Today
I am scared.
I
want you to know this because all of these things have culminated
over the last ten years
into what I deal with today and who I have become. It’s
always been a goal to write my life story. If I don’t figure out
how to deal with all of this,
I may not have that chance. I know everyone has a story. I feel like
mine is
important
to share. For many reasons, but mainly to help myself.
When
I turned 16, like every normal teenager, I got my driver’s license,
eager to have the freedom
and independence to begin to head out into the adult world and lead a
life of my own.
A life of my own choices filled with responsibilities and
independence and fun and adventure
and love and purpose... A life leaving behind the anguish I went
through growing
up, the one where I caught my mother naked in bed with another man in
my parent’s
bed when I was 5, the one where she eventually chose that man over my
father and
sister and I and left the three of us for good when I was 7. I would
always wonder why
my mom didn’t want to be with us, why we were so unimportant as to
promise to come
and visit and then never show up- leaving our noses pressed to the
window in disappointment
as every passing car proved not to be hers. Given she isn’t the
best mother,
she brought me into this world and for that, I love her.
My
new life was also leaving behind the eventual step-mother whose
absurd rules left me resentful
toward both she and my father- I was 10 when they married and she was
only 11
years older than me. Just some of those rules included things such as
kitchen closing at
8pm, bedtime at 9pm, eating everything on the dinner plate whether we
liked what she cooked
or not and sitting there at the table for hours until everything had
been eaten, washing
our own dishes, packing our own lunches, being locked in our rooms
when we were
a bother and when we broke the rules, the punishments over the years
ranged from slaps
across the face, hairbrushes and wooden spoons whacked across our
behinds, sometimes
so hard the object would snap, to even being dragged up the stairs by
my hair one
time to be locked in my room. Although she may not have been my
mother, and nasty
at times, she was more of a mom to me than the one who gave birth to
me, and I do love
her.
At
13 I moved in with my grandparents because I couldn’t take it
anymore, my sister came
with me. My grandmother (my Mams) had always taken care of me. On top
of all of
the above, I had been a sickly child. I had major surgery when I was
4 where they reconstructed
the left side of my kidney to correct the defected tubes (I had an
extra) connecting
to the bladder. Mams had always taken good care of me when I was
sick. I remember
how sad I was one year when I was lying on her couch feverish and
ill, watching
Trick-or-Treaters coming to the door for candy. I miss her.
My
little sister has always been my “rock.” Being 4 years behind me,
she didn’t always necessarily
know what was going on, but in my moments of sadness and tears, she
would always
give me a hug and tell me everything would be ok. She always made me
feel better.
I can’t imagine being here today without having had her in my life.
I love her.
At 15 I moved back home. My sister came with me. The fights continued with my stepmother; even driving me to go so far as to lie myself across the railroad tracks behind my house one night. I’m not so sure I would have stayed there anyway, but the neighbor came over and made me get up. The fact that I even went that far should define the anguish I was feeling.
