bipolar dad

Bipolar Dad - The Father’s Father: Moving Day

It was sometime around April when we moved into the two bedroom apartment in projects. You see that boy, I was 4 are the time a few months before everything would change.

I remember how excited I was and the thought of being out in the open and having my own room was a great joy. We arrived at the low-income families housing project development. It was established in 1952 on top of what was a swamp. The development had 250 units ranging from one to four bedrooms and was a lot bigger then the motel. It was considered the rough part of town in its day. A title many of the kids were proud of and even fought for the right to be the worst project in the area. As far as projects go, I guess, it was not too bad. The neighborhood was made up townhouse style homes. Housed four families each and all looked the same. The outside wood was rotting under the cheap paint with brown or gray plywood siding.

For my father, this was like going to hell. He was a proud man reduced to nothing and it killed him to take a hand out. His back and neck injury was taking more and more of a toll on his body and now he was in a neck brace and taking pain killers along with electrode muscle stimulator. He was more consumed with his problems so when I needed answers, he would just blurt them out, no matter the consequence to me.

On my very first day in the projects, I would learn two lessons. First, question my father’s advice! And never trust anyone again! I would have a rude awakening when it came to the local kids. Some of the bigger kids started pushing me around and making fun of me, I started to cry. The whole time my dad was watching from the door. “Get up and push him back,” he yelled over. So I did, the 8 boys that were there beat me up. One pushed me on the grass and they all kicked me. Then one rode his bike over me and the sharp peddle crank dug in to my belly. It seems like it went on forever before my father yelled over and just said, “o.k. kids, that’s enough!” Then they let me up with my nose and lip bleeding. I was not crying now I was just so mad! I felt betrayed… How could my falther just let them beat me like that?

He was still standing and leaning at the door with one arm up, never moving. I walked by and he said, “see they hit you harder then I do, don’t they!” Then he continued, “if you show them weakness, you will loose every time!”

I don’t understand it? Was that normal to let your five year old child get beat up like that by bigger kids? Was this just a callous father or was it a Bipolar Dad?

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