Some self-defense arguments have been used in the court of mob mentality. The mob mentality says that things are done that a single person wouldn’t have done except for the mob mentality. Well, here is a story of growing up in a family like that. My mother had five children. She didn’t want 5 kids because I have heard her say she only wanted to have 3 children. I heard this growing up. You know, easing dropping on the adults talking. Well, I know which two children she didn’t want. Me and my middle brother. Things were not right in my house. My middle brother was abused. We all got whipped with the belt, as was common in those days. Cousins were afraid of my father because he used the belt on us so much. My middle brother used to say bad words as a child. Whose child doesn’t when you hear it at home? Momma washed his mouth out and whipped him. He went and crawled under the bed and said bad words. My mother got down on her hands and knees and balled up her fist and struck him with her fist, in the head. We would tell on him, so I was guilty too. My brother’s grandmother on daddy’s side of the family even told my daddy that momma was abusing him. That caused a big fight. She did that with the dog too. She got mad because the dog would eat the whole can in one bite. It was a german shepard. That how big dogs eat. She hates animals too. I was hated because I was smart and my Daddy loved that about me, which only made Momma mad. My mother wanted Daddy to love her and no body else. The first time I tried to kill myself was when I was 15 years old. When my father found out I had taken an overdose, he beat me with the belt before he would take me to the hospital to have my stomach pumped. The belt buckle came loose while he was hitting me, but that didn’t stop the beating. I got hit in the back of my head and should blades with the buckle. I wondered why would you even want to take me to the hospital if you were going to beat me first?
I remember when my middle brother was sixteen and he and Daddy had gotten into an argument about something. Daddy took a sledge-hammer, raised the roof of his car and began to beat the motor of the car. Of course, momma had been complaining about my brother. She always did. No wonder he grew up the way that he did, he wasn’t a very nice person. He drank and used drugs. He hated women. I wonder why?
As we grew older, it didn’t stop. I grew up and used the brain I had, and had a good government job that I kept advancing up the ladder. I continued my education and was proud of the certificates I had. My mother told me that I was just making the others feel inferior and they all thought I had my nose in the air and was better than them. I felt crushed. Nothing I ever did was good enough. Or maybe I should say the harder I worked to better myself, the more criticized I became. I was able to buy a little house in a fancy town. My mother said I was just rubbing it in everybody’s face. Huh??? My son was on the receiving end of that hate too. My mother didn’t like my son from the day he was born. She hated his father. I had a really tough time in labor and had to have a c section. My mother said that I could never do anything right. All the love and attention was given to the first born’s son, his cousin. I raised my son pretty much on my own. When his adopted father left when he was 12 years old and it crushed my son. He started skipping school and got expelled from school. My father came up and got my son and said that he was going to take him to finish out school at his house, which was in the country. Well, I called him that night and asked how momma was taking it. He said not well. So I went and got him. My mother shows up the next morning demanding that my son pack his stuff to go home with her. She was mad as all get out. I didn’t want my son near that much hate, but she took him any way. The only reason she did that was because daddy was depressed that she didn’t want my son in her house. What a fucked up family. Snipes and incidents all the way through my life, my son’s life and my brother’s life.
Now let me tell you about killer Christmas at my family’s home. 15 years ago my father died. My brother felt like the only person that ever loved him was gone. He told me six months before that he wanted to kill himself because it was just too much to bear. I got him to give me the pistol he had. I had been away from my family for a year when my father died. None of my immediate family even told me about his open heart surgery, pancreatitis or when he died. An aunt called me and told me that my father was dead. We have always had Christmas eve at momma and daddy’s house. The Christmas after my father died, I wasn’t even invited. Everybody else was there. Including my son and my brother. My son told me that they had told my brother to leave. He had been drinking. The day after Christmas, they found my brother in the woods and he had shot himself through the heart. That should sent a message to the family but it didn’t. My momma said he shot himself to get attention and accidentally killed himself. What?? They saw no responsibility in their part of his death. Fast forward, my son. He had gotten himself wrapped up in the tattoo and drug world. He was a great artist but the drugs took hold of his life. The first Christmas we had spent together in so many years was also his last. We had met down at my older brothers house for Christmas. When my son showed up, my brother wouldn’t hardly let him in the house. My mother wouldn’t even talk to him and he was trying his hardest to talk to her. She just keep waving her hand in front of his face and turned her head away so she couldn’t even see him. Six weeks later, he hung himself. I don’t think I want to go to any more Christmases.