Twenty four years ago, tonight, I was kidnapped for the second time as a child. This time was to be the one which would change the course of my life permanently. Christmas Day of 1985 I spent the whole day at my Grandmother's house with all my mother's family. It was a somewhat interesting time. My family being the peculiar people that they are. Everyone had their say about how I was being raised and I was privy to the conversation of my mother's siblings and parents telling her what she was doing wrong. My Grandmother scolded my manners continuously throughout the day and evening because I was not "acting like a young lady". My Grandmother...ha, and her silver miniature tree on the table. Tradition, love, trust, family...these were any of her concern...money, fame, manners, status and estate...this is what she stood for and stood for proudly. As I sat there at the dinner table curiously observing relatives I had not seen before, she would slap me and explain how I was eating my food "out of order". Christmas is great.
That night I walked to the back of my Grandparents house and fell asleep in one of the guests rooms...the jungle themed room, they all had a theme. A little after 2 a.m. - and I know this because I was obsessed with time as a child. My mother was a stripper and would leave me home alone from the age of six from midnight to sunrise most days of the week. After she left, I would obsessively check that all the windows and doors were shut and locked and then I would begin my watch of the clock. I sat on the end of the bed and waited, listening to every sound outside...knowing that I only needed to dial three little number should it every come to that. Basically, I had a countdown of fear every night of my life between the ages of five and ten. Needless to say, I became obsessed with time and always looked to see how much time had passed at any given venture. So...that night a little after 2 a.m., I was woken by my Aunt Joyce who very quickly explained to me that I was going to be living with her for the next three years so that my loser mother could once again have the time she needed to and I quote, "get back on her feet". I cried, but I knew I had no choice. I was constantly being shuffled from someone's home and I knew I had no control over it.
The next morning I was taken the place where no one would see me until five years later. My name would be changed. I would be pulled out of school and my chance to graduate from high school at 15 was ripped away from me. My butt length hair was shaved off. My material possessions like my dolls and clothes were thrown away. I was given polyester 1970's hand me downs and shoved in a locked room night after night to sleep. I was only allowed to shower once every few weeks. I was only allowed to eat rotten or bug infested food. I was always being screamed at and told that the only reason I was there was because no one else wanted me. Thus began the first year. Most of the physical abuse in the first year was limited to slaps and back-hands or shoves into a wall or down to the floor and some times a kick. Of course I cried, A LOT. After the second year started, I found it impossible to shed any more tears. She did not like that and so she took the abuse up a notch. We had graduated to using objects with force...forks, knives, brooms, paddles, mirrors and then came the fists of fury. I was made to sleep on the floor in a locked room and only allowed to sleep four hours a night, only to be woken up by a swift kick to the stomach. Every waking hour was to be spent cleaning, cooking, and taking care of anything I was told to. The bruises and cuts started to become just a part of me and I began to fade into what was happening. At one point during the end of the second year, I swallowed what was left of a Tylenol bottle and prayed for an escape, only to wake up in my own vomit. I was lucky enough to have an Aunt who was also a licensed RN and had access to all kinds of medical candy. After the first suicide attempt, I accepted my fate and entered the third year of hell with laughter. When I was beaten I would begin to laugh hysterically. It was all I could do. Of course this pissed her off beyond her own ability to stand. There were times that I watched her beat me until SHE ran out of breath. The instruments of abuse became larger and heavier. She had secure large pieces of lumber of which to beat me with and she used them frequently. Then started the broken bones...broken bones by hammer, by cement...I lost count of days, time and anything real. Hallucination became my only escape from reality and often I would create my own world in the dark shed she would lock me in for days after she had completed one of her ritual beatings. I was left with only an old jug of water, was told I was evil and needed to fast...and instructed to shit and piss in the bucket in the corner.
The third, fourth and fifth year all seemed to mesh together. I lost a lot of time and had no idea how much time had passed. I would do weird shit like swallow as much of my own blood as possible as it ran down my face from my head just to see if I could die from it. I would try to make her kill me. I wanted her to. I prayed for an end. One day, something snapped in me and I began to fight back. I started to think about killing her. No matter how much I hated her, I could not bring myself to do it. So I did the next best thing...I fought back. One day she was beating me with a two by four piece of lumber and something snapped in me. From a crouching position, I stood up and even as that piece of wood came straight for my head, I did not flinch but I grabbed it from her in mid swing, breaking one of my fingers in the process. I raised it above my head and started swinging...needless to say, she ran. That was the first time I fought back. it took me awhile but soon, I realized I had a choice. I had a choice to change things and I did. During the course of the five years I was in that place, I had ran away five times, but never to the right place. So I came up with a plan and finally, I got myself out of there. It was a long road to recovery and it still is with me to this day...all of my sick childhood is...but I have a choice.
It is time for a change and the winds are blowing. Sometimes we need the seasons to make us realize what we need.
Be strong. Be young. Be you. Just go and be.
I will.
