Getting a little stabby in there

The first time someone ever tried to stab me, I was fifteen years old.

That person was my mother.

I doubt she even remembers it. She was drunk, as she was almost all the time she was home. Luckily I was awake when she decided sticking a knife in my ribs was the thing to do. If I’d been asleep, well, not sure I’d be here now.

I don’t need sympathy for it. It wasn’t even traumatic to me at the time. I am just not constitutionally set up to experience trauma of that sort.

And no, that’s not some armor against experiencing negative emotions. I have just always been that way, ever since I can remember.

The night of the attempted stabbing my mother as mentioned was drunk and thus slow, so it was fairly trivial to disarm her. However I pushed her a little too hard as I was taking the knife away and she fell back into the coffee table and hit her head.

Blood fucking everywhere. People bleed more when they are drunk.

She got up and threatened to call the police, picking up the phone and starting to dial. I wasn’t about to go to jail for her or for anyone, so I jerked the phone off the wall and broke it into a million pieces on the floor.

As drunk as she was, I knew she wouldn’t be able to walk far to make any other call. This was before the era of cell phones.

After that, she tried to attack me again, so I held her immobile until she yielded.

That night, I slept in the car with the doors locked, covered in blood and with my sister screaming at me for what seemed like hours for “hurting mama.”

So that’s what life in North Florida is like. Bet it hasn’t changed much for many people who still live there.