Backstory - Childhood

I never knew my biological father. Growing up, whenever I would question my mother about him, she would tell me that when I was born she took me to see him and he had taken one look at me and stated that he wanted nothing to do with me. She often repeated this incident. Other times when I would ask about him, she would claim he was the “Marlboro man” or that he was the man on the horse in the Stetson commercial that was shown every Christmas. She had never been one to tell the truth and even after all these years that is something that has not changed. But that fact that it was drilled into my head from the time I was a toddler, that my own father wanted absolutely nothing to do with me still remains.

My mother was in the army first and when she got out, she joined the police force. I spent a considerable amount of time staying with my grandparents. I have very vague memories of the time spent with them growing up. None of these particular memories were unpleasant. As far as I can recall, my time staying with my grandparents never brought me grief. Then again, this was also during Ages 0-6. The only time I remember her getting angry with was when she caught me using a pair of her pantyhose to catch crawdads in the creek beside her house.

She met my half-sister’s dad while she was a cop and they got married when I was still very young. He actually went through the process of adopting me as his own daughter. I remember sitting on the judge’s lap as he asked if I was ok with this man being my dad. My half-sister was born shortly after when I was 4 years old.

When I was in the first grade, one of my friends had a huge slumber party at her house. My entire class was invited. It was the very first time I had ever stayed the night with anyone. Her house was big and after having fun doing whatever it is that kids do at that age, our sleeping mats were set out on the floor of the basement which had been turned into a bar/game room. After we were all situated, her mom turned out the lights and went upstairs. I remember lying on my side and looking out one of the high windows at the moon. It was a full moon that night. The tint on the windows made it appear to glow blue. Being as I was so excited to be a “big girl” because I had been allowed to stay the night, I was unable to sleep. So I just continued to lay there, staring at the moon and listening to my friends drop off into slumber one by one. At some point during the night, one of the adults came in to check on us. It was her uncle I think. He bumped into a bar stool and I sat up, startled by the noise. He told me everything was ok and to lay down and go back to sleep. The next thing I knew, he was lying behind me,. When I tried to scoot away, he grabbed me, pulling me close to him, his hand tightly covering my mouth and he whispered a threat in my ear to keep quiet or he would have no choice but to hurt me. I was terrified of course and did everything he instructed from that point on. It was my first sexual experience. I was six years old.

When I got home the next day, I went straight to my room and didn’t come out for the rest of the weekend. My mom acted concerned, asked me a bunch of questions which most of them were answered with ‘I don’t know’. Then one day she bought me a journal with a lock. She explained that I could write whatever I wanted and no one would ever see. So for the next few days, that was what I did. Well, mostly I drew pictures but occasionally I would write. Eventually I did get around to writing what had happened. When I was finished, I made certain it was locked before placing it under my mattress before school.

Later that day I came home to my mother standing in my bedroom, my diary in one hand complete with broken lock. She demanded to know why I didn’t tell her it happened since “I obviously want her to find read it otherwise I would not have left it open to the exact page and face down on my bed. I felt completely betrayed but I told her what had happened anyway. When I was done, she left, taking my diary with her.

I don’t know the events that happened when she left. I only know that when she came home, she tossed my diary into the fireplace. She sat in stony silence for what seemed like hours. When she finally did speak to me, she told me I should be disgusted with myself and that “good little girls” don’t behave in that manner. She then instructed me not ever mention it because doing so was a sin and I had “sinned enough” and that I should pray and ask for forgiveness. She also informed me that I was no longer allowed even speak to my friend and if I was caught doing so would be in a world of trouble. As she said these things, all I could do was cry. I asked her what I did wrong but she would not answer me. My tearful questions only seemed to make her even angrier and she slapped me in the face so hard that it nearly knocked me off my bed. At that she left my room and told me I was stay there, think about what I have done and to have no dinner. Then, once more, she reminded me to never, ever, bring it up.

So I never spoke a word of this to anyone. After that, not only did I not talk to that particular friend anymore, but I stopped talking to almost everyone. I would answer when a question was asked by the teachers but that was the extent of it. We still had school counselors back then but I wouldn’t talk to them either. And it was not because I was worried my mom would find out. I was more concerned with them having an equal response.

I don’t even remember much of my actual childhood after this point. My dad never found out and even now, every time I think of this one moment, I find myself questioning what I did wrong and why was I the one in trouble even though I know deep down that it wasn’t my fault. After all, I was only six.

As far as family was concerned, other than my mother seeing to morph into something unrecognizable, everything seemed to be going great until one day, out of the blue, the only man I knew as my father decided to leave. I never saw it coming. I was 9 years old, I think. I’m not completely sure. What I remember most about that day was him standing in the front door on his way out. His real daughter had already made a beeline for the car, anxious to leave. My mother stood about a foot behind me not breathing a word. He asked me at that moment if I wanted to come with him or stay with my mother. I wanted to go with him… I really did. But I decided to stay out of guilt that my mother would be all alone if I had left. And I wanted her to love me again. Maybe if I stayed, she would love me again. What I didn’t realize was that I was also staying because I knew he wasn’t my real dad. When he left, despite the fact that in my 9 year old wisdom I chose to stay with my mother, it left a very deep wound in my heart. Almost instantly after he had shut the front door and vanished from sight, my mom snapped at me to go to my room and not come out. I didn’t understand.. I thought she would be happy that I loved her enough to stay by her side. Instead she had turned cold and before my dad had even pulled out of the drive-way, I was regretting my decision.

Very shortly after that, my mom started dating a man from church. I did not like him. I did not like him on sight before I even met him. I didn’t know the reason though and since I could not make sense of it, I did my best to, again, be supportive of my mother. Their relationship grew quickly and I was not even 11 years old when they got married. Next thing I knew, we were packing up the house in order to move to Georgia; half a country away from my dad. Once we were settled in our new place of residence, my mom got a job and her new “Thing” was home nearly all the time. I did my best to avoid him though I did not understand as to why. One day, while I was getting some water, he came into the kitchen and smacked my butt and told me to make him a sandwich. I remember the feeling of absolute revulsion flowing through me at his touch. But I said nothing and merely did as he asked. These little ‘flirtatious” things continued to happen often. Each time they did, I gave it my best effort to not respond in any way. The very last thing I wanted to do at this point was piss him off and have my mother find out about it.

That summer, my sister came to visit and the four of us went to Savannah for vacation. It was during this time that this “thing” my mother had married took it upon himself to rape me one night in the hotel. This occurred while my mother and sister were sound asleep. My sister was lying right next to me. During the process, I repeatedly punched my sister in the arm in an effort to wake her in hopes that he would stop and get off me. My plan ultimately worked. She did wake up and hearing me crying, she asked me what was wrong and if I was ok. But I couldn’t respond in any other way then to cry. Hearing her voice, he slid off me and onto the floor to try to sneak back into bed with my mom. That was the first time I ever experienced the strong desire to kill myself. For the rest of our “family vacation”, I barely ate, I could not sleep, and all I could think about was sneaking out of the hotel at night and walking into the ocean in hopes that I would be able to drown myself.

From that point on, things got considerably worse. My sister went back to be with her dad and I lived with my mom and “him” in constant fear. We went to church on a regular basis during this time and I was very involved with the youth group. It was the only thing that made me feel even remotely human anymore. One day I wrote a letter to my youth pastor explaining what had happened. In the letter I begged him not to tell anyone. I just felt so horrible, dirty, and ashamed. But I could not bring myself to speak to anyone face to face, so I wrote it down instead and slipped the letter under his office door one Sunday.

Within a matter of days, I was called into the office at my school. When I arrived there, I was greeted by a woman in a suit and a uniformed cop. They took me into a room to speak privately and asked me to repeat what had happened. I wasn’t able to do it. I was too terrified. All I could think was if I said anything, my mom was sure to find out. I was literally shaking in fear and nearly passed out from the anxiety. When they realized I wasn’t going to talk, they calmed me down and gave me their card and sent me back to class. I was so relieved.

Later that week, my mother was doing laundry and while checking pockets, she found the card that I was given. She called me into the room, her tone was merely curious so I didn’t think anything of it. Then she showed me the card and asked where I had gotten it. Instantly I replied that it was just something that was passed out during a school event thing. It was then that she told me she knew I was lying. I remained silent, not trusting my voice. He was standing beside her during this and she blatantly asked me if he had done anything to or with me. Then she said that I had better not lie to her. I looked at her, then at him, and then back at her. I was screwed and I knew it.
So, looking at the floor I nodded and just as I feared, my voice cracked when I said “yes”.

My mom blew up at me then. Demanding to know why I did not say anything. I told her the honest truth. That I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me. Her response was “You’re probably right. You probably wanted it.”

Time seemed to stop.
It was the ultimate form of abandonment.
Sure, she was still there. Still in my life. But she she chose him. She knew exactly what had happened, what he did.... and she chose him.

That was the exact moment that I lost my belief in everything good and right in the world. As she ranted and raved and screamed at me, all I could do was look at her... or rather through her. I went completely numb. I felt as though I had just witnessed the murder of a child,

Finally, she stated that he was sick of looking at me and she sent me to my room.

My home life became complete hell after that. He took advantage of me every chance he had. At one point, she went out of town for two weeks during the summer. It was during this time that he whored me out to his friends. At first, I fought it. I had hurt one of them really, really bad. As punishment I was bound to a chair and had five of my toenails ripped out before being raped brutally. After that, I didn’t bother to fight back. There was no use. And when my mom returned from her trip, I pretended as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. After all, she willingly chose to stay with this man and even today, several years later, she is with him.

I suffered this hell for the next three years until I finally found my ticket out of that house in the form of getting knocked up by a 23 year old when I was 16. He was one of those that was brought up to do the “right thing” and we got married and I was able to leave and never look back.

Obviously much more had happened in my life to contribute to the person I have become, but this.. what I have shared with you, is how I was brought up. This was my life and these are the things that are at the core of my being.

Ever since the day I left that place, I have done everything I possibly could to make absolutely certain that I would not become like my mother. Unfortunately just because I succeeded in not becoming the person she is, it doesn’t make me a good parent. I know this and I openly admit it. Every child I have had, I have never been quite capable of bonding with any of them as I should. In short, I am a really shitty parent, but at least I can be honest and admit it to myself. Not only that, I am living proof that just because you had a horrible family upbringing doesn't mean you have to turn into a serial killer.

Anyway, hopefully now you know where I come from. Why I am a silent and seemingly uninteresting person if we meet. Why I don’t speak much. Why it always hurt me so deeply when people I allow myself to care for turn their backs on me for even the pettiest of reasons. Why, even though I really want to have real friends, I always push even the best of prospects away. Why I feel that if I stay away, everything and everyone will be better off.

Perhaps most importantly, this is why I make a terrible wife. Some people in this world really are impossible to love. Not because they are bad people, but merely because they are truly just too damaged for it to be successful. I just happen to be one of those people. It takes a very strong person to be able to love me on a continuous basis. Being in any kind of relationship with me (friendship or otherwise) is exhausting. Believe me. I know and I understand it completely. Even I get tired of myself. I get tired of trying to convince myself that I am not worthless when I am unable to feel anything else. I get tired of telling myself that I CAN do anything I put my mind to and then trying to continue staying positive as I fail. I get tired of reassuring myself and telling myself that everything will work out when I really believe there is no hope. I get tired of pushing myself to not be so guarded and trying to convince myself that trusting in others is ok. The only difference between you and me is the simple fact that I can never take a break from myself. Unlike you, I cannot tell myself that I am no longer worth the effort. And I there are times I want to do exactly that. But I can’t. I continue on, often times just barely.

Well, I believe a well-deserved nap is in order.
Writing this, as I stated, was quite emotionally taxing which of course also means it has been physically exhausting.