Growing up I broke my leg at 18 months.  My mother told me I was reaching for a book on top of a piece of furniture.  I fell.  My leg went under the dresser, twisted, and the book came down and broke my leg.  Apparently it was a very big book.  Years later my mother let it slip the police questioned my father because the break was too clean. I was too young to remember.  It was the only time in my life I broke a limb but all I recall is a photo of my father holding me and a cast that went from my chest down to my ankle. 

As I grew older I wanted less and less to do with my parents.  They made me feel trapped.  And my father scared me.  I felt as though books and school were the only places I could get away and find me.  My parents seemed to drain my energy.  More then that again, my father scared me.

There were also these mixed messages.  I was supposed to be a lawyer, make money, yet somehow never leave from underneath there roof.  The constant reminders from my father that everything in my room he could take away.  Even when I started working in middle school baby sitting local kids and in high school I worked for Spencer Gifts, I really didn’t earn my own money.  He gave me a car and helped pay for it, and could take it away if I did not obey him. 
My getting good grades in school, never getting into trouble, never dating or having friends over to cause problems didn’t change my father’s attitude.  Somehow I was supposed to go make money but never leave home.

Luckily I had a female friend Dini who pushed me to take chances.  We both applied to a summer camp in Connecticut as assistant counselors and got accepted.  My father almost did not let me stay.  I spent a summer working with autistic kids.  It was difficult but rewarding.  I came to realize how strong I am.  A kid broke my glasses and scratched my eye, yet I did not hit back.  One kid bit me, and again I remained calm.  Maybe years of dealing with my father’s outbursts of violence made me numb to it, or it was just I rationalized the actions of the children as the actions of an animal uneducated in the ways of civilized men.  An autistic child can’t comprehend the effect of their actions.  I would later find in law school that knowing the effects of one’s actions is one definition for insanity as a defense,  well close to it.  By the end of the summer I liked the kids, despite the scratches, bite, broken glasses.  They were lives living on a different level or perception of existence.  
Sometimes I feel like that is how I am now. Living on a different point of view with few comprehending who I am, why I’m in pain, and how their actions are hurting me.  Actually sometimes I think they know the pain I’m in, but either don’t care or think I deserve suffering to make up for the bad deal they were given.  All I can do is continue to be me.  I’m better off when not at my parents home. 

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