I posted this extraordinary but ordinary tale two years ago. My friend Chris progresses, but still fights the demon of alchohol and still faces victimisation by certain vicious individuals in uniform, not, I may add, by the Prison Service of Scotland who are consistently rated the best service by those we support – who suffer addiction and homelessness.
Please help people who were not helped when they were little children and have been left with addictions. Pray for them if you pray and or fight for their rights as people if you are a fighter or just spare a few words and pounds if you do not usually do so. You may find they help you make life a lot more full of meaning!
I present to you “Black December” – A Christmas story.
“First Christmas. Do you remember yours? I don’t remember the first one but the first one I remember wasn’t fun.
I was five years old. Five. I ran down the stairs – all excited, like I should have been. Mum was a single parent at the time. She struggled on to make everything nice.
I don’t remember much of the presents.
But I do remember my green hat with a black rim and a matching scarf.
I liked it.
Then a knock at the door; it was Grandad. He came in and gave me a hug along with a present.
It was a chocolate Christmas tree with white chocolate going diagonally downwards to have the tinsel effect. It was in a plastic container. It was my first bit of chocolate.
I ran through the kitchen and grabbed a knife and burst the plastic and started eating it. Mum came through and asked me nicely to go back to the living room.
Grandad had to go to my Aunty Sandra’s and then he left…
Then it started.
My mum slapped me as hard as she could and screamed – “You little bastard, you never said thank you!” She grabbed me by the throat with her nails. I started to bleed. The beating continued. I was begging the woman to stop.
She told me if I didn’t stop crying she would keep going, but the pain was too much. Talk about a “catch 22”.
My nose was bleeding and I had a big piece of skin torn off my neck.
After the woman saying things like “I wish I never opened my fuckin’ legs” and “You should have been flushed down the pan” – The beating stopped.
I cried for a while in my room.
Then she shouted me to get ready to go to Aunty Sandra’s.
I had to say to everyone that the green scarf was my favourite present to cover the big scratch on my neck. So I sat at the dinner table eating my Christmas dinner with a scarf on.
I hate Christmas.
It reminds me of the colour black.
I’ll never forget that green scarf.
Black December.
A green hat with a black rim and matching scarf…
johndwmacdonald 
Brenda
December 18, 2013
Oh man. That is a really sad story.
johndwm
December 18, 2013
Sad and true – one of many – one who knows how to write it – the many do not – they are blamed for the state they end up in. Thank you for your comment. Blessings! John
Brenda
December 18, 2013
I agree that a bad history does help us understand, but each of us does have to make choices. Making good choices is an important part of growing up. I hope he learns to make better choices about his life, there are so many good directions to take down the road. He does sound like he wants to do that. That is something to celebrate even when things are sad. Blessings, Brenda
Jackie Saulmon Ramirez
December 18, 2013
My father was a Boy Scout Master in NC and he had taken a trip to Philmont, New Mexico when I was about 13 or 14. He left me that summer and it was the worst in my life. My mother beat me and worked me that summer till I just wanted to die. She called a friend on the sheriff’s department and had that man tell me how bad it was in “reform school.” I was so humiliated that I wanted to vanish. When Dad called that week he asked to speak to me. I told him I wanted to go to reform school, that it sounded like I’d like it there. He asked me to give the phone to Mom so I did. He asked her WHY I wanted to go to reform school. She said, “Oh – you know how she makes things up, don’t pay any attention to her.” I quit trying to get help. I took a knife and tried to cut my wrist but it was dull and would not cut. I thought to myself, that I couldn’t do anything right.
Child abuse is a terrible thing – and it gets passed down. 😦
johndwm
December 18, 2013
Well Jackie… You have obviously fought your way to a much better place through bravery and perseverance. I know the trauma is always there inside and applaud you on your continuing journey. Those who have not experienced these things tend not to understand them and to judge the results. The psychiatric system also stigmatises people. But the live awareness within can be the motor for passionate empathy. Salute!