaner inside. With all the beatings I received; I never once was hugged or told that I meant anything from my parents. Nothing hurt worse than all the screaming insults hurled at you. I think the things they told us hurt worse than the sting of the lashes. Mom would scream; "I wish you were never born. She would tell me how rotten and worthless I was. It seemed that nothing ever made them satisfied. I gave up trying to please them; I avoided them as the result of fear of future reprisals. Mom would get out this black handkerchief and tell me that my soul was as black as that rag before God. She would tell us how angry God was at us for disobeying them. I lived my whole childhood believing that no one could be trusted. Not even God. t was also at this time when I started injuring myself. I would bang my head on the wall or push bobby pins into my skin; it was also at seven when I first ran from home. Never could get very far... there just was no place to go. No escape; no where to hide. Some teachers tried to help. We never talked much. If our grades slipped, we were beaten. If we did well, then we were treated to a Big Mac hamburger. I hated report cards. I was scared to show them to my parents. I just couldn't study well at school. I had a hard time concentrating. I barely did my homework. It was the fear... the constant lack of safety, the daily room searches. I learned to hide saved lunch money for the day when I needed to live on the streets awhile. I slept in a roach infested basement with the dog for eleven years. I was very shy in school. I could not talk about any of it publicly. If someone touched me off guard at school. I flinched or jumped... my nerves were raw. I believed that God hated me and I could not be loved for anything in the world. So shy that I became easy prey for the bullies in school. I had a difficult time expressing my needs. I just can not tell you in more descriptive terms what it was like to live like this day after day; year after year. One time I was even pinned to the ground and given "golden showers" as a kid. You can't imagine how disgraceful it felt to be urinated on. I became interested in science and burning things. My parents bought me a Skill-Craft chemistry set at sixteen. I wanted to learn how to make incineraries and bombs. I was fascinated watching things burn. As the fire burned, so did the torment deep inside me... I felt one with the flames... like I was a child in a war torn city... alone in the night as the roar of flames licked all around me. My parents send me to counseling. Seemed every time I started opening up and trusting one of them; I was yanked out and sent to someone else. I learned later that these counselors were accusing them of causing the problems at home and mom and dad could not accept that. Weekly, the entire family would sit in chairs around the room and listen to mom read off a shopping list of everything that was wrong with her children. I kept my chin up; emotionless... vowing not to give my parents the satisfaction of watching me squirm. Their reprisals had no effect on me. But I hurt deep inside; I could not express it into words. Like I had an apple in my throat... I could not speak because I was in so much pain. When school was out; I had to get away for a while so I could think. Some days I would walk aimlessly down a road till blisters formed on my feet and couldn't go any further. I'd sleep under freeway bridges and behind bushes. The older I became; the further and longer I'd stay away from home. I spent most of my time writing journals, reading books, and planning my travels for the weekend. Homework was performed with minimum effort. I barely passed most of my classes, just to get by. Eventually, the beatings at home stopped. We screamed at each other instead. I was a teenager now; I vented my rage by smashing things, putting holes into walls, while vowing to make my house a living hell for my parents. They feared me... and this only isolated me further; the more isolated I became, the more desperate I felt. One day during finals week; I arrived to class late as usual. Mike Schutzman decided to go up to the front of the class to sharpen his pencil. When he came back, he deliberately ran into my desk. This caused all my stuff to fall around me on the floor. The class laughed at me and I was ashamed. The brief second of shame quickly turned into rage. I got up and turned around and beat the crap out of him. The teacher stepped out of the room to get some assistance. I felt a firm hand grab me by the wrist as I cocked my fist back. I turned around and knocked Mrs. Cox's (algebra teacher) hand off my arm and screamed a few curse words! The classroom was silent. I knew I was in trouble. Mrs. Cox stepped out of the room and brought the principal up to see me. Mr. Doan ordered me to step out from the class and go to his office. I was summoned to appear before the Board of Education in a few months for expulsion hearings. When I went home my mom took me upstairs into her bedroom and we sat together on the edge of her bed. She placed her hand on my lap and said in firm but low words; "Jonathan, you have disgraced this family and from this day forwards; you are no longer our son. We disown you." I swallowed hard; it felt like a knife to the gut. I was being banished. I appeared before the school board and was expelled to set an example for everyone to never hit a teacher. I was allowed me back the following year because this was my first offense of this kind and the school board gave me probation instead. I had to attend a year's worth of counseling at Comprehensive Care on a weekly basis as part of the terms of my probation. I was firmly warned that if I broke one more rule at school that I would be gone for good. I read my name in the neighborhood papers the next few days. My parents avoided me with cool silence. The bullies reveled with joy and were encouraged to test my resolve to stay out of trouble. In industrial arts class, for example; during the loud whining of electric table saws and other equipment; I was often beat up in the corner of a room by a number of students. I lied on the floor and endured the kicks in the ribs etc. I feared fighting back; fearful that a teacher would see me fighting and then kick me out for good. I raced home afterwards; the same group of people waited for me outside every day. Looking for a way to terrorize me. Then at home, my parents would tell me of how the teachers at school mocked my younger siblings on account of my expulsion. This made me even more distrustful of the authorities. When I turned seventeen, I started taking karate classes in a town nearby. The next couple of months; I rode a ten speed bike around the countryside. Ten miles turned into twenty; twenty into fifty; fifty into a hundred miles a day especially on the weekends. After my expulsion hearings; my parents tried to have me institutionalized at a state home in Danville. Mom would cut out newspaper articles and stick them under my pillow for me to read. The newsprint detailed how kids were being abused at these homes and that a number of them tried and a few succeeded in hanging themselves. My parents were not successful. My parents sent me to a Catholic retreat early in my senior year. I wanted to go but I really acted like I didn't want to go so that they would "force" me to go. The retreat was at Camp Marydale near Cincinnati. This place was deep in the heart of a large wooded park and had a lake behind our cabins. It was a cool November weekend with overcast skies. The whitened birch trees had shed their leaves. The ground was colored in the shades of autumn. A frosted wood bridge spanned over the crisp partially frozen waters of...Expand for more