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.
