I have not shared this story, because I believe it is dwarfed in comparison to some's misfortune. My mother, when I was an infant, stole everything from my then-successful father and left me, alone, in the house, with no furniture or belongings. My father bought a new apartment and carried on about his life, until the age of two. Then, my mother decided it would be a good idea to step back into my life. She, upon announcing then (after two years) was leaving my father for his best friend, took me with her, to his house.I lived there, I'm not sure how long. About the age of three, we moved out, going around various places. Moving from man to man, her seducing and leeching their money away. At first, she was very kind to me. A loving mother, some would say. Then, the physical abuse began. She would hit me whenever I acted "naughty" as a child would be. Eventually, it escalated into emotional breakdowns where if I so much as spoke I would be beaten.A long time passed where this trend continued. In grade two, my mother and I moved into a house. My father bought this house, because they were meant to "get back together." After a month, they got in a more-than-likely-staged "fight," where my father was kicked out of the house, and my parents once again "broke up." My mother then began seeing the man across the street. His name was Pierre. Pierre was my favorite step dad, and I honestly wish I knew what happened to him. I love him more than my father, and I will explain why further on.So. They saw eachother for months, and the abuse stopped for a while. We moved to a new home, a much larger home, as Pierre was wealthy, being that he had a great job owning a shipping company, and inherited money because his father was one of the founding members of Air Canada.Furthermore, in this new home, I was enrolled in a private school. My life finally started to look on the up side. Pierre was my refuge; a solution to my tidal wave that was life. Until one day, they got in yet another "fight." Seemingly, after my mother had exhausted all of Pierre's money. Now, Pierre was a smoker, but he had only a mild smoker's cough.So, my mother decided we best move from our current residence (Toronto) to the outskirts of Montreal, for "pierre's health." I will not forget it. Coming down the stairs that morning to have a broken wine glass on the floor, the sticky wine spilled inbetween the cracks of the newly renovated hallway, to Pierre and my mother telling me to pack up my things because we were moving. This is another countless time I've heard the words; "You'll make new friends."So upon arriving in a little town called Stanbridge east, we bought a bar which the locals enjoyed. We lived upstairs, renovated everything. Things were okay, except I was made fun of a lot because I was the only non-French speaking person in the town. All went well, until a couple months of living there. The dog's poo was never cleaned up in my room. Pierre and my mother seemed to be missing at all hours of the day, busy from working. The house, above the bar, slowly degraded into a hive of scum. Brown etched the walls and encrusted the floors, and I don't know what it was. Finally, the night happened where things went horribly, horribly wrong. My mother and Pierre had a fight. She tried to punch Pierre in the face, but Pierre pushed her into the brand-new stove, cracking it. I saw my mother's body turn the stove into shattered pieces of glass, which, I may add, I have no problem with. So, my mother left. Pierre, thereafter, showed me two baggies of white powder. He didn't tell me what it was, but he told me it was drugs, and that my mother was "Sick." and "needed help."So, he flushed said bags down the toilet and called the police and an ambulance. The police picked up my mother, as she was driving down a very open road to the heart of Stanbridge East. The ambulance took her to the hospital for bloodwork. I'm not sure of the results, but I can take a guess. After this fiasco, we decided to move to Montreal for yet ANOTHER new start. Time went on, and alas, they had another fight. This time, Pierre was leaving, for good. My sanctuary was gone. I clung to his leg for dear life, begging him not to leave. He had to go, however. So, then resumed the abuse. It was always my fault these men left, my mother said, even though it was her intention. In about grade 5 we moved back to our original town, Mississauga. Except, this time, we moved into a rental semi-detached, instead of our nice house. There was no man this time. Only my mother and I. The cupboards were scarce and so was the furniture. We had very little, and there were many nights where I was certainly malnourished. One day, I found a little white baggie in the top cupboard while scrounging for food. I confronted my mother about it, sure that it was drugs again. But, she said that it was "eye medicine." I asked her how she used it. Her response was that you "wet it and dab it into your eye." I knew all along that it was drugs, but I had no idea what to do about it, so I simply agreed. Alas, once more, the money ran out, and we had to move. We moved in with my mother's mother, my Nona. She was an old woman but she's certainly sturdy. She's in her 90's now. So, my mother tormented her the entire time because my Nona would not give my mother any money. She was forced to scrounge what she could as it was, because she was retired. One day, my dad came down to visit, because he found out that we were living there. He had a brand new Razr phone or something like that. I was playing games on it, and I went to show my mother.She said "give it to me!" and so I did, obeying my mother as not to face her wrath, while my dad was outside talking to some neighbors. She had the intention to sell it. My dad, obviously not wanting this, asked my mother to give it back. He grabbed her arm, and she called the police. She instructed me to tell the police that he hit her, and I did. My father went to jail, the amount is unknown to me.I could have told the police he didn't, but I didn't. I told them he hit her. I don't know why. If I could go back and change that, I would. I would change a lot of things. But it is done, and I shall move on to the rest; from there, we moved to London Ontario with a man named Brian. I did not know this Brian. He was a scumbag looking motherfucker, pardon my language. Brian had no front teeth, a beard down to his neck, hair down to his upper back, and was just overall gritty. It turns out, Brian was also one of the nicest men I'd ever meet, and I loved him to bits and pieces as well. I'm not sure what happened to Brian. So, we lived for about half a school year, in grade seven, at this one rented house in london.Things were fine. My mom had a job at a car dealership, Brian... did something. However, my mother lost her job, most likely due to drugs and schedule. Brian was now the person we depended on. After sucking away all of his money, suddenly, they "had a fight." Brian left, and so did we. We moved houses, to an apartment in which I believe is the ghetto. If you looked to the right, there was a meth clinic. If you looked to the left, there were hood shops and closed down stores for miles. (Boarded up windows and all!) The abuse continued some of the worst here. Beatings for an hour or more at a time. Car keys thrown at me. I had to stay up in my room (which required a ladder at the time) in order to avoid being beaten, for no reason it seems. Slowly, things began to go missing in this apartment of ours. First, the phone. Then, the computer. Next, the television. All this time, my mother spent more and more time in the washroom. I'm not sure what she was doing in there, but I now assume it was drugs. When everything was gone, we moved back in with Brian.My room consisted of a television, a blow up mattress, my playstation 2 from Christmas in grade 3, and a pillow. The living room had a television and a blowup mattress. And that's it. That was Brian's apartment. Finally, I could not take it. After Brian and my mother had yet another "fight," and I helped kick my mom out of the house with Brian's assistance, I called my father for the first time in years. Brian and I snuck out of his own apartment, in fear that my mother may have her drug dealers coming for Brian, as she said she would. We snuck through fields and such, waiting for my dad to arrive.
Now, London Ontario is rather cold in the winter, and it was winter time. We waited for about two hours, in the snow, huddled up and talking. This was the most time I have ever bonded with Brian, and I wish that I still knew him today because of it. I left with my dad, back to Mississauga. I lived with my dad (who now lived with my grandparents) for the second half of grade seven, and then moved in with my aunt because I couldn't take it any longer. My dad had gone from a net worth of about $1,000,000, a sophisticated man with manners, a family man, a loving friend and neighbor, to basically a street urchin who cared only for himself. And I have a slight feeling it was me, putting him in jail, that did that to him. I don't forgive myself to this day, but I scrutinize him for the way he treated me after I returned. I carried out living with my aunt until the end of grade ten. Then, I moved in with... guess who. My mother. At this point, she met a man named Aldo. They had quit drinking together, had a makeshift wedding, and she quit drugs. She moved away, but left me this current house until I move away to university in about six months. I'm not sure why I shared that, but it was nice to get it off my chest. There's a ton of tiny details which would better describe my parents and why I hate both of them to my core, but yes. Again, my mother is still the same. She is not abusive any more, but she has a short temper, she's deceptive, manipulative, greedy, and if she ever layed hands on me again, I'd most likely end her life. Thank you for your ears.
Hey dude. Would it be possible to create a hydroponic garden where theoretically you could recycle nutrients by growing the plants and using them to feed other plants?
Beaudism38 karma
I have not shared this story, because I believe it is dwarfed in comparison to some's misfortune. My mother, when I was an infant, stole everything from my then-successful father and left me, alone, in the house, with no furniture or belongings. My father bought a new apartment and carried on about his life, until the age of two. Then, my mother decided it would be a good idea to step back into my life. She, upon announcing then (after two years) was leaving my father for his best friend, took me with her, to his house.I lived there, I'm not sure how long. About the age of three, we moved out, going around various places. Moving from man to man, her seducing and leeching their money away. At first, she was very kind to me. A loving mother, some would say. Then, the physical abuse began. She would hit me whenever I acted "naughty" as a child would be. Eventually, it escalated into emotional breakdowns where if I so much as spoke I would be beaten.A long time passed where this trend continued. In grade two, my mother and I moved into a house. My father bought this house, because they were meant to "get back together." After a month, they got in a more-than-likely-staged "fight," where my father was kicked out of the house, and my parents once again "broke up." My mother then began seeing the man across the street. His name was Pierre. Pierre was my favorite step dad, and I honestly wish I knew what happened to him. I love him more than my father, and I will explain why further on.So. They saw eachother for months, and the abuse stopped for a while. We moved to a new home, a much larger home, as Pierre was wealthy, being that he had a great job owning a shipping company, and inherited money because his father was one of the founding members of Air Canada.Furthermore, in this new home, I was enrolled in a private school. My life finally started to look on the up side. Pierre was my refuge; a solution to my tidal wave that was life. Until one day, they got in yet another "fight." Seemingly, after my mother had exhausted all of Pierre's money. Now, Pierre was a smoker, but he had only a mild smoker's cough.So, my mother decided we best move from our current residence (Toronto) to the outskirts of Montreal, for "pierre's health." I will not forget it. Coming down the stairs that morning to have a broken wine glass on the floor, the sticky wine spilled inbetween the cracks of the newly renovated hallway, to Pierre and my mother telling me to pack up my things because we were moving. This is another countless time I've heard the words; "You'll make new friends."So upon arriving in a little town called Stanbridge east, we bought a bar which the locals enjoyed. We lived upstairs, renovated everything. Things were okay, except I was made fun of a lot because I was the only non-French speaking person in the town. All went well, until a couple months of living there. The dog's poo was never cleaned up in my room. Pierre and my mother seemed to be missing at all hours of the day, busy from working. The house, above the bar, slowly degraded into a hive of scum. Brown etched the walls and encrusted the floors, and I don't know what it was. Finally, the night happened where things went horribly, horribly wrong. My mother and Pierre had a fight. She tried to punch Pierre in the face, but Pierre pushed her into the brand-new stove, cracking it. I saw my mother's body turn the stove into shattered pieces of glass, which, I may add, I have no problem with. So, my mother left. Pierre, thereafter, showed me two baggies of white powder. He didn't tell me what it was, but he told me it was drugs, and that my mother was "Sick." and "needed help."So, he flushed said bags down the toilet and called the police and an ambulance. The police picked up my mother, as she was driving down a very open road to the heart of Stanbridge East. The ambulance took her to the hospital for bloodwork. I'm not sure of the results, but I can take a guess. After this fiasco, we decided to move to Montreal for yet ANOTHER new start. Time went on, and alas, they had another fight. This time, Pierre was leaving, for good. My sanctuary was gone. I clung to his leg for dear life, begging him not to leave. He had to go, however. So, then resumed the abuse. It was always my fault these men left, my mother said, even though it was her intention. In about grade 5 we moved back to our original town, Mississauga. Except, this time, we moved into a rental semi-detached, instead of our nice house. There was no man this time. Only my mother and I. The cupboards were scarce and so was the furniture. We had very little, and there were many nights where I was certainly malnourished. One day, I found a little white baggie in the top cupboard while scrounging for food. I confronted my mother about it, sure that it was drugs again. But, she said that it was "eye medicine." I asked her how she used it. Her response was that you "wet it and dab it into your eye." I knew all along that it was drugs, but I had no idea what to do about it, so I simply agreed. Alas, once more, the money ran out, and we had to move. We moved in with my mother's mother, my Nona. She was an old woman but she's certainly sturdy. She's in her 90's now. So, my mother tormented her the entire time because my Nona would not give my mother any money. She was forced to scrounge what she could as it was, because she was retired. One day, my dad came down to visit, because he found out that we were living there. He had a brand new Razr phone or something like that. I was playing games on it, and I went to show my mother.She said "give it to me!" and so I did, obeying my mother as not to face her wrath, while my dad was outside talking to some neighbors. She had the intention to sell it. My dad, obviously not wanting this, asked my mother to give it back. He grabbed her arm, and she called the police. She instructed me to tell the police that he hit her, and I did. My father went to jail, the amount is unknown to me.I could have told the police he didn't, but I didn't. I told them he hit her. I don't know why. If I could go back and change that, I would. I would change a lot of things. But it is done, and I shall move on to the rest; from there, we moved to London Ontario with a man named Brian. I did not know this Brian. He was a scumbag looking motherfucker, pardon my language. Brian had no front teeth, a beard down to his neck, hair down to his upper back, and was just overall gritty. It turns out, Brian was also one of the nicest men I'd ever meet, and I loved him to bits and pieces as well. I'm not sure what happened to Brian. So, we lived for about half a school year, in grade seven, at this one rented house in london.Things were fine. My mom had a job at a car dealership, Brian... did something. However, my mother lost her job, most likely due to drugs and schedule. Brian was now the person we depended on. After sucking away all of his money, suddenly, they "had a fight." Brian left, and so did we. We moved houses, to an apartment in which I believe is the ghetto. If you looked to the right, there was a meth clinic. If you looked to the left, there were hood shops and closed down stores for miles. (Boarded up windows and all!) The abuse continued some of the worst here. Beatings for an hour or more at a time. Car keys thrown at me. I had to stay up in my room (which required a ladder at the time) in order to avoid being beaten, for no reason it seems. Slowly, things began to go missing in this apartment of ours. First, the phone. Then, the computer. Next, the television. All this time, my mother spent more and more time in the washroom. I'm not sure what she was doing in there, but I now assume it was drugs. When everything was gone, we moved back in with Brian.My room consisted of a television, a blow up mattress, my playstation 2 from Christmas in grade 3, and a pillow. The living room had a television and a blowup mattress. And that's it. That was Brian's apartment. Finally, I could not take it. After Brian and my mother had yet another "fight," and I helped kick my mom out of the house with Brian's assistance, I called my father for the first time in years. Brian and I snuck out of his own apartment, in fear that my mother may have her drug dealers coming for Brian, as she said she would. We snuck through fields and such, waiting for my dad to arrive. Now, London Ontario is rather cold in the winter, and it was winter time. We waited for about two hours, in the snow, huddled up and talking. This was the most time I have ever bonded with Brian, and I wish that I still knew him today because of it. I left with my dad, back to Mississauga. I lived with my dad (who now lived with my grandparents) for the second half of grade seven, and then moved in with my aunt because I couldn't take it any longer. My dad had gone from a net worth of about $1,000,000, a sophisticated man with manners, a family man, a loving friend and neighbor, to basically a street urchin who cared only for himself. And I have a slight feeling it was me, putting him in jail, that did that to him. I don't forgive myself to this day, but I scrutinize him for the way he treated me after I returned. I carried out living with my aunt until the end of grade ten. Then, I moved in with... guess who. My mother. At this point, she met a man named Aldo. They had quit drinking together, had a makeshift wedding, and she quit drugs. She moved away, but left me this current house until I move away to university in about six months. I'm not sure why I shared that, but it was nice to get it off my chest. There's a ton of tiny details which would better describe my parents and why I hate both of them to my core, but yes. Again, my mother is still the same. She is not abusive any more, but she has a short temper, she's deceptive, manipulative, greedy, and if she ever layed hands on me again, I'd most likely end her life. Thank you for your ears.
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