(In regards to the title-why not? I did name my firstborn after Hunter S. Thompson, after all.)
I allowed myself a night off last night to give my mind a brief reprieve. I spent a couple of hours sewing a dress, then vegged out in the bathtub soaking and watching "The Girl Who Played With Fire," complete with a crappy Mike's Hard Margarita. Although it was a very enjoyable evening, I felt a little guilty that I didn't write. This is incredibly important to me and is on my mind pretty much all of the time. I've had this pent up for years; it feels very good to be getting it all out.
A comment on a previous post raised a very good point-I don't write about how it all feels. It's like I'm putting this tale out there in the most matter-of-fact way, telling only the details and not including the emotions. I guess that's because I always avoided processing those emotions back then. Maybe that's why I don't know how to handle all of my emotions as an adult. I also dealt with what I witnessed others feel, but not myself. I'm gonna take a moment to be selfish, to go over my prior blogs and address how I felt at that time in my life.
The first emotion that springs to mind from my youth is sheer terror. I was a very frightened child. The primary reason for this fear was Daddy. He was so volatile, so unpredictable. There were a few times that he was tolerable, maybe even fun-he had a love of music and used to have me sing while he played piano, we would play video games together sometimes, and occasionally we'd watch movies...but he was just plain scary. I was afraid to speak, because he often ridiculed and belittled me. I wanted him to like me, to think I was "cool," because then the hair-trigger temper wasn't a concern. I never did win Daddy's approval. I'm not sure how I feel about that even now. Hurt, certainly. Angry? I sure as hell am. I was just a kid-HIS kid. He was supposed to love and appreciate me, but instead he abused me. Everyone had to walk on eggshells around him; nothing was ever right, nothing good enough. I felt inadequate. That atmosphere helped cause my mass of insecurities to develop, then flourish. I was scared of the beatings. I was afraid that one day he'd go too far and kill one of us. For some reason I was most afraid of him killing Mom-what would happen to us then? I was scared to speak out or report what was going on-and when I finally did break down and come forward it was a terrible nightmare. But still I was most afraid of being left alone.
If terror was prominent, hurt wasn't far behind it, coupled with a lack of comprehension. I didn't get it. Why did my parents give me up so easily? Even before it was legal, I was more Minnie's daughter than theirs. Why were they so quick to pawn me off when I was a baby? Did they not love me? Was I an awful child? As I grew, I wondered why Mom sided with Dad. Now, as a mother, it's hard for me to understand why a woman would choose an abusive asshole over her children. Why didn't she save us? Did she love him more than she loved us?
Why all the broken promises? Dad knew we had no money, so why promise us things we could never have? He even took me to a Honda motorcycle shop and let me pick out a bike and a helmet. It was purple and white, and he promised I would get it for my next birthday. I never saw it again. That's only one of the many times he did that (much like the dance classes I was supposed to get). As a result, I DO NOT make a promise to my children if I can't keep it. Dad always let me down; I hope my children never think that about me, it would break my heart.
It was never-ending disappointment from both parents. Mom was just as bad as Dad, except her promises weren't for tangible objects like bikes or keyboards. The false hopes I got from her always went straight to my heart. Most often it was her refusal to come see me. "We'll come down and go swimming tomorrow." "I'll come get you so you can spend the night." It always played out the same way. I paced the floor between the front door and Minnie's bedroom window that faced the street, watching and waiting for Mom's arrival. I'd call her every hour or two. "We're getting ready." "We're leaving in a minute." Eventually Mom would confess that she wasn't coming-but she'd be there next weekend, she promised.
She still does that today.
That was difficult enough, but harder for me were the pictures of a dream life Mom would paint. She'd assure me that if I came to live with her it would be different this time, things were tame, everybody was happy. She'd persuade me, telling me everything I wanted to hear, then I'd be crushed when I got there and everything was exactly the same as it always was. Then when she got mad at Daddy she'd talk about how good life could be when she left him. (I don't think adults realize how much their rants can affect small children). She would tell us about how good life would be once he was gone. Of course that didn't happen. Mom and Dad did divorce and remarry, but the separation was extremely brief. They were together until I was 17, when Dad finally left Mom-not the other way around.
Having my hopes dashed repeatedly like that caused me to be very distrustful. It's a trait that I abhor in myself. I'm skeptical of anything anyone tells me that's out of the ordinary-which might be why I'm so afraid that nobody ever believes anything I say. I'm learning to get past that, but it's a slow process. It's true that trust must be earned, but then a person must also be willing to give trust. I'm working on that.
Another issue I had to deal with was the constant sense of abandonment. My guardians were forever passing me back and forth, leaving me feeling like I didn't belong anywhere, like nobody wanted me. I tried to play both fields, trying to keep all three adults happy with me. When at Mom's, I took her side against Minnie. The opposite applied when I was at Minnie's. I felt that I had to please them to earn their affection. If I agreed with them the results were disastrous. They become combative and condescending, then I would be grounded for talking back. There was no open conversation. Children were not entitled to opinions. As I got older I tried to forcibly inject my point of view and take a more assertive stance with the family. Unfortunately I'm not very good at being assertive, so imagine how well that went.
There were times I felt I didn't even fit in with my siblings. They have been known to say that I didn't know what they went through because I wasn't there all the time. That is very true. However, they also had no idea what I was dealing with either. It caused an odd distance between me and my brothers. We get along, but we're not really close. My sister, on the other hand, holds no grudges. She and I are immensely close. I actually feel kinda guilty that I haven't told her about this blog because I tell her everything. I don't want her to see it. I don't want to hurt her.
I don't want to hurt any of my family. To quote Bobby Boucher, "I don't like confrontation, I'm a virgo." But it's time for me to start healing and finally put all of this behind me. I don't know if I'll ever reveal this blog to my family-I sincerely doubt it. The fallout isn't worth it. What's important is for me to finally have my say and be done with it, knowing my voice was heard at last.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Family Tradition
So I decided I'm not finished tonight. That last post took an unexpected turn and I realized that I didn't write about what I had originally intended to. I should probably say forget it and go to bed and deal with this tomorrow, but I wanted to clear out my brain first. If I don't, my mind won't stop racing over the details and I won't be able to sleep.
When I first thought of writing tonight, one memory came through crystal clear. We lived in the Austin Homes housing projects and Mom worked a lot, leaving us alone with Dad on a regular basis. It's also the first time I remember Dad having his snakes. He had them for years, and he had all sorts. Western Hognose, pythons, rattlesnakes, garter snakes, you have it. I have a particular aversion to snakes...I don't even like remembering them. Dad's biggest snakes were the 8 and 9 foot boa constrictors, Arnold and Morticia. Dad always kept them in a wood and glass case made by my uncle, but I was terrified that they would escape and strangle me in my sleep. At this point my sister and I shared a room, my brothers shared a room, Mom and Dad had a room, and the snakes had their own room. For someone that never worked on a regular basis Dad sure spent a lot of money on unnecessary crap. There were countless snakes, the best stereo equipment money could buy, expensive train sets, keyboard and sound equipment....whatever Dad's latest fixation was, he would have. It still kills me that he never went without what he wanted. He had name brand soda. He had ice cream in the freezer and Hershey's Cocoa and Southern Comfort in the pantry. We got KoolAid and sometimes grocery store brand soda. Dad was the top of the list, we got whatever money was left. I will sy this for my mother-she worked endless hours for years to support the family. Dad would quit but Mom would make sure we had a place to stay and at least something to eat.
Because we saw how hard she worked we decided to help her out a little bit. We often waited up for Mom (who wouldn't get in until very late, but as long as you were quiet Dad never knew the difference). We spent an entire night cleaning the kitchen for her so it would be nice when she came home. We teamed up and did the dishes, we swept and mopped, and we also used all the strength we had to move the car axle that had been sitting on our bench that we ate on. Why there was a car axle at the kitchen table is still beyond me, but we moved it to the side so it was out of the way and cleaned up the grease left behind. It's such a small thing to do, cleaning a kitchen-I realize that now-but we were very young and very proud that we had helped Mom out. I can't even remember what her reaction was, but I'm fairly certain she was pleased.
It was around this same time that Dad would feed us army food. I don't even know what it's called but it's the stuff in the packets that you just add water to and cook. It was pretty gross, so since my little brother was a pretty good cook we would usually have him make our meals when Mom was gone and Dad was asleep. One particular time my brother was making us toast. He accidentally burnt a couple of pieces. They weren't just slightly crisp, they were charred black. He was making more when Dad discovered the bread in the trash. He was enraged that we had wasted food so thoughtlessly and decided to teach us a lesson. I watched as he forced my brother to eat the bread out of the trash. There was all sorts of gunk in that trash can; I remember the toast was coated in cigarette ashes. It was terrible, and afterwards I did what I could to comfort my brother.
I'm not sure why, but I always felt like I was to blame for not being able to protect my siblings. I was incredibly protective of them but was helpless against Dad and I beat myself up about it for years. Even now I find myself wondering-if I had kept my resolve when I talked to DCS instead of letting Mom con me, if I had come forward sooner, would it have been different for my siblings?
I do realize that I was just a child and shouldn't hold myself to blame for those kinds of things. I guess it's a byproduct of the environment I was raised in, but I have to let it go. I am not responsible for my father's actions, and nothing I did could have changed the way he treated us. I saw him beat the snot out of my brother for wetting the bed when he had a bad dream. He beat me so hard once that I went back to Minnie's with a belt buckle impression embedded in my skin-and that was the last time he ever left a mark. Minnie told him in no uncertain terms that she would report him to the authorities if he ever did it again.
I guess it isn't really going out of order too much to discuss a bit of Minnie's family history for a moment. I have a hard time understanding why Minnie was so against my father abusing his children but was perfectly okay with abuse in her own home. Minnie's parents divorced when she was young. Her mother remarried and had several children with a man we shall call George. George, Minnie's step-father, sexually abused Minnie as well as his own daughters. As they grew they actually fought for George's affections. When Minnie was old enough George left her mother and married Minnie. She then bore him 6 children, including my father. Thus my Dad's half-siblings were also his aunts and uncles. Weird doesn't even begin to describe it. Minnie then sent her own three daughters into George's bed-the way an aunt related it to me was "Get on in there, your daddy's waiting for you." According to my father she forced him to perform fellatio on strangers for money. Minnie earned money herself as well-per the family tales she owned a diner during this time. Truckers would come in and slip her money into the remains of her sandwich. Minnie would then use a crate to climb into their trucks and disappear for a while. I myself have heard her discuss the crate, so I do believe there is a strong element of truth to these stories.
I approached that part of the story in a very cut-and-dry manner because I did not experience any of it firsthand, but unless all 6 of Minnie's children are lying then it is true. It is crucial to understand a little bit of the family dynamic to get the full idea of what it was like growing up with these people. We were all severely damaged. Some allowed it to destroy them. I've always fancied that I took it, learned from it, and grew stronger. Whether or not that's actually true remains to be seen, but I certainly do the best I can.
And with that, I feel peaceful enough to go to bed. Goodnight dear reader, sweet dreams and much happiness to you.
When I first thought of writing tonight, one memory came through crystal clear. We lived in the Austin Homes housing projects and Mom worked a lot, leaving us alone with Dad on a regular basis. It's also the first time I remember Dad having his snakes. He had them for years, and he had all sorts. Western Hognose, pythons, rattlesnakes, garter snakes, you have it. I have a particular aversion to snakes...I don't even like remembering them. Dad's biggest snakes were the 8 and 9 foot boa constrictors, Arnold and Morticia. Dad always kept them in a wood and glass case made by my uncle, but I was terrified that they would escape and strangle me in my sleep. At this point my sister and I shared a room, my brothers shared a room, Mom and Dad had a room, and the snakes had their own room. For someone that never worked on a regular basis Dad sure spent a lot of money on unnecessary crap. There were countless snakes, the best stereo equipment money could buy, expensive train sets, keyboard and sound equipment....whatever Dad's latest fixation was, he would have. It still kills me that he never went without what he wanted. He had name brand soda. He had ice cream in the freezer and Hershey's Cocoa and Southern Comfort in the pantry. We got KoolAid and sometimes grocery store brand soda. Dad was the top of the list, we got whatever money was left. I will sy this for my mother-she worked endless hours for years to support the family. Dad would quit but Mom would make sure we had a place to stay and at least something to eat.
Because we saw how hard she worked we decided to help her out a little bit. We often waited up for Mom (who wouldn't get in until very late, but as long as you were quiet Dad never knew the difference). We spent an entire night cleaning the kitchen for her so it would be nice when she came home. We teamed up and did the dishes, we swept and mopped, and we also used all the strength we had to move the car axle that had been sitting on our bench that we ate on. Why there was a car axle at the kitchen table is still beyond me, but we moved it to the side so it was out of the way and cleaned up the grease left behind. It's such a small thing to do, cleaning a kitchen-I realize that now-but we were very young and very proud that we had helped Mom out. I can't even remember what her reaction was, but I'm fairly certain she was pleased.
It was around this same time that Dad would feed us army food. I don't even know what it's called but it's the stuff in the packets that you just add water to and cook. It was pretty gross, so since my little brother was a pretty good cook we would usually have him make our meals when Mom was gone and Dad was asleep. One particular time my brother was making us toast. He accidentally burnt a couple of pieces. They weren't just slightly crisp, they were charred black. He was making more when Dad discovered the bread in the trash. He was enraged that we had wasted food so thoughtlessly and decided to teach us a lesson. I watched as he forced my brother to eat the bread out of the trash. There was all sorts of gunk in that trash can; I remember the toast was coated in cigarette ashes. It was terrible, and afterwards I did what I could to comfort my brother.
I'm not sure why, but I always felt like I was to blame for not being able to protect my siblings. I was incredibly protective of them but was helpless against Dad and I beat myself up about it for years. Even now I find myself wondering-if I had kept my resolve when I talked to DCS instead of letting Mom con me, if I had come forward sooner, would it have been different for my siblings?
I do realize that I was just a child and shouldn't hold myself to blame for those kinds of things. I guess it's a byproduct of the environment I was raised in, but I have to let it go. I am not responsible for my father's actions, and nothing I did could have changed the way he treated us. I saw him beat the snot out of my brother for wetting the bed when he had a bad dream. He beat me so hard once that I went back to Minnie's with a belt buckle impression embedded in my skin-and that was the last time he ever left a mark. Minnie told him in no uncertain terms that she would report him to the authorities if he ever did it again.
I guess it isn't really going out of order too much to discuss a bit of Minnie's family history for a moment. I have a hard time understanding why Minnie was so against my father abusing his children but was perfectly okay with abuse in her own home. Minnie's parents divorced when she was young. Her mother remarried and had several children with a man we shall call George. George, Minnie's step-father, sexually abused Minnie as well as his own daughters. As they grew they actually fought for George's affections. When Minnie was old enough George left her mother and married Minnie. She then bore him 6 children, including my father. Thus my Dad's half-siblings were also his aunts and uncles. Weird doesn't even begin to describe it. Minnie then sent her own three daughters into George's bed-the way an aunt related it to me was "Get on in there, your daddy's waiting for you." According to my father she forced him to perform fellatio on strangers for money. Minnie earned money herself as well-per the family tales she owned a diner during this time. Truckers would come in and slip her money into the remains of her sandwich. Minnie would then use a crate to climb into their trucks and disappear for a while. I myself have heard her discuss the crate, so I do believe there is a strong element of truth to these stories.
I approached that part of the story in a very cut-and-dry manner because I did not experience any of it firsthand, but unless all 6 of Minnie's children are lying then it is true. It is crucial to understand a little bit of the family dynamic to get the full idea of what it was like growing up with these people. We were all severely damaged. Some allowed it to destroy them. I've always fancied that I took it, learned from it, and grew stronger. Whether or not that's actually true remains to be seen, but I certainly do the best I can.
And with that, I feel peaceful enough to go to bed. Goodnight dear reader, sweet dreams and much happiness to you.
Journals
Warning: this blog includes content that would be considered adult and may be offensive. Please do not continue to read unless you agree to being subjected to this material.
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 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.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Custody
I'm learning it's challenging to drag old memories out of my mind, especially given that I've spent my entire life repressing them. I look back at my relationships with friends and realize that most of them never had a clue about what went on behind closed doors (until a supposed best friend make a fairly public announcement...I'll get to that later). I have someone that I've considered one of my closest friends since I was 12 and I'm pretty sure she knows only surface details. Our relationship primarily worked because I was content just to hang around with her and feel included in something for once in my life. We talked boys and music and ridiculous girly things, but I didn't discuss my family. I would shove the memories back down quickly if they surfaced-and I never knew when to expect it or what would trigger a flashback. I remember crying myself to sleep on the bunk bed one evening trying desperately not to let the sobs rack my body so I wouldn't wake my friend. I've never thought of myself as immature; I have never acted my age. I'm still very young but have experienced some of the less appealing sides of life and it shows-that kind of stress takes a toll both physically and mentally. Looking back, I wonder how I managed it. My therapists were never especially helpful and I didn't really have many people to talk to. Those that I tried to confide in couldn't understand as they had never had to deal with the darker aspects of some families. I'm still very grateful that I had people that would let me vent just a little-I believe it's necessary for a person to be able to get the negativity out of their system.
Alright, alright, I'll try to stop procrastinating now. I spent a good deal of time today thinking about what point in time I wanted to get out of my head tonight. I'm trying to start small and work my way up to the big stuff....I'm still scared of verbalizing what happened-or putting in text, in this case. I honestly don't know how I will react. That might sound odd, but sometimes just tiny things, ordinarily no big deal, can send me into fits of rage or depression that I'm unable to handle. Given that I have two small children that depend on me for their care, unexpected emotional outbursts are not ideal.
Tonight I've decided to address the strange parental arrangements my family concocted. It's something very basic, a question I was often asked during my school years: why did I live with my grandmother? Where were my parents? Why had nobody met them? Come to think of it, I'm fairly certain only one of my friends from school ever met my "father." She was also the one that I ended up confiding in before the insanity really hit its full stride.
From as early as I can remember, I didn't have a set home. I was passed around between houses, from Minnie's to my mom's, and during a brief divorce, also to my dad and step-mom's house. It was very confusing, but I felt the most comfortable with Minnie. There was always food, a warm bed to sleep in, it smelled lovely, and there was plenty of love to be had. Unfortunately there was also a crap-ton of passive aggressive and codependent behaviors and it was from Minnie that I learned most of life's lessons. I don't remember what finally brought it all to a head, but the first turning point was in second grade.
Minnie and my dad had gone to the store, leaving me with several aunts, uncles, and cousins. My mom called and asked to come pick me up out of the blue-bear in mind this was during my parents' first divorce. My aunt replied that she didn't think it would be a good idea until Minnie came home, just to make sure that there would be no issues and everybody was on the same page. That made sense even to me, and I was only 6 or 7. To Mom though, it was an extreme insult to have someone tell her she couldn't come get her daughter. She ordered me to pack my things and said she'd be there to get me shortly.
By the time Mom got there it seemed as if everybody in my entire family was there-and my family is huge. There were even more aunts, uncles, and cousins, Minnie's best friend and her family, as well as our neighbors. If there was ever anything that everyone in my immense family agreed on it was that an audience was always required. Dad was back by that point as well, which is never a good thing. Mom pulls up in her beat up little car with my uncle and her new boyfriend in it as well. She marched right up to the porch where I stood, bawling my eyes out and crying that I didn't want to go, and dragged me to the car. Dad followed, bellowing and generally raising hell. If I remember correctly there was damage to the mailboxes (I definitely know our neighbor bricked his in shortly afterwards), and I definitely remember screaming when Dad punched through the window at Mom's boyfriend, shattering glass everywhere. I ducked my head down and shut my eyes as tightly as possible, because I had seen some movie with someone getting glass in their eyes-a pretty traumatic scene for a kid that age, but I knew it was "just a movie." I cried silently the entire way back to Mom's, trying to smile when she would reassure me that it was okay and I was "home" now.
The next few months were awful. I mean really, seriously, I hated everything. I wanted to go back to Minnie's but I wasn't allowed contact unless Mom wanted a sitter and would ship me off for the weekend. We were once again staying with my grandparents so there was no bedroom-my brothers, sister, and I slept on a mattress in the living room floor. This was a bigger house than the one I described in a previous post-this was before they moved to the blue house. And it was always full of people. Mom was dating pretty steady, and her boyfriends always grossed me out and were excessively rude and lewd. I do have a single slightly fond recollection of one of these boyfriends: Mom allowed me to stay out until 3 am with them to go bowling. It would have been great but Mom ignored me all night while he pawed all over her, right in front of me. It still grosses me out just picturing it in my head.
During the time that I was staying with Mom, my grandfather (Minnie's husband) passed away. He was her third husband and not my blood relative, but at that point in my life he was my entire WORLD. He was a skilled carpenter and built me piano benches, furniture, picnic tables, and even a playroom on the back porch. He doted on me endlessly and generally spoiled me rotten. One of the stories I like to tell about him was the time Minnie locked me in my room for throwing a temper tantrum. I waited until she came back to see if I was ready to apologize, then literally crawled through her legs and ran to climb on Papaw's lap. His exact words were, "What are you doing to this poor baby?" I stayed with Papaw for the rest of the day. He taught me how to color in between the lines, showed me how to draw pictures (leaving Minnie angry when she would find our drawings in the back of a storybook that wasn't intended for anything but reading). In short, I adored him.
Words cannot describe how very difficult it was for me when I was not allowed to attend his funeral. I have his American flag displayed in a wooden case in my living room now, as well as pictures of him and nearly everything he ever gave me. I have never gotten over it. Both Mom and Minnie still blame each other for my absence; neither one of them is adult enough to admit wrongdoing. I hold an everlasting grudge against the both of them for taking away my chance to say goodbye. He died in his sleep, and I'm very grateful that he was peaceful. But I would have appreciated the chance to tell Papaw I loved him one more time. I haven't visited his grave in a couple of years now because the last time left me numb for a couple of weeks. Papaw wouldn't want me to live that way. He and Mamaw Granny are the two of the main reasons I'm trying so hard to straighten myself out (along with my children, of course). I would hate it for the two of them to look down on me from heaven and be disappointed. I'd like to think that if they were here they'd be spoiling the crap out of my kids and would have been there to hold me when I so desperately needed someone. To my deceased grandparents-I love you both very much and miss you every day. <3
Sometime after this whole situation went down, Minnie hired an attorney and went to court to get joint custody of me. She has held that $1200 attorney's fee over my head ever since, but honestly had it not been for her I might have just caved. I distinctly remember Mom asking me what I wanted and I told her I wanted to live with Minnie. Mom swears it never happened and says signing over her parental rights was one of the biggest mistakes she ever made. I don't know, but I'm glad she did it. I got to move back home with Minnie, with weekend and summer visitation.
That was really just the start of it. I was enrolled in the magnet program-the very first class, and one of only a couple that weren't transplants. Most of the kids in class were extremely intelligent and had been transferred by their parents to get a superior education. I'll be honest, I always felt like an outsider-like I didn't belong. I was the kid they kept just to say there were a few from Beaumont, but I wasn't nearly as intelligent as my peers. They were nice enough-some I tried earnestly to keep in touch with, but as with everything else in life, absence tends to wipe things from your immediate attention.
After a couple of years the magnet program really got to me. I spent hours doing homework in the evenings and usually the majority of my weekends were used up for the same. There were times I couldn't visit Mom because I had so much homework. Of course Mom was having none of that. In fifth grade I moved in with her again, this time living with her best friend from high school and her husband and three kids. I'm still pretty close with that family and I really liked them-I even forged a couple of independent friendships at the school I attended in Lenoir City-but I didn't like it. Living under Dad's tyranny was stifling. I soon moved back in with Minnie and resumed the magnet program, but I never really caught up. I wanted to stick with it and go to Vine for middle school, but Dad was having none of it because it was a "black school." I am not at all racist and I hate to even put those words in here (I was later to get kicked out for dating a black guy-more another time), but it's the reality of the situation. I still find it odd that my parents lived in nearly every housing project in Knoxville and that my brothers went to Sarah Moore Greene (which was also predominantly black) but that I was not allowed to attend Vine. His promise to me was that if I didn't go, he would pay for me to have dance lessons. I really, truly did not want to give up dance class. I loved it-it brightened my entire day. I loved our concerts despite my family's mutterings about not understanding it (it was interpretive dance). I felt free, I felt...I don't know, I felt *right* in that class. So I went to Northwest instead, and never had another dance class from that day forward.
That's really only the beginning of the custody battle but I don't think I can handle anymore tonight. I have no idea how I'm going to get through all of this. There's no chronology here, it's just me spewing forth what comes into my head. I have a journal filled with notes, several incidents that have come into my mind that I have made reminders to myself to cover. After it is done I promise myself I will come back and put it in order.
But you know, I really do think this is helping. I have been way more relaxed, and I know I'll sleep easy tonight. It honestly feels good just to get this out.
Alright, alright, I'll try to stop procrastinating now. I spent a good deal of time today thinking about what point in time I wanted to get out of my head tonight. I'm trying to start small and work my way up to the big stuff....I'm still scared of verbalizing what happened-or putting in text, in this case. I honestly don't know how I will react. That might sound odd, but sometimes just tiny things, ordinarily no big deal, can send me into fits of rage or depression that I'm unable to handle. Given that I have two small children that depend on me for their care, unexpected emotional outbursts are not ideal.
Tonight I've decided to address the strange parental arrangements my family concocted. It's something very basic, a question I was often asked during my school years: why did I live with my grandmother? Where were my parents? Why had nobody met them? Come to think of it, I'm fairly certain only one of my friends from school ever met my "father." She was also the one that I ended up confiding in before the insanity really hit its full stride.
From as early as I can remember, I didn't have a set home. I was passed around between houses, from Minnie's to my mom's, and during a brief divorce, also to my dad and step-mom's house. It was very confusing, but I felt the most comfortable with Minnie. There was always food, a warm bed to sleep in, it smelled lovely, and there was plenty of love to be had. Unfortunately there was also a crap-ton of passive aggressive and codependent behaviors and it was from Minnie that I learned most of life's lessons. I don't remember what finally brought it all to a head, but the first turning point was in second grade.
Minnie and my dad had gone to the store, leaving me with several aunts, uncles, and cousins. My mom called and asked to come pick me up out of the blue-bear in mind this was during my parents' first divorce. My aunt replied that she didn't think it would be a good idea until Minnie came home, just to make sure that there would be no issues and everybody was on the same page. That made sense even to me, and I was only 6 or 7. To Mom though, it was an extreme insult to have someone tell her she couldn't come get her daughter. She ordered me to pack my things and said she'd be there to get me shortly.
By the time Mom got there it seemed as if everybody in my entire family was there-and my family is huge. There were even more aunts, uncles, and cousins, Minnie's best friend and her family, as well as our neighbors. If there was ever anything that everyone in my immense family agreed on it was that an audience was always required. Dad was back by that point as well, which is never a good thing. Mom pulls up in her beat up little car with my uncle and her new boyfriend in it as well. She marched right up to the porch where I stood, bawling my eyes out and crying that I didn't want to go, and dragged me to the car. Dad followed, bellowing and generally raising hell. If I remember correctly there was damage to the mailboxes (I definitely know our neighbor bricked his in shortly afterwards), and I definitely remember screaming when Dad punched through the window at Mom's boyfriend, shattering glass everywhere. I ducked my head down and shut my eyes as tightly as possible, because I had seen some movie with someone getting glass in their eyes-a pretty traumatic scene for a kid that age, but I knew it was "just a movie." I cried silently the entire way back to Mom's, trying to smile when she would reassure me that it was okay and I was "home" now.
The next few months were awful. I mean really, seriously, I hated everything. I wanted to go back to Minnie's but I wasn't allowed contact unless Mom wanted a sitter and would ship me off for the weekend. We were once again staying with my grandparents so there was no bedroom-my brothers, sister, and I slept on a mattress in the living room floor. This was a bigger house than the one I described in a previous post-this was before they moved to the blue house. And it was always full of people. Mom was dating pretty steady, and her boyfriends always grossed me out and were excessively rude and lewd. I do have a single slightly fond recollection of one of these boyfriends: Mom allowed me to stay out until 3 am with them to go bowling. It would have been great but Mom ignored me all night while he pawed all over her, right in front of me. It still grosses me out just picturing it in my head.
During the time that I was staying with Mom, my grandfather (Minnie's husband) passed away. He was her third husband and not my blood relative, but at that point in my life he was my entire WORLD. He was a skilled carpenter and built me piano benches, furniture, picnic tables, and even a playroom on the back porch. He doted on me endlessly and generally spoiled me rotten. One of the stories I like to tell about him was the time Minnie locked me in my room for throwing a temper tantrum. I waited until she came back to see if I was ready to apologize, then literally crawled through her legs and ran to climb on Papaw's lap. His exact words were, "What are you doing to this poor baby?" I stayed with Papaw for the rest of the day. He taught me how to color in between the lines, showed me how to draw pictures (leaving Minnie angry when she would find our drawings in the back of a storybook that wasn't intended for anything but reading). In short, I adored him.
Words cannot describe how very difficult it was for me when I was not allowed to attend his funeral. I have his American flag displayed in a wooden case in my living room now, as well as pictures of him and nearly everything he ever gave me. I have never gotten over it. Both Mom and Minnie still blame each other for my absence; neither one of them is adult enough to admit wrongdoing. I hold an everlasting grudge against the both of them for taking away my chance to say goodbye. He died in his sleep, and I'm very grateful that he was peaceful. But I would have appreciated the chance to tell Papaw I loved him one more time. I haven't visited his grave in a couple of years now because the last time left me numb for a couple of weeks. Papaw wouldn't want me to live that way. He and Mamaw Granny are the two of the main reasons I'm trying so hard to straighten myself out (along with my children, of course). I would hate it for the two of them to look down on me from heaven and be disappointed. I'd like to think that if they were here they'd be spoiling the crap out of my kids and would have been there to hold me when I so desperately needed someone. To my deceased grandparents-I love you both very much and miss you every day. <3
Sometime after this whole situation went down, Minnie hired an attorney and went to court to get joint custody of me. She has held that $1200 attorney's fee over my head ever since, but honestly had it not been for her I might have just caved. I distinctly remember Mom asking me what I wanted and I told her I wanted to live with Minnie. Mom swears it never happened and says signing over her parental rights was one of the biggest mistakes she ever made. I don't know, but I'm glad she did it. I got to move back home with Minnie, with weekend and summer visitation.
That was really just the start of it. I was enrolled in the magnet program-the very first class, and one of only a couple that weren't transplants. Most of the kids in class were extremely intelligent and had been transferred by their parents to get a superior education. I'll be honest, I always felt like an outsider-like I didn't belong. I was the kid they kept just to say there were a few from Beaumont, but I wasn't nearly as intelligent as my peers. They were nice enough-some I tried earnestly to keep in touch with, but as with everything else in life, absence tends to wipe things from your immediate attention.
After a couple of years the magnet program really got to me. I spent hours doing homework in the evenings and usually the majority of my weekends were used up for the same. There were times I couldn't visit Mom because I had so much homework. Of course Mom was having none of that. In fifth grade I moved in with her again, this time living with her best friend from high school and her husband and three kids. I'm still pretty close with that family and I really liked them-I even forged a couple of independent friendships at the school I attended in Lenoir City-but I didn't like it. Living under Dad's tyranny was stifling. I soon moved back in with Minnie and resumed the magnet program, but I never really caught up. I wanted to stick with it and go to Vine for middle school, but Dad was having none of it because it was a "black school." I am not at all racist and I hate to even put those words in here (I was later to get kicked out for dating a black guy-more another time), but it's the reality of the situation. I still find it odd that my parents lived in nearly every housing project in Knoxville and that my brothers went to Sarah Moore Greene (which was also predominantly black) but that I was not allowed to attend Vine. His promise to me was that if I didn't go, he would pay for me to have dance lessons. I really, truly did not want to give up dance class. I loved it-it brightened my entire day. I loved our concerts despite my family's mutterings about not understanding it (it was interpretive dance). I felt free, I felt...I don't know, I felt *right* in that class. So I went to Northwest instead, and never had another dance class from that day forward.
That's really only the beginning of the custody battle but I don't think I can handle anymore tonight. I have no idea how I'm going to get through all of this. There's no chronology here, it's just me spewing forth what comes into my head. I have a journal filled with notes, several incidents that have come into my mind that I have made reminders to myself to cover. After it is done I promise myself I will come back and put it in order.
But you know, I really do think this is helping. I have been way more relaxed, and I know I'll sleep easy tonight. It honestly feels good just to get this out.
The Blue House
Just a note-please forgive my random tangents and ramblings. I'll try my best to stay on task but it comes out as I remember it.
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I drive past the blue house occasionally. It looks like they've torn it down and rebuilt it, but I can still picture the rooms. And the smell....at the risk of people judging my grandmother (and I really wish you wouldn't, she was wonderful), the house was filthy. Chihuahua feces and urine were sprinkled *everywhere*. The coarse green carpet resembled a Brillo pad, and believe me-you did NOT want to sit or lie on that floor. The stench would permeate your skin and it took several days to wash it off. The furniture wasn't much better given that Tiny, the chihuahua responsible for the foul odor, was given free reign in the house. There were three small bedrooms. My grandparents shared the first, my uncle had the second, and my three siblings and I slept in the back bedroom with our parents. It wasn't uncommon to find us randomly sharing a bed with our grandparents or uncle because the space was so limited. It was directly across the street from the Lonsdale projects-I guess some people call them housing developments, but for most of my youth several different housing projects in Knoxville were merely "home."
The few good memories I have of that house involved my grandparents and uncle. Mamaw Granny was the best, sweetest, loving, most caring Christian woman I had ever known. I would even venture to say she was one of the only true Christians I ever met-and she didn't even go to church (In my opinion most actual Christians don't). I never heard her utter a cross word about anyone regardless of their faults. If there were ever a true hero in my life it was her. The only fault I could ever find in her was that she was an absolutely terrible housekeeper; there were roaches and dog crap and general unsanitary conditions to deal with when you went to visit. I knew these weren't normal conditions but it just wasn't a big deal to me. Mamaw Granny cooked the best biscuits and gravy I've ever had in my life, she secretly slipped me $20 every birthday, and she loved me unconditionally and wholeheartedly. I wanted to spend time with her and my siblings, and that's all I cared about.
[After she passed we found her journals, and Mom gave me the page she wrote the day I was born. I'll locate it later and scan it so that I can preserve it in digital form as well.]
Mamaw was a dedicated wife to an extremely difficult man. Papaw was temperamental and cranky, but was simultaneously a big-hearted softie. I watched as he and Mom screamed and threw things at each other, the infuriated redheads both too stubborn to cave on the issue. Then I watched as he would hug us and tell us all jokes to lighten the mood. I remember him primarily as a resident of his chair. My grandfather was around 500 pounds when he died. As a child he had been deprived of food and when he was older he ate his fill-and then some. There were a few occasions we went out, all of us piled up in the van with the ladder on the back. It also had a foul aroma. Usually our expeditions were going "junking," which meant we walked up and down the alleys digging through other people's trash for recyclable materials like aluminum and copper so that Papaw could trade them in for money. I found one of my favorite doll houses during one of our adventures, and it never occurred to me that it might be unusual for my prized toy to have come from someone else's garbage. If I remember correctly it was white and purple and missing a few pieces, but it was gorgeous.
Interestingly enough, my father's mother (henceforth known as Minnie) worked with Papaw. She always told the best stories about him. There are two that I make her retell time and time again and always end up laughing hysterically. Papaw was very mischievous. Minnie got her hair done at a beauty parlor every week and did her best to keep it pristine until her next appointment. She came to work after getting her hair done one day (they packed tomatoes in a produce plant) only to find Papaw puffing away at a cigar and blowing the smoke into her hair. Mamaw detested the smell of smoke above anything else. She went to the boss and he warned Papaw to knock it off. Of course Papaw was having none of it and continued blowing smoke at her. He laid the cigar down to move a pallet jack, during which time Minnie sprayed it down with Lysol. The boss wouldn't reprimand her and there was no more smoke around Minnie's hair after that point.
The second and best story about Papaw was just him on his own. Apparently he ran around the plant going "Woooooooooo wooooooooo woooooo!" His boss told him to go home and not come back until he was done riding his firetruck. Minnie said it took him a week to finish riding his firetruck. Even today I can't stop smiling even when I just think about it.
Then there was my uncle. He is an exceptionally special person to me. He's missing one of his chromosomes and it caused him some developmental issues. He's in his forties but looks like he's much younger, maybe in his twenties because he never hit puberty. He is now battling Hepatitis C and cirrhosis of the liver (I never saw him drink anything more than a Zima) and is very ill, but he's always been an immense amount of just plain fun. He used to put duct tape all over his dresser and we'd color in parking lots and buildings with permanent markers so that we could play with our Hotwheels. We loved those little makeshift towns. He also made delicious grilled cheese sandwiches.
That's about where the good memories from the blue house end. There aren't many things that I even want to remember from that moment in time, and I honestly let a lot of it go. Most of the time there was spent finding ways to play in the tiny backyard and alley. We weren't allowed to stay in the house before Days of Our Lives went off-of course it usually airs around 1:00 PM. I remember baking in the sun, not allowed to go in the house to get more water because Mom and Dad were sleeping and we weren't to disturb them. We found a little bit of comfort in the trees that lined the alley. Sometimes there would be little puddles in the gravel and we'd play in those to cool off-but only our arms and legs so we didn't get dirty. It was during one of the times I tried to slip in and out of the house that I accidentally let Rachel out. Rachel was our full-blooded German Shepard that Dad paid a crap ton of money for. She had pushed past me and ran out into the street and was gone. Dad panicked and went and tracked her down with the assistance of my brothers. Because I lived with Minnie primarily at this point dad knew that if he left a mark on me she would report it to the authorities. Since he couldn't directly hurt me he was gonna find someone to punish and still make sure to leave emotional scars on me. He bent my little brother over a wooden kitchen chair, making him hold his head against the seat. Dad then took his spiked dog collar and made me watch while he slammed it repeatedly across my brother's back. I was terrified, crying and waiting for it to stop. We had already learned that with Dad you didn't say a word-if you begged for mercy or cried out in anger or hurt it only made it worse. I felt terrible, knowing I was responsible for the beating my brother was receiving. I was in elementary school at the time, around third grade, which would have made me about 8 years old. If I was 8, my brother was 6. I can still see the hurt in his eyes, the tears streaming down his face. Some images never go away. I still picture it sometimes when I see his feelings are hurt.
That little brother-let's call him James-has a twin. We'll say the twin is named Jeff. While James was a very sensitive little boy, Jeff was determined to prove himself as a tough guy. He didn't cry when he received beatings-on the contrary, he liked to laugh in Dad's face, almost as if challenging him. Dad admired that trait and would usually leave Jeff alone from that point forward. Jeff and I liked to play "fight" a lot as well. I remember one game of "fight" in the blue house that left us all in tears. Dad had decided to watch our little game, finding it amusing to watch his children duke it out. Needless to say we felt extremely pressured under his scrutiny, like we needed to prove how tough we both were in front of him. I needed to show that I could hold my own even though I was a girl. We got a little carried away and began pulling each others' hair....and that's when the dragon exploded. Dad proceeded to pick both of us up by the hair on our heads-and we both had substantial amounts-and held us up about a foot off the floor. He proceeded to tell us that his kids don't pull hair-that's a sucker's move and it's not a fair fight. He then threw us against opposite walls and ordered us to stay there until he told us to move. This is where Mom would act as if she gave a damn about her children and attempt to stand up to Dad. She got another pounding that day too, and while she threatened to end the marriage, things just continued on from that point forward.
That's all I can recall from that house, and it's where I'll stop for tonight. I'm finding it more difficult than I thought to dredge these memories back from the far reaches of my mind.
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I drive past the blue house occasionally. It looks like they've torn it down and rebuilt it, but I can still picture the rooms. And the smell....at the risk of people judging my grandmother (and I really wish you wouldn't, she was wonderful), the house was filthy. Chihuahua feces and urine were sprinkled *everywhere*. The coarse green carpet resembled a Brillo pad, and believe me-you did NOT want to sit or lie on that floor. The stench would permeate your skin and it took several days to wash it off. The furniture wasn't much better given that Tiny, the chihuahua responsible for the foul odor, was given free reign in the house. There were three small bedrooms. My grandparents shared the first, my uncle had the second, and my three siblings and I slept in the back bedroom with our parents. It wasn't uncommon to find us randomly sharing a bed with our grandparents or uncle because the space was so limited. It was directly across the street from the Lonsdale projects-I guess some people call them housing developments, but for most of my youth several different housing projects in Knoxville were merely "home."
The few good memories I have of that house involved my grandparents and uncle. Mamaw Granny was the best, sweetest, loving, most caring Christian woman I had ever known. I would even venture to say she was one of the only true Christians I ever met-and she didn't even go to church (In my opinion most actual Christians don't). I never heard her utter a cross word about anyone regardless of their faults. If there were ever a true hero in my life it was her. The only fault I could ever find in her was that she was an absolutely terrible housekeeper; there were roaches and dog crap and general unsanitary conditions to deal with when you went to visit. I knew these weren't normal conditions but it just wasn't a big deal to me. Mamaw Granny cooked the best biscuits and gravy I've ever had in my life, she secretly slipped me $20 every birthday, and she loved me unconditionally and wholeheartedly. I wanted to spend time with her and my siblings, and that's all I cared about.
[After she passed we found her journals, and Mom gave me the page she wrote the day I was born. I'll locate it later and scan it so that I can preserve it in digital form as well.]
Mamaw was a dedicated wife to an extremely difficult man. Papaw was temperamental and cranky, but was simultaneously a big-hearted softie. I watched as he and Mom screamed and threw things at each other, the infuriated redheads both too stubborn to cave on the issue. Then I watched as he would hug us and tell us all jokes to lighten the mood. I remember him primarily as a resident of his chair. My grandfather was around 500 pounds when he died. As a child he had been deprived of food and when he was older he ate his fill-and then some. There were a few occasions we went out, all of us piled up in the van with the ladder on the back. It also had a foul aroma. Usually our expeditions were going "junking," which meant we walked up and down the alleys digging through other people's trash for recyclable materials like aluminum and copper so that Papaw could trade them in for money. I found one of my favorite doll houses during one of our adventures, and it never occurred to me that it might be unusual for my prized toy to have come from someone else's garbage. If I remember correctly it was white and purple and missing a few pieces, but it was gorgeous.
Interestingly enough, my father's mother (henceforth known as Minnie) worked with Papaw. She always told the best stories about him. There are two that I make her retell time and time again and always end up laughing hysterically. Papaw was very mischievous. Minnie got her hair done at a beauty parlor every week and did her best to keep it pristine until her next appointment. She came to work after getting her hair done one day (they packed tomatoes in a produce plant) only to find Papaw puffing away at a cigar and blowing the smoke into her hair. Mamaw detested the smell of smoke above anything else. She went to the boss and he warned Papaw to knock it off. Of course Papaw was having none of it and continued blowing smoke at her. He laid the cigar down to move a pallet jack, during which time Minnie sprayed it down with Lysol. The boss wouldn't reprimand her and there was no more smoke around Minnie's hair after that point.
The second and best story about Papaw was just him on his own. Apparently he ran around the plant going "Woooooooooo wooooooooo woooooo!" His boss told him to go home and not come back until he was done riding his firetruck. Minnie said it took him a week to finish riding his firetruck. Even today I can't stop smiling even when I just think about it.
Then there was my uncle. He is an exceptionally special person to me. He's missing one of his chromosomes and it caused him some developmental issues. He's in his forties but looks like he's much younger, maybe in his twenties because he never hit puberty. He is now battling Hepatitis C and cirrhosis of the liver (I never saw him drink anything more than a Zima) and is very ill, but he's always been an immense amount of just plain fun. He used to put duct tape all over his dresser and we'd color in parking lots and buildings with permanent markers so that we could play with our Hotwheels. We loved those little makeshift towns. He also made delicious grilled cheese sandwiches.
That's about where the good memories from the blue house end. There aren't many things that I even want to remember from that moment in time, and I honestly let a lot of it go. Most of the time there was spent finding ways to play in the tiny backyard and alley. We weren't allowed to stay in the house before Days of Our Lives went off-of course it usually airs around 1:00 PM. I remember baking in the sun, not allowed to go in the house to get more water because Mom and Dad were sleeping and we weren't to disturb them. We found a little bit of comfort in the trees that lined the alley. Sometimes there would be little puddles in the gravel and we'd play in those to cool off-but only our arms and legs so we didn't get dirty. It was during one of the times I tried to slip in and out of the house that I accidentally let Rachel out. Rachel was our full-blooded German Shepard that Dad paid a crap ton of money for. She had pushed past me and ran out into the street and was gone. Dad panicked and went and tracked her down with the assistance of my brothers. Because I lived with Minnie primarily at this point dad knew that if he left a mark on me she would report it to the authorities. Since he couldn't directly hurt me he was gonna find someone to punish and still make sure to leave emotional scars on me. He bent my little brother over a wooden kitchen chair, making him hold his head against the seat. Dad then took his spiked dog collar and made me watch while he slammed it repeatedly across my brother's back. I was terrified, crying and waiting for it to stop. We had already learned that with Dad you didn't say a word-if you begged for mercy or cried out in anger or hurt it only made it worse. I felt terrible, knowing I was responsible for the beating my brother was receiving. I was in elementary school at the time, around third grade, which would have made me about 8 years old. If I was 8, my brother was 6. I can still see the hurt in his eyes, the tears streaming down his face. Some images never go away. I still picture it sometimes when I see his feelings are hurt.
That little brother-let's call him James-has a twin. We'll say the twin is named Jeff. While James was a very sensitive little boy, Jeff was determined to prove himself as a tough guy. He didn't cry when he received beatings-on the contrary, he liked to laugh in Dad's face, almost as if challenging him. Dad admired that trait and would usually leave Jeff alone from that point forward. Jeff and I liked to play "fight" a lot as well. I remember one game of "fight" in the blue house that left us all in tears. Dad had decided to watch our little game, finding it amusing to watch his children duke it out. Needless to say we felt extremely pressured under his scrutiny, like we needed to prove how tough we both were in front of him. I needed to show that I could hold my own even though I was a girl. We got a little carried away and began pulling each others' hair....and that's when the dragon exploded. Dad proceeded to pick both of us up by the hair on our heads-and we both had substantial amounts-and held us up about a foot off the floor. He proceeded to tell us that his kids don't pull hair-that's a sucker's move and it's not a fair fight. He then threw us against opposite walls and ordered us to stay there until he told us to move. This is where Mom would act as if she gave a damn about her children and attempt to stand up to Dad. She got another pounding that day too, and while she threatened to end the marriage, things just continued on from that point forward.
That's all I can recall from that house, and it's where I'll stop for tonight. I'm finding it more difficult than I thought to dredge these memories back from the far reaches of my mind.
Friday, January 7, 2011
New Directions
Why yes, I did take my first title from Glee. It fits, so I'll be borrowing it for today. I'm rather apprehensive about starting this journey, but I feel it's high time. 24 years of codependency and altering truth so that other people can sleep easy is coming to an end. Next September I'll be a quarter of a century old and what do I have to show for it? For one I do have two gorgeous little boys that I absolutely adore, but I also have years of scars layered one over the other. The pain has never been addressed and I have to do it somehow. The internet has been the outlet of choice for my generation for years, so why not? Juliet will be my only reader at that, so I might as well make use of the free services offered by Google.
When you sit down to write something like this you ask yourself how it will impact the people you love. Do you ask permission to air the dirty laundry? Do you give advance notice before turning the world upside down? There was certainly never any forewarning for me. Nobody took me aside and prepared me for what was to come; nobody asked if I was okay after the fact. Nobody cared.
I truly don't know where to start. I don't want this to come off as a high-level version of events, so things will probably come out in sporadic order. Once I've assembled all my memories in their broken form I'll do my best to compile my own personal history. More than likely, this will go no further. We shall see what the future holds.
So here we go. I'm beginning a new journey in my life, but I have to lay the past behind me. It's a painful tale of abuse and abandonment, desperation and anguish that I'm sure I can never convey. It ain't pretty, folks. It is, however, my life-and I refuse to be controlled by it any longer. I'm in charge now
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