Liquor Store Blues

FYI-I've been drinking a little tonight, but that's when the emotions really kick it into high gear so this might be as good a time to write as any.  I'm hard-pressed to find time to write here lately because I'm really putting a lot of my energies into work and my family.  I am still trying to learn to make myself a priority, so here I am!


I left off after the "incident" with Dad.  I might've said this before, but I'll reiterate-I was never alone with my father again.  I guess I wasn't technically alone that night though was I?  Something that has bothered me ever since is the nagging suspicion that Mom might not have been asleep.  The woman never did anything to stop Dad from hurting us, so why would that be any different?  It took me years to even mention to Mom that she was there that night.  She said she couldn't believe it and that I should have woken her up.  I don't think that would have ended well for either one of us.


Before I get ahead of myself let me go over what my year of silence was like, and how I finally told the truth.


For a very long, excruciating year I continued to visit Mom's as if nothing happened.  I would sleep in the same room as all of my siblings, knowing Dad wouldn't do anything in front of the others.  I spent less and less time there, saying I had this project to complete or a band concert or chorus concert...anything to get me out of going.  I had a couple of friends that I spent a lot of time with, but I just felt so utterly violated and ashamed.  I didn't want anybody to know.  I was lonely.  I was scared.  I was filled with hate.  Depression consumed me-I haven't been able to shake it since.  I'm often overtaken by it, having blackouts, shutting down, wishing I no longer existed.  I was headed into one such tumultuous state when I let it slip.


We were on a bus on the way home from Chattanooga, returning from a Science Olympiad field trip.  I'll be completely honest-I always felt waaaay out of my league in the Science Olympiad stuff.  I wasn't anywhere near as intelligent as my friends-how could someone as simple as me ever compete?  So I never really got my hopes up, choosing to celebrate the team wins and ignore my personal defeats.  I was pretty damn good at English and Math (with the exception of Geometry), but there was always so much beyond my comprehension.  There always will be because I'm too lazy to study.  It's odd because I excel at work, retaining material fairly well and keeping on task, going above and beyond every single day, all out of a need to prove myself worthy.  I'm a perfectionist in that regard.  But I'm okay with having substandard intellect and physical appearance.  What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I apply my work principles and ethics to the rest of my life? 


Eh, sorry, got a little off track there.  Anyway, on a bus, returning from Chattanooga.  As usual I was sitting by myself-my friend was all cozied up with her boyfriend and I didn't really have the social skills to make connections with other people on my own.  I don't know where it came from or why-perhaps it was because I was feeling lonely, or maybe because I was bored and had nothing else to occupy my mind (I'll discuss later how I'm incapable of merely sitting and doing one thing.  I must multi-task at all times and keep the brain moving so I don't have to actually think).  All of a sudden I was bawling.  I was feeling it again, particularly his breath, I remember that the most at that moment.  My friend saw me-I saw her roll her eyes at her boyfriend before disengaging and coming over to me (yup, there goes the drama queen crying again)-then she sat and held me, asking what was wrong.  I don't think she knew how significant that was for me, being held-I never got that at home. On the rare occasion Mom actually would play with my hair or just let me lay in her lap I savored it.  This may be why I smother my children with affection, I don't know.


BLARGH.  Maybe writing while intoxicated isn't the best idea.  It might be that I look at this entry tomorrow and hate myself for posting it, but dammit I'm trying here.


So anyway, she kept asking what was wrong.  I didn't mean to say it, never imagined how the words would feel rolling out of my mouth-"Daddy molested me."  She and her boyfriend then took turns sitting with me and making sure I was okay the whole way home.  A couple of days later, that friend and her mom took me to their church.  I'd been there several times before-in fact I really liked it.  Everybody was friendly and I felt like I almost belonged.  If Minnie would have let me join a different church, I'd have gone there forever.  She tok me to her youth minister, and I told him fragments of what had happened.  He then told me that he a responsibility to report it, and the next thing ya know, DCS is knocking at the damn door.


Before I go on to DCS, let me say a couple of words here.  To the friend that helped me "tell"-she isn't reading this and probably never will, but I both loved and hated her for that.  It was the single kindest thing anyone outside of my family had ever done for me.  Unfortunately, as prepubescent girls are wont to do, she told my story-an abbreviated, butchered version-to several of our friends.  Then, for some stupid reason I forget, a feud began.  I found myself friendless and terrified as my family turned against me.


As an adult, I hold no ill will toward the friend-in fact I'm very grateful that she took the time to help me.  I only wish that it would have been kept confidential.  I wish I could say thank you, but things were never the same between she and I.  I've often contemplated just writing it, sending her a private message or some such thing, but I can't.  I don't fully understand it.  Maybe it's because I never felt like I could trust her again?  The lack of trust doesn't come from her going to the minister-it's from the things that were said about me at school.  I know it's all silly middle school bullshit, but it had an ENORMOUS impact on my life.  I never confronted anybody back then though, so I never said my peace.  Now that I'm mature enough to do so it's all old news to her-she has a life of her own and no interest in having me in it.  That always hurt.  She was the first person outside of my family to help me.  I felt like she cared about me-and I think she did.  Then petty girl stuff happened and that was the end of it.


Oh, DCS.  I have a loathing so deep for that department that I just cringe at the sound of those three letters.  I remember the place Minnie took me to.  It had children's toys and was really for younger children, maybe a 3-7 year age group.  Then that woman took me into that damned room.  It was like something out of a cheesy tv cop drama-there were two-way mirrors and she had a flippin notepad scratching down everything I said.  She made me repeat myself several times, growing increasingly hateful throughout the interrogation.  And that's exactly what it was-an interrogation.  Well why didn't you do this? Why didn't you say that? I was terrified of the woman.  She was very pregnant-maybe 8 or 9 months along-and she had zero patience for the job.  I didn't like her at all.  I've never responded well to direct, forceful types of people.  I'm such a little pansy when it comes down to it.  I just continued repeating what she wanted to hear, answering all the questions like a good little girl.  I was so happy to get out of there.  And afterward, Minnie's heart thawed and she took me for my first-ever manicure.  Not sure what made her do it, but I was touched nonetheless.


Minnie let me go stay with my aunt for a couple of days.  She was awesome, and back then I thought we were really close-she had a spare bedroom at her house that he used to say was mine.  That made me feel so special.  In reality, I was hiding from Mom.  I didn't want to deal with her, didn't want to address her questions.  Somehow she found out where I was and showed up.  It's not like my aunt could just tell Mom to get lost-she was my mother after all-so she allowed her to talk to me on the front porch.  She asked me why I didn't come to her, asked why I had waited so long.  It was hard to talk to her.  I don't remember how I finally got her to go away that night, but she eventually did.


That was to be the last honest conversation my mother and I would have for almost 10 years.  The following year was very blurry-it included me graduating middle school and moving on to being a freshman.  It involved me making a new friend-one that I'm still very close to even now.  We haven't lost touch since we were 13-I guess that's saying something.  But what I'd like to talk about here is how the next year went with my family.


People didn't believe me.  Dad was telling everyone that Minnie brainwashed me, that he never did such a thing.  He forbade my mother and siblings from seeing me.  Eventually that began to wear on me, just as he knew it would.  Mom came to me one night with a cassette tape Dad had recorded.  She drove me around the city while I listened to his case, him telling me that he thought it was Mom, he was asleep.  Him talking about how he accidentally molested another guy while he was sleeping when he was in the army.  Him talking about being abused himself.  I didn't really care about any of that.  I didn't buy it.  I just wanted to see my brothers and sister.  In order to see them, I had to see Dad.


So I went.  I pretended to make peace.  He had this irritating habit of calling me "Craze"-I guess he thought it was an awesome nickname for his little girl, but I didn't like it.  He made my skin crawl.  The worst part, the thing I hate and regret most about that year, was that I let them get to me.  I read over an entry from my journal, dated in 2000, talking about how I could back out-how I convince my case worker that it never really happened.  


So here's the plan.  I wanted to go home with Mom, but nobody was listening.  So I got mad at Daddy and used the story this girl told me, about how her cousin in Alabama was molested by her daddy, because it was the first thing I could think of that sounded solid enough to get me away from Minnie.  Why did I want away from Minnie? Well, because we were always arguing.....she was always badmouthing my parents too.  You know, never be in a room alone with Daddy, Mom was the worst thing to ever happen to Dad, etc etc


I actually did relate this story to my case worker, who saw right through it.  I had left her a voice mail while at Mom's (where I wasn't supposed to be-they had put a restraining order against my dad) and she came to school.  It was nothing short of humiliating-we were having a field day and they made me go inside to talk to her.  She wasn't quiet or discreet-I felt like the whole world was listening.  She called me out and recognized my lies for what they were.  She told me that people like Dad had to be punished or they'd go on hurting other little girls and boys.  I finally admitted that I had made it all up at the insistence of my mother.  The case worker was livid and left, leaving me feeling awful.  Mom certainly wasn't going to like that.


Honestly though, looking back as an adult and reading that paragraph, why did I think that would ever make sense? A friend whose cousin in Alabama was molested? I wanted to live with Mom so if i said dad molested me they'd let me do that? The logic of my 13-year-old self was severely lacking.  Interestingly enough, same journal, just a few entries later:


She made the mistake.  I shouldn't have to live with it.  I just got off the phone with Mom, and she just found out I'm not moving in with her.  Anyways, my dad molested me.  They wanted me to say he didn't.  So I said he didn't because they told me it would all be over and I could go home with Mom.  It never happened.  It's their fault I'm here.  They gave me up.  They let me stay with Minnie.  Mom could've fought for me.  But I never thought she cared.  She just recently told me that it "took a lot of love" to give me up.  SHE GAVE ME UP SIX YEARS AGO.  I'm used to living here.  I couldn't live any other place.  This is my home.  So I'm trying to explain to her why I can't move.  It's all really hard on me.  I love my mom.  She's my best friend.  But she loves my dad more than any of us.  She spends all of her time with him.  She believes all HE says.  She believed HIS story, not mine.  After all, she married him twice...she just gave birth to me.  But anywayz, I'm tired from crying.


Ugh.  I would like to go back in time and give my younger self a hug.  I would like to tell myself that it was okay to tell the truth, and it was okay to tell Mom no.  To tell myself that I was beautiful and smart and funny and could accomplish anything that I wanted.  Mainly-this sounds odd, I know-just to comfort myself.  Even now I desperately yearn to be held.  I need to know that the choices I've made have been okay, and that I'm loved.  I'm not sure what this says about me, but I do get that to a degree-from my children.  They love me despite my flaws and so far in life only see Mommy, not her issues and internal scars.  My oldest is my "cuddlebug," as I like to call him.  Nothing leaves me more at peace than curling up on the couch with him, listening to his little heartbeat and watching cartoons.  I hope my children never go wanting for affection.  


It was a year-long struggle for me.  Did I want to take it all back and run off with my parents? Or did I want to tell the truth and try to put my life back together?  I finally decided to stand up for myself.  Nobody had stood up for me, so I figured I might as well do it myself.  Speaking out against each other was forbidden in our family, but for Pete's sake did that mean I had to sacrifice my dignity?  I always prided myself on honesty when really I had lived a big fat lie.


The year drew to a close as I started high school...Mom and Dad took my siblings and moved to Arizona to escape child molestation charges for Dad.  I'll go into more detail on that later...I'm just really glad that I stood up for myself, that I told the truth and while I might have wavered for a moment, I refused to back down in the end.  


Here's to the friend that helped me speak out.
Here's to my 13-year-old self-I wish I could grant you my experience and let you know that you will make it, alone or not.
Here's to my brothers and sister, uprooted because I couldn't keep my big mouth shut.  I hated that.


Here's to me.  Here's to getting it all out, drunk or not.  Here's to finally being able to hold my head up high.


To my 24-year-old self: You are beautiful, intelligent, and funny.  You can accomplish anything you set your mind to.  To quote Pooh Bear:  You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.


And I'm damn proud of you.