Hello, my name is Keith Ecker and I'm sure all of these things start like this.
I am 27 years old as of October 23rd 2014 and I'm trying to raise money to leave the abusive situation I currently surrounded by. A situation that has been there and followed me most of my life. My abusive 'father'.
I plan to use the money I raise to move far away from him; cover the expenses of the move, going to see these places, I have horrid credit so I'm sure most places would want some sort of hefty amount of 'insurance' money up front (not to mention the fact I live a 14 hour Greyhound ride in either direction and can't drive).
This money will be used to start a new life for myself. One where I am free of him but before I can start my new life, you should know what I'm leaving behind.
^That was me the day of the 14th birthday. As my present, my mom let me get my lip pierced. Little did I know how my life would change forever within many different aspects. Though my past should of given me a clue.
Like most my mom and 'father' met, had me and we were the perfect family. On the surface that is. I was raised by my mother. A mother that worked two jobs and put herself through school. This might make her seem like she was a single mom and for all intensive purposes she was. You see, my 'father' was not one to hold down a job for too long and he wasn't shy about using his hands to express his anger and distane (both towards me and my mother). I was quite young so she got the most of it. She had been hospialized numorus times for him beating her and breaking her bones. The time she was in hospital left him free to do whatever with me. Leave me with welts from his hand, a belt, whatever he felt fit the punishment. Punishment for a child in grade two leaving his room to go to the washroom at 10pm when his bedtime was 7 (many times having wet the bed, which you guessed it, I would be beat for) or heaven forbid I had asked for a glass of water or milk.
We moved a lot when I was young trying to get away from him but he always found us. Cops have been called on him many times and everytime he either left the provience or got out of the charges. There was no freedom from this tyrant.
Eventually we moved to Toronto. I was older now and starting highschool but as I got older, the level of violence esclated. There was a time when I was 13, just before my birthday, that I was trying to get away from my 'father' for having spilled something and in an atempt to hide in the bathroom; he burst open the door, grabbed me by the legs and pulled (as my hand were firmly grasped around the towel rack. Needless to say, the towelrack was ripped from the wall, anchors and all). That was the last straw. with a strong support system in place that my mother had, we finally were able to get rid of him and he became someone elses problem. His new girlfriend.
The years of abuse and the divorce had finally taken it's tole on me and 3 days before my 16th birthday, I tried to kill myself. I was taken to the hopsital, stiched up and got my first diagnosis of depression. This was just the start of many other illnesses to come to the surface and the first of many hospital stays, trying to escape the memories. As most abusers do, he had made me think it was my fault and that I deserved it and for the longest time I though I did. Escaping into drugs in my later teens in Toronto's then thriving rave and drug scene, my mother saw what this was doing to me and we moved up north to start fresh.
Since we left him, we made a life for our selves and things seemed to be going good for a while. That was until my accident (on Thanksgiving morning. Octiober 13th 2008. of all days). I had Compartment Syndrome in my Right Arm (the one I use to write and draw, I used to be somewhat of an artist) caused by Prolonged Limb Compression.
^Thoes are just a couple of the works I used to do freehand until my accident.
I spent a month in the hospital, three days of that in ICU fighting for my life, as while the muscle in my arm was dying, my kidneys and other organs began to fail. Everytime the surgeon went to my mom and kept telling her they would have to remove the arm... But my mother is a fighter and she made sure they did everything in their power to save my arm. Below is the result.
^281 stiches from the center of my palm, the length of my arm and finally resting at my armpit (with minor cuts on my Bicep, Deltoid and a cut across the length of my forearm).
My accident left me without my right forarm muscle and a large scar where they had to use a skin graph to close my arm becuase it was open for so long. As well as limited mobility in what my hand and wrist can do now, opposed to before.
^Here you can see the Skin Graph they toook from my leg to close my arm.
^ Here you can see the scar where they took out my forearm muscle
^ and as you can see very clearly here where my forearm muscle is missing.
Fram my past with my 'father', my accident and some abusive relationships inbetween, I had started seeing a psychritrist. I was dignosed with seven different mental disorders that I hid for a long time, also my accident in October left me with only 85% (if not less) of the miscle in my right arm (which you can see above) and had forever changed my life. It gets harder each day for me to get around because of the injuries sustained to my right side, as it is it's not just efffecting my right arm (The most noticable thing), it has also effected my lower back and my right leg, In turn, the ability to walk, run, do most things are slowly becoming harder now.
At the start of 2014 my abusive 'father', having been kicked out by his now new ex-wife, had went searching for me and my mother and after 11 years free from him, has moved into my apartment building. I live on the second floor, him on the fourth. Just under a year has passed and he layed on the charm with me and my mother. We took it all with a grain of salt at the start, being very cautious but nievely thinking a person like him could change, we let him into our lives. We didn't how how soon we were about to regret it. His true colours came shining through as they always do.
This past Sunday, Super Bowl Sunday Febuary 2015, while we ('we' being my best friend, myself and my 'father') were all having drinks, me being quite intoxicated, my father took it upon himself to give me a beating he must of been holding onto all these years.
I warn you, though I may be a man, these may still be graphic pictures for some that have simmilar pasts.
^My eye where he punched me the very next day.
^Me trying to open my eye the very next day.
^Fully Closed one day after.
^Fully open and getting darker by the day. Taken 02/03/2015
While in his apartment he proceded to hold me down on the ground forcefully (keep in mind I'm only 5'11 and 120 pounds, even a light brease could blow me away, heh. He on the other hand is 5'8 190 pounds, some of that pure muscle), I had tried to bite his hand to break free and thats when it happened. I'm not sure what made him think it was better to have punched his physically and mentally disabled son in he face rather than just letting me leave an go home, but as you've read, this is a pattern going back to my mother and I. Abused at his hand for 14 years.
There is never a time where it is right for a 'father' to hit his wife and certinly in no way is it right for a 'father' to PUNCH his son in the face.
He moved up to my area as his marriage was failing and wanted to connect with me and my mother. Before all of this, he was out of my life and I was juat fine with that. Welll we connected alright. He made a point of conneting his fist (him being the parent) to my (his child's) face.
I would just like some help finanically to get myself as far away from this monster as posssible. Back with my friends that love me and can protect me or a new town where no one knows me. Just away from all this. From him.
Can you please give a disabled humanbeing this one gift.
I'm sure you've noticed throughout this entire post, I've put father in quotes. I've done this on purpose. A real father under any circumstances should not just right out punch their child in the face. Yes I know I'm 27 but ask any mother, their son will always be their little boy.
Well I'm glad I could be my 'father's bunching bag but not any more!
It stops now! With your kind help. I can't believe I just did all this. I've never talked about him like this till now but now it's time. Maybe one day I can get away from him. Maybe one day I'll have the money. Just be free.
He might be able to beat me but not my sprit.