This Apple Fell Far From The Tree
By: Paul Marsh
Tags: Relationships, Storytelling, Parents, Abuse, Family

This Apple Fell Far From The Tree

Lukas Eggers via Unsplash

Even though I’m relatively young (I turned 26 on the 13th of July), my life has been riddled with lots of tragedy. It’s to the point where some of those closest to me wonder how I’m still mentally stable, how I haven’t jumped off the deep end or lashed out against others on an ongoing basis in a cathartic attempt to find closure and personal healing.

Sometimes I allow myself to think about that question, wondering how I haven’t become a broken shell of a person, meandering my way through life half-heartedly. Before I had much exposure to the ways of the world, I found myself living with two of the most abusive individuals on the planet. The saddest part about it? They were my parents.

To be clear, these people I’m talking about aren’t my biological parents; they’re my adoptive ones. In 2005, after finding himself incarcerated for poor decision making, my biological father was whisked away from his wife and five children, myself included. I can still remember the courthouse my siblings and I were in with our mother during his trial.

I was ecstatic because, at the age of ten, all I cared about was finding big enough spaces to run at full speed. The courthouse was grand enough to accommodate my youthful exuberance. All was well until my dad’s lawyer came out later that day, somberly addressing us all as he stated, “Your father won’t be coming home tonight…or any night soon.” That’s when my vibrant mood morphed into desolation. Eventually, we were forcefully taken away from our mother and placed into foster care.

Foster care exposed me to the wrong types of influences. In my first foster home, I was surrounded by drug dealers, gang bangers, and various delinquents, all of whom were easily ten to twenty years older than me at the time. In most of the homes, the primary motive for taking me in was pecuniary in nature; some of my foster parents had no issue articulating that to me. By the time I was reunited with my siblings, once a home big enough to lodge the five of us had been found, I’d already picked up several bad mannerisms and character traits from my time alone, all of which impacted how I acclimated to being surrounded by loved ones.

The only silver lining for me was being around immediate family again. Together, my siblings and I endured all manners of emotional, mental, verbal, and sometimes physical abuse. We felt expendable, useless, and unloved; it didn’t help that we were called these names and many others often. As the years went by, I resigned myself to being a second-class son to those raising me…until relatives in Philadelphia expressed interest in adding us to their family. That’s when things started looking up — or so I thought.

Three years after we’d been “in the system,” our cousins from Philly added us to their family of four, around September of 2008. Because of the massive age difference between us, I referred to them as my aunt and uncle. Initially, all was well. My siblings and I were in the company of family. We had structured, enjoyable lives. We went to church as a unit, spent time developing our faith, and spent ample amounts of quality time together.

Dinner was usually made together with my brothers and sisters, which included their two young children. Family movie night was instituted on Friday nights, something I always looked forward to. In short, I felt genuinely safe for the first time since entering the system. “Maybe my days of being mistreated are over” I allowed myself to believe. This couldn’t have been further from the truth.

I don’t know when it started, but I remember the first time I felt afraid of my uncle. I’d woken up a bit later than my other siblings on a Saturday. As I headed downstairs, I was greeted by him, a man I often referred to as “the Kool-Aid man” because of his kindness and general sweetness toward others. This version of him I encountered that day was different; he sported a ghastly expression when he saw me. “Why are you just coming down?” he asked. “Because I just woke up” I responded. He then proceeded to walk over, grab me by my obliques, and twisted with the strength of a fully grown man while forcefully parading me around the living room.

When the ordeal was over, I had a limited range of motion in my sides and was left with a few indelible marks. None of my siblings came to my defense because they themselves had already had experiences similar to mine, experiences which left them fearful of him as well. From that point forward, the abuse only got worse. Surprisingly, his wife, my aunt, was the main culprit. Looking back, I now realize she must have demons of her own she still struggles with, as she often used us (her non-biological kids) as her emotional scapegoats, taking whatever problems she had out on us through fervid emotional, mental, and physical abuse.

My breaking point came during last Summer, when it was revealed to me that their primary motive for adding the five of us to their family was financial, something they vehemently denied while we lived with them. After thinking about it, this revelation made sense to me. My uncle was the sole breadwinner when they took us into their family; my aunt had no interest in working, oftentimes expressing her desire to be a stay-at-home Mom. I initially decided to take the information I’d received with a grain of salt, choosing instead to confront them and ask questions rather than make any assumptions. I personally believe life is easier and more enjoyable if you can suspend the urge to jump to conclusions.

So, in typical fashion, I approached them directly, wanting to know if there was any truth to the claims. Rather than answer my question succinctly, my uncle danced around the subject until, after a profound emotional outburst, he chose to exile me from the family. A few weeks later, my four siblings shared the same fate. While we were all deeply wounded by this, our proclivity to enduring tremendous hardships kept this news from crushing our spirits. Plus, we’d all transitioned out of their home by that point, no longer dependent on them for financial support (with the exception of my youngest sister, who was forced to move in with my older brother).

Why am I sharing all of this? It’s not to look for pity. It’s definitely not to slander or defame their character. I simply believe that if more people were willing to talk about the trials and tribulations they’ve survived, they may lend strength to those who are going through, or went through, similar ordeals.

In hindsight, I now realize that, while it may sound cliché, “hurt people really do hurt people.” I watched my adoptive parents struggle to overcome their own problems while raising us. I saw how dangerous it can be to avoid dealing with one’s personal problems the way they avoided their own, and how those problems can become amplified until, one day, they force their way out, usually in detrimental fashion.

In essence, being abused by my adoptive parents showed me what kind of parent, and person, I never want to become. We all have problems, but that’s no excuse to take them out on another living, breathing, human being. In my mind, some time after I’d gotten over the emotional shock of what they did, I was able to see how, if I didn’t make the necessary personal adjustments (which really boiled down to intentionally healing), I’d end up following in their footsteps, taking my problems out on others rather than facing them myself.