I sit here staring at the screen, knowing that I want to continue with this little project, but I'm terrified. There's so much to tell, so much that I haven't wanted to remember in ages...and I don't know where to pick up. I don't want to skip too far ahead, to get to middle/high school and boys, to the suicide attempts, to my first failed marriage, to my pregnancies, to my present, rather difficult marriage. I'll get there eventually, but I want to lay the groundwork first. So I opened my hot pink trunk tonight-Mamaw Granny had a trunk with her journals and special keepsakes locked inside, and I do the same. This, by the way, was her journal entry from the day I was born, as promised:
I blacked out personal data for privacy reasons, but as you can see, she was a loving grandmother from day one. Such a wonderful woman.
But I digress. I dug into my own pink trunk and brought out the stack of journals that I have. This is what my life looks like in paper format (on top of my trunk):
It is a relatively small stack given that it covers 24 years-there are 17 journals in all, and I have another that I currently write in that isn't included. The oldest one gave me no information as it was actually written as a class assignment-that's what got it all started. I owe a lot to my third grade teacher. :) I did write an excellent poem about fairies and how some smelled like cheese, so I had a nice little giggle about that.
I read over the brief time in 1996 that I wanted to run away...I was 10. A friend of mine actually took several of my belongings and was stowing them away for when I would sneak off to live with her. Obviously that plan never came to fruition, but the fact that I was actually making provisions for escape spoke volumes about an otherwise obedient child.
The most telling entry from the mid-nineties was from July 26, 1997. It was the first one that ever actually addressed my home life-it was the day I found a hiding place for my journal and knew it was safe from prying eyes. I decided to transcribe it here word for word. Please bear in mind that I was only 10 when this was written-only the spelling has been corrected.
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Erase everything in this book. I mean, don't erase it, just, don't forget it. 'Cause you're about to hear a story so unreal you wouldn't believe it. But it's true. It's the story of our screwed up family. It contains a little bit of everything.
My Life Story
On September 7, 1986, a baby girl was born. If the doctors had known what she would have to live through, they would have probably pushed her back in.
Soledad was born to two sex-crazy people, (dad's name here) and (mom's name here), and yes, they were sex-crazy. She was an accident. I'll tell you a secret, only Mamaw Granny and I know. When my mother was pregnant with me, my daddy tried to eliminate me. He hit Mommy in the stomach because he didn't want me. It's crushing. I know he doesn't really love me. He lies a lot. I know Mamaw Granny doesn't lie to me.
Soledad was a girl with two brothers, identical twins.
She turned five. She came home one day, there were cops chasing a man in front of her house. Daddy told us to go to our rooms and stay there. We looked out the windows, which we were not supposed to do. We heard a lot of noise after the cops left. I fell on the floor and found out why, my mom and dad were fighting!
Mom and Dad were downstairs fighting like a hurricane. I creeped down the stairs to get a peek, when I saw my mom get knocked on the floor. I shot back up the steps and threw myself on the bed, crying. I didn't want to get my hide blistered.
I don't know why, but I never have liked my daddy. Maybe it's because he beats us. I'm always scared he's gonna hit me.
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It was hard for me to read that, actually. It was a very juvenile take on my situation, and I couldn't clearly express the feelings behind the episodes, but it was my very first attempt to communicate that there was something very wrong in my life. I have no recollection of ever speaking to anyone outside of my family before this point, and I know this is the first written statement I put forth.
I remember the episode I described in that entry. We lived on Texas Avenue at that point in time, but this time living in the Lonsdale housing projects rather than across the street. The cops were present due to a driveby shooting. That alone was terrifying for a child so young. It gave Dad an excuse to send us all upstairs. Mom would have been pregnant with my sister around this time, because it was in those projects that she was born and I remember that she wasn't there for this occurrence.
Being sent to our rooms was scary in and of itself. I was supposed to stay in my room alone, the twins were to be in their room. If we were satisfied that Mom and Dad were too busy/lazy/whatever to come up the stairs, then all three of us would seek some refuge in my room. It usually worked. One of my favorite stories to tell about my brother from this time period was when we would play "London Bridge." It just so happened that he was getting dressed while we were singing the song, and he changed the words to "My britches falling down" while he dropped his undies to the floor and back up to his rear again. Those happy times were rare.
The day in question we were all three in the twins' room because it had a view of the street and we could see the cop cars very well. We watched as the victim was put on a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance. We saw the cops chase down and cuff a man, throwing him into the back of a cruiser. We watched them questioning people, although I had no idea as to why back then. We grew bored with it and finally sat down to play a game. I didn't actually fall down as I related in my adolescent narrative-that was my cover story for just in case Mom or Dad did find the journal. They never knew we saw what happened that day. In fact, I saw Mom getting beaten by Dad more than she ever realized. I saw them having sex-not that Dad was ever shy about it. He liked to fondle Mom in front of everybody, kids and relatives alike. I can tell you very easily what my mother's breasts look like, the size and color of her nipples, what her legs look like when they're hairy, and even details about her most private areas. She often sported black eyes and bruises, and I could usually tell you which ones would be gone soon as well as which ones were very fresh, She gave the usual excuses just like every other battered woman-"I fell," "I ran into the door," "I wasn't watching where I was going." [It's no wonder I grew into a person that believes in honesty above any and everything else.]
I spent a few hours crying that day, but that wasn't really anything that unusual. Even then I was very protective. I saw Dad as the enemy, I watched him hurt all of us over and over again. At that point in my life I was still very attached to my mom-it was before I realized that my attachment to her was nearly as poisonous as having such a sorry excuse for a father. I did everything I could to keep my brothers and Mom out of trouble, rejoicing when the good guys won (I'll never forget how victorious I felt when Mom whacked dad in the head with an iron skillet when she was pregnant with my sister) and cowering in fear when the tyrant went on a rampage.
I'm debating with myself in regards to how far I should take this tonight. There has always been rampant physical and sexual abuse in my family, dating back to my Minnie's youth and probably longer. I'm trying to force myself to relive painful details and expel them from my heart once and for all, to get rid of the demons that haunt me. It would be so easy right now just to say that we were all physically and emotionally abused, that I was sexually abused, and that it didn't have a happy ending. It would be simple to say that my "daddy issues" have cause me unending pain in my relationships with men and women alike, causing me to distrust men in general. I've explored all elements of my sexuality and I still don't know where I fall. That's probably a discussion I'll save for a much later posting.
I really don't want to make those generalizations and let it go at that. The whole point of this is for me to relive it in detail and be done. I'll have had my say with no interruptions from people trying to interject their version of what happened, or anyone standing by calling me a liar because I dared to besmirch their already less-than-pristine reputation. This is for me. It's not like I can do any more damage to my own reputation....apparently people labeled me a slut/whore in high school (odd because I had only slept with one person before I graduated, although I guess other sexual acts are how I earned that title). There are those that call me a bad mother, but I will fight that accusation to the bitter end. There is nothing in this world that I love more than my beautiful children. My own damn family hates me, claiming that I hurt this person or that person when in all honesty the person was using/abusing me and when I fought back they turned on me. Major-league-big-time, as I was always so fond of saying.
My reputation might even be true in some aspects. I have spent my entire life searching for someone that would love me unconditionally. I didn't have caring parents, Minnie was just in need of someone to control, and I have never felt at home with myself to succeed in my relationships. It didn't help that I've been cheated on and used. One night stands suck more than anything in the world. The sex is usually less than satisfactory, and where does it leave me in the morning? Lonely and depressed, feeling worse about myself for having added another sexual partner to my list. It's unfair, really. The more women a man sleeps with, the more he is considered a "stud." The more people a woman sleeps with, the more she is considered a slut. I understand why women have sex/relationships with the first person they see. They're looking for someone to hold them, make them feel pretty and safe, tell them it's alright. It's not healthy for them, but they'll do anything for that fleeting happiness that is being sexy, beautiful, passionate, and most of all-*wanted*. I know, because I am one of them.
My first ever "relationship" came about in eighth grade. I had a massive crush on my neighbor, and it turned out he liked me too. We'd go biking and swimming, sit around and play video games, and just be two pre-teens trying to impress each other. He was my first kiss, and he was the first non-family member to touch me. It was always over the clothes, but I realized then what I know now. There was no limit to what I would allow to feel wanted/needed. I was "easy." That made me feel cheap and dirty, but my other needs outweighed my conscience. It never went any farther with him, but it was the beginning of a disastrous cycle of following the other person's lead and never once stopping to question my motives or even what I wanted.
It all stems from the very unhealthy attitude I had about sex. Dad used to brag to people that he let his kids watch porn with him when we were all just babies. I don't remember a time that I didn't know what sex was. It was just always there. There were vibrators in the shower behind the frosted glass window and a enormous dildo under Mom's bed. It wasn't until I was nearly grown that I learned these weren't my mother's as I originally believed. They belonged to my dad. I've heard many stories about the wild sex my parents would have with other people, but it would all just be hearsay so I won't repeat it hear. From personal experience though, they were pretty active. Dad could never be sated. Even his tattoos were lewd. The one I remember most was one depicting a female angel and a female devil. I don't remember which, but on was standing. The other was crouched with legs spread, performing oral sex on the standing being. It grossed me out then, and it grosses me out now.
I'm not sure when most children are exposed to sex and when they start experiencing any sort of desires, but I know what it was like in that family. My Barbie and Ken dolls dated and usually screwed. I had lots of naked dolls. It's embarrassing to tell, but I received my first orgasm from a Ken doll when I was about 8 or 9. I went to bed and pushed his head against my nether regions until I climaxed. That was the only time I ever masturbated in such a way, and it was a guilt-ridden experience. Minnie dragged me to church every Sunday and ingrained a very stern moral compass in my young mind. I felt like what I had just done was incredibly wrong and I beat myself up for it. Shortly after the Ken doll event I lost all interest in sexual activities.
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