THE FINAL CONFLICT
I started fighting against my mother’s psychological and physical abuse slowly but surely over the years. This was especially true when I became a teenager. At the age of 15 1/2 I began to physically fight back after she pushed me into a corner and slapped me over and over again in the face with a belt. All the years of unrelenting abuse flashed in my mind with each hit in the face with that belt. I flashed to the day she told me my real father was dead when I six years old. I flashed to the morning the former step-father tried to murder me. I flashed to my former step-father raising me above his head to kill me that morning. I flashed to when I lay in my bed listening to the police sirens coming closer and closer. I flashed on the day I was forced to strip naked in front of the police so they could take pictures of my strangled and abused body. I flashed to the day my mother picked me up from school with the former step-father who had tried to murder me just a month earlier. I flashed to her making me tell the social worker they only hit me when I need it. I could feel the anger of my deceased father slowly entering and moving up and into my body. At that moment I tapped into a power I did not even know existed inside of me.
My eyes popped wide open. I put my arm up in the air so the belt would wrap like a snake around my arm and I yanked the belt out of her hands. I watched my mom’s eyes open wide with shock and fear when she realized I had the power to turn the tables on her. She reached her arm up to slap me in the face but I very quickly snapped my arm forward and grabbed her wrist. I held her arm slightly above her head inches between the two of us. The more she tried to pull her arm away the more I strengthened my grip. I made it clear — she was not going to move without my permission. I had absolute control of my environment.
My mother: “Let go of my arm!”
John Wright: “What is the matter? You look a little worried. You didn’t think I was letting you hit me because you were stronger than me — did you? I let you hit me because I loved you but that is not going to be a problem anymore. Don’t you remember what the social worker said? She said you’ll go to jail in the day you ever ‘hit this child again’. There are even very few animals who eat their own. Now — let’s be clear here — I know you care about yourself more than anyone else in the world. It is ultimately the reason I suggest you do not ever hit me ever again or you will live to regret it. ”
My mother: “Satan created you!”
John Wright: “No. You created me. You made me everything I am.”
The fact that people used to stop my mother on the street when I was younger and ask her if anyone ever told her I looked like Damian from the movie “The Omen” did not help matters. This is even though I must admit there was a striking resemblance.
…….Me……………..Me……………..Omen………………Me…………. … .Omen
I ran away from home at the age of 15 1/2. I returned one time just before I turned 16 years old a few months later because my mother begged me to come back home. I left home several months later again at the age of sixteen because nothing had really changed. The second time I left home my mother collapsed on the front lawn in front our house shaking and crying as she reached her arms out to me like she did that one morning on the stretcher after the attempt on our lives in 1979. I remember my new step-father running out of the house and going down to his knees next to her on the lawn to hold my mother who was on her knees crying and reaching for me. At one point I remember seeing both of them on their knees looking up towards me crying.
New step-father: “Let him go! Let him be happy! Let him be free!”
I stood there for one more second crying and then turned around and walked away down the street listening to my mother screaming and crying and pleading for me not to leave. I continued to walk away until I couldn’t hear her anymore. Then I continued walking to the elementary school down the street where I collapsed in the middle of the schoolyard lawn staring up into the stars. I remember I immediately began to laugh and cry at the same time as I looked up into the stars talking to God.
“I’m free! Oh my God I’m finally free! It’s finally over! Oh my God I’m finally free!”
I never returned to live with my mother and step-father and rarely visited them in the years to come.
In 2002 my mother finally called me and apologized for the things that happened to me during my childhood. It was the second time in my life she ever brought up the topic of my father killing himself and how the former-step-father tried to murder us on that one awful morning in 1979. It was one of the rare times my mother ever called me. I was thirty two years old.
“Hi son. I have called to apologize for the childhood you had growing up. I want you to know I am so proud of the man you have become despite the terrible childhood you had. You know — it did not seem that bad at the time — but I have thought about it and realize it was bad. No — let me take that back — I have thought about it and realize it was really bad. I am so sorry. You were such a good little boy. You did not deserve what happened to you. However — my beautiful boy — I hope you agree we must as mother and son learn to accept both the good times and bad times we spent together. That’s because what made those good and bad times special was how those were times you and I spent together as mother and son. It is a bond only you and I have because only you and I were there when it happened. He threatened to kill me and you if I ever left him. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry. I did the best I could with what I had at the time. I hope you understand. I also hope one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me. This is even though I will never forgive myself.”
I don’t know. Maybe the Stanford doctor was wrong. Maybe my mother was not a narcissist after all. Maybe she was just my mother and not yours.
My name is John Wright. I am fighting some of the largest financial institutions in the world. I survived my father’s suicide when I was six years old. I survived a former step-father beating me relentlessly and then trying to murder me at the age of nine. I survived the psychological and physical abuse from my mother. I survived strangers trying to kidnap me at a baseball little league field. They were eventually caught with little boys buried in their backyard. I survived one of the worst economic disasters since the Great Depression.
Yes — indeed — I have survived many things in my life.