Personal Childhood And Past Trauma Stories:
Ladies, Gentlemen, And They/Them's, I Present To You: My Step Dad
It’s 1997
My mom had been married to my stepdad since ‘94. He’s a big man. A strict man. A good ol’ boy who wants supper hot and ready when he walks through the door. He doesn’t like back talk. He wants elbows off the table, eyes forward, and silence unless spoken to.
At home, I’ve got a curfew. And in a couple years, I’ll even have a dress code, Only white or light pink shirts, Only blue jeans or long shorts, Only white Nike shoes. That doesn’t start until I cut my hair short and start wearing punk rock clothes. (You know... when I get “out of hand.”)
Right now, I’m a freshman in high school. I’ve got my first long-term boyfriend. I’m on the swim team. And I’ve got a TV in my room — Not because I asked for it, but so I’d stay off my stepdad’s in the living room. (It also gives him something to take away when he needs to punish me.)
I struggle with my grades, yeah. Homework's hard to keep up with when life feels like walking on glass.
One afternoon, I come home from practice. I drop my swim team backpack on the dining room chair. Then I carry my school backpack downstairs to my room to work on my homework.
My stepdad comes home. He's already angry with me — again — for not doing my homework fast enough or well enough. He sees my swim bag on the chair and snaps.
“KAT!” I hear him bark from the kitchen. “What are you doing right now?”
I shout back honestly, “Doing my homework!”
He explodes. “Get your ass upstairs RIGHT now!”
I pause on the middle stair.
He’s red-faced, fuming. He points at the swim bag. “How the hell are you doing your homework if your backpack’s right HERE?!”
I start to explain — “That’s not my—” (but thank god it wasn’t...) Before I can finish, he picks up the bag and hurls it at my head. Then he kicks the doggie gate into me, slamming me backwards down the stairs.
I hit the floor. Hard. Wind knocked out of me.
He charges toward me.
I throw up my hands. “LOOK! PLEASE! My homework is on my bed! That’s my swim bag!”
He stops. Looks. Confirms. “Good,” he mutters, then turns around and goes upstairs like nothing happened.
My mom never moved. She stood at the top of the stairs. Watched it all unfold. She knew that was my swim bag too.
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