The two-story house on the corner of Ezekiel stands semi-transparent against a background of tumultuous memories. We had the upper level, and my dad's sister and her husband had the second level. My parents didn't feel that there was anything wrong with me; I was just an overly sensitive child. I cried easily; too easily. I was very insecure, introverted and fearful. My brother took full advantage of my weaknesses and tormented me mercilessly, much to our dad's aggravation. Dad had a volatile temper, and a very short fuse. He had no patience for whining and crying; many times I would find him towering over me with his fist cocked, warning me to stop crying before he really gave me something to cry about. My brother would grin with sadistic glee as I cowered and hyperventilated in my attempts to stop. Dad worked for Johnson Motors, mom was a medical transcriptionist in the Pathology department at Victory Hospital. My brother and I were shuttled around to several different babysitters from week to week; whoever was available to watch us. It made it easier for me when we were with the same people on a regular basis, but that wasn't always possible. Eventually, my parents moved us from that house, which I only recently learned was built by my dad and his dad, and into a house of our own. Unfortunately, that move would see the escalation of such violence and cruelty within my family that none of us would ever be the same…

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