How I became time-light
Like so many millions of others, I didn’t have the best of starts in life. I suppose I was more fortunate than most because my abuse was never physical, it was always mental or emotional. My tormentor was my father, who resented me being around.
My mother told me one incident when I was two years old. My father screamed at me for being stupid because I had picked up a piece of litter (trash) and didn’t know to put it in what he called the “waste disposal receptacle” instead of just pointing at the trash can.
Also, he refused to acknowledge me by name until I was around eight years old. Until then, he would only whistle for me as if I were the pet dog. His interest in me was underwhelming; he never attended any school function, and when my English teacher wrote to my father that I should be tutored for
I write this not to garner sympathy – I feel none for my eight-year-old self because I have not known any different – but to raise two important questions: why do some of us behave the way we do, as my father did with me, and what are the longterm effects for the victim?