A few of my relatives wonder why I stay away. They've called me all kinds of names. I don't care- I choose Life.
My mother's husband, Glenn, was a cop. A real crooked one, at that. He drove fear into the hearts of my little brother and me, and I wakened in the wee hours of the night when he was on the late shift, the sounds of his freshly polished shoes threatening to come into my room.
It was no secret he was a liar, and a cheat. Everyone knew it. The people at church, our neighbors, my mothers brothers and sisters... still, no one challenged him, no one said a word. Nearly all of our babysitters had been approached by him at one point or another and propositioned for sexual favors. My mother knew about it and never acknowledged it. Even when I told her about what the girls had told me when I was about 6 years old, she and her friend Marcia had laughed it off, told me it was not true. After that, I knew she would never believe me.
As it happened, once when I was 12 I told a friend at school what had been happening. How he touched me through my clothes, made me sit in his lap when he had an erection, how his hands would wander. I told her that he would force me to hug him when he was hard, pressing me into him, and how I was scared that soon it would get worse. We'd had a girl living with us, a babysitter who'd gotten pregnant and kicked out by her parents. Glenn had raped her, I later learned, or rather intimidated her into letting him do it to her. She was 5 months pregnant, and terrified. When I told my friend what was happening, a domino effect got underway. She told a teacher, who called in the counselor, who contacted my mom, who nearly had a nervous breakdown. Before I knew it, our house was full of relatives, yelling, accusing, and shouting- all because of me.
My mother didn't believe me. Though I was an obedient kid, got good grades, was by all accounts a wallflower and got into no trouble, she convinced herself I was making it up. No one stood up for me. She stayed married to the bastard for 5 more years, until he left her for another woman.
You read that correctly. HE left HER.
She was a mess. It wasn't long before she found someone else, and stopped coming home. The same woman who couldn't be bothered to pick me up from after school programs or sports- because it was too far, and too much trouble to drive- drove from her work to her new boyfriends house, almost an hour away, every night. Occasionally she would come home long enough to get some clothes, and leave again, assuring us she'd be home later. Except she wasn't. She'd stopped coming home.
It wasn't unusual for me to stand in as the mother figure. I was the oldest, and my mother had been leaving me home alone with my siblings since I was 7. At seven, I was left in charge of my 5 year old brother and my 1 year old sister. I was responsible for changing diapers, making dinner, washing dishes, and packing lunches. Often, we wouldn't have food for lunch, so we went without. It wasn't because we didn't have money, because my mother bought new clothes and went out every weekend. To this day, I still often forget to eat lunch. I am used to feeling hungry.
So, when he left her, I breathed a sigh of relief. Even though my mother wasn't coming home, at least the predator was away and my over-dramatic, narcissistic mother was somewhere where she couldn't belittle us. Nothing really changed for me, except that I felt slightly less fear.
One day, my sister came home sick from school. She had always had asthma, but now, it seemed she was really sick. My mother was home that evening, presumably to get some clothes, or maybe the school nurse had called her. I seem to remember that she was happier than usual, which usually meant that she was leaving us again. She seemed to hate our very existence, so having her gone was a great load off my mind. My sister was in the bathroom when she made an awful sound. My mother and I were on the other side of the house, and, instinctively, I pushed past my mother to run to my sister's side.
My sister had to be taken to the hospital. Turned out she had pneumonia. She was 9 years old, and understandably scared. She was going to have to stay in the hospital while she received treatment. My brother had gone to my dad's, so it was just the three of us. That is, until my mom had to go. I asked her if she was coming back, and she said no. She didn't feel like driving all the way back to Savannah from Richmond Hill (I knew she was really going to her boyfriends house on Wilmington Island, in the opposite direction from ours).
We had it out in the hallway. Or at least she did. I tried to contain my rage as she went on about how she didn't feel like driving so much, that who was I to question her. It escalated, with her, as usual, storming off in a very soap-operatic type rage, permed hair and shoulder pads and designer shoes angrily clacking down the hospital hallway.
I stayed with my sister for all but one of the 5 days she was admitted to the hospital. Her father stayed on the last day (probably the only decent thing I ever remember him doing). Our mother didn't stay once. She had a concert to attend over the weekend, so, understandably, she was too busy. I remember my sister looking like death, and a chill ran through my bones. It was just me and her… what if she died? I was 15, and frightened as hell.
This is just part of my story. I have more, so much more to share. Thank you for taking the time to read it.
Friday, January 9, 2015
it's been awhile
it's been a looong while.
nearly a week ago, i came out with the story of my sexual abuse on Facebook. i incited some rage and anger, because i named names. i got mostly support from so many who had their own stories to tell.
never let someone silence you.
i want to keep sharing stories. not because i need the attention, but because it is healing. it is enlightening. by sharing our stories, we help others to find their voice, to find some strength to face their own fears, to find their own healing.
people will get hurt. i hurt someone i didn't mean to hurt. upon the initial release (after which i found myself sobbing violently in a ball on the floor), i began to want to shout it, to wear it on a t-shirt. i wanted to tell everyone i met. i got carried away, and upon being accused by someone of lying, unintentionally threw an innocent party under the bus.
i have an amends to make.
for the others, while i am sorry that they feel angry or persecuted, i feel no remorse. i feel no remorse for outing a person who for at least 30 years has sexually manipulated countless women, including his own grandchildren. i feel no remorse for calling out his accomplices, women who would rather quietly and demurely sit next to him at family dinners than to stand up and speak out. for thirty fucking years i have swallowed the pain of my mother, sister, and others coming to his defense, being close with him, taking children to his home. i will stay silent no longer.
because i have to ask myself what i would regret more: speaking out or not speaking out. i suppose we all have to ask ourselves this in order to know which next right step to take.
nearly a week ago, i came out with the story of my sexual abuse on Facebook. i incited some rage and anger, because i named names. i got mostly support from so many who had their own stories to tell.
never let someone silence you.
i want to keep sharing stories. not because i need the attention, but because it is healing. it is enlightening. by sharing our stories, we help others to find their voice, to find some strength to face their own fears, to find their own healing.
people will get hurt. i hurt someone i didn't mean to hurt. upon the initial release (after which i found myself sobbing violently in a ball on the floor), i began to want to shout it, to wear it on a t-shirt. i wanted to tell everyone i met. i got carried away, and upon being accused by someone of lying, unintentionally threw an innocent party under the bus.
i have an amends to make.
for the others, while i am sorry that they feel angry or persecuted, i feel no remorse. i feel no remorse for outing a person who for at least 30 years has sexually manipulated countless women, including his own grandchildren. i feel no remorse for calling out his accomplices, women who would rather quietly and demurely sit next to him at family dinners than to stand up and speak out. for thirty fucking years i have swallowed the pain of my mother, sister, and others coming to his defense, being close with him, taking children to his home. i will stay silent no longer.
because i have to ask myself what i would regret more: speaking out or not speaking out. i suppose we all have to ask ourselves this in order to know which next right step to take.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
pretty ugly
i would be lying if i said i didn't think i was pretty. people tell me that, always have, and often i look into the mirror and i see a woman with nicely balanced features, decent skin, good hair, and not-too-fucked-up teeth. i see a slim figure, needing work in a few places, but pleasant and attractive nonetheless.
it's odd then, that when i see my self, i only see ugly.
it's not the looks, per se. and it's not the soul, either, as i think that aside from some pretty stupid choices in my 20's, i'm a fairly decent person. in fact, i ponder deeply matters of the heart, my own conflicted one especially, and i do my best to be kind and caring, even though i don't always do it right. i'm a good listener, i don't steal, and i truly appreciate folks from all walks of life.
still, there is a breakdown somewhere. i suspect it is in the foundation of me, the beginnings of life vandalized and spat upon. i can hear my mothers hateful voice telling me how plain and homely i am, ridiculing me in front of people, conflicting with my grandmothers insistence that i am pretty, pushing that competitive, hairsprayed, beauty queen brand of 'beauty'. but that's not what confuses me the most. it's the seedy eyes, the man in my house who salivated over my young body as a child, fondling me through my clothes right there in the middle of everything, my mother never noticing, never caring. the watching of my hips spreading with puberty, my tiny breasts forming under a training bra, and the moving me closer to him as he had an erection next to me on the living room couch. to this day, it makes me feel sick, nauseated, and knowing that it was the pretty that attracted him to me, his stepdaughter, that makes me wish to cast if off of me, as far as possible, throw it away in favor of breakouts and glasses and a shaved head. because pretty makes me a target, puts me in danger.
it used to be the zits on my face. oh, i covered them up with pounds of makeup alright, but i couldn't help but to pick, pick, pick, making the acne worsen and redden, puffing up my face until it hurt. and from there, it was the chest, the breast area especially, and then the neck and shoulders, admittedly my best physical features. now i've moved down to the legs, pregnancy hormones having cleared up my face and breast profoundly. and for this, i should be happy, but instead i continue to obsessively seek out all the ugly i can find on me.
perhaps i do it because it is a problem i can sort of control, little tiny purges i can attack anywhere, at anytime. perhaps it distracts me from the bigger problems, the ones out of my reach, the ones that if i sat with them long enough might destroy me, might suffocate me with their unresolvedness. perhaps it is to keep me ugly on a physical level, so that i might feel safer, secure in my repugnant body, certain no stranger would want to touch me.
intellectually, i can acknowledge this as a real issue, and the solution is to just stop doing it. to accept my self as i am, pretty or ugly, but to be uncompromisingly me. and the even bigger issue would be to give myself over to the beauty that is sublime, to give the most beautiful part of myself to the man i love, as he has loved me through it all, zitted and bald, scared and bitter. still i find ways to put a barrier between us, yet he remains ever faithful and committed to loving me, no matter what.
we'll marry soon. i hope i can let this go by then, so that i can vow to give him the best of me now, and to mean it and follow through. i hope i can learn to see me through his eyes, to love myself with tenderness and patience. it's the least i can do for the one who brings such beauty to my world, who has blessed me with not only his presence, his home, his art, and his soul, but now with the most precious gift, our son. i hope i can let go of the rest of my ugly, and learn to trust, and remember how to love, and to begin to live in beauty.
it's odd then, that when i see my self, i only see ugly.
it's not the looks, per se. and it's not the soul, either, as i think that aside from some pretty stupid choices in my 20's, i'm a fairly decent person. in fact, i ponder deeply matters of the heart, my own conflicted one especially, and i do my best to be kind and caring, even though i don't always do it right. i'm a good listener, i don't steal, and i truly appreciate folks from all walks of life.
still, there is a breakdown somewhere. i suspect it is in the foundation of me, the beginnings of life vandalized and spat upon. i can hear my mothers hateful voice telling me how plain and homely i am, ridiculing me in front of people, conflicting with my grandmothers insistence that i am pretty, pushing that competitive, hairsprayed, beauty queen brand of 'beauty'. but that's not what confuses me the most. it's the seedy eyes, the man in my house who salivated over my young body as a child, fondling me through my clothes right there in the middle of everything, my mother never noticing, never caring. the watching of my hips spreading with puberty, my tiny breasts forming under a training bra, and the moving me closer to him as he had an erection next to me on the living room couch. to this day, it makes me feel sick, nauseated, and knowing that it was the pretty that attracted him to me, his stepdaughter, that makes me wish to cast if off of me, as far as possible, throw it away in favor of breakouts and glasses and a shaved head. because pretty makes me a target, puts me in danger.
it used to be the zits on my face. oh, i covered them up with pounds of makeup alright, but i couldn't help but to pick, pick, pick, making the acne worsen and redden, puffing up my face until it hurt. and from there, it was the chest, the breast area especially, and then the neck and shoulders, admittedly my best physical features. now i've moved down to the legs, pregnancy hormones having cleared up my face and breast profoundly. and for this, i should be happy, but instead i continue to obsessively seek out all the ugly i can find on me.
perhaps i do it because it is a problem i can sort of control, little tiny purges i can attack anywhere, at anytime. perhaps it distracts me from the bigger problems, the ones out of my reach, the ones that if i sat with them long enough might destroy me, might suffocate me with their unresolvedness. perhaps it is to keep me ugly on a physical level, so that i might feel safer, secure in my repugnant body, certain no stranger would want to touch me.
intellectually, i can acknowledge this as a real issue, and the solution is to just stop doing it. to accept my self as i am, pretty or ugly, but to be uncompromisingly me. and the even bigger issue would be to give myself over to the beauty that is sublime, to give the most beautiful part of myself to the man i love, as he has loved me through it all, zitted and bald, scared and bitter. still i find ways to put a barrier between us, yet he remains ever faithful and committed to loving me, no matter what.
we'll marry soon. i hope i can let this go by then, so that i can vow to give him the best of me now, and to mean it and follow through. i hope i can learn to see me through his eyes, to love myself with tenderness and patience. it's the least i can do for the one who brings such beauty to my world, who has blessed me with not only his presence, his home, his art, and his soul, but now with the most precious gift, our son. i hope i can let go of the rest of my ugly, and learn to trust, and remember how to love, and to begin to live in beauty.
untitled
i was visited by an oft-invisible friend today. she may not have realized it- or maybe she did- but i needed to see her.
it's odd. i really haven't known her very long, nor do i know her especially well. but somehow, we know that the other one carries within her a knowledge, an intuition of how the other one suffers.
but i don't mean to be cryptic. the thing is, we are both fractured, cracked at the foundation. i often wonder if we would be friends if we weren't, if either of us were "normal."
but we're not, and here we are. and i wonder if i would have found the friends, my love, and my son, if i hadn't been mishandled, if i had had higher self-esteem and made less scarring mistakes.
it's difficult to explain the images that haunt my dreams, the fears that grip my body, the self-loathing that whispers in my mind while i'm trying to pretend to live a normal life. it follows me, stalks me, it is as relentless as i am determined, and it will not stop. it's in my blood.
and it's damn near impossible to explain it to someone who hasn't experienced this kind of betrayal, to begin your young life knowing the inside-out feeling of knowing too much, and of knowing something so foul there aren't words for it, and there is no accountability. no way to avenge, to make it right, to mend it or heal it. you just learn to live with it, and sometimes, it kicks your ass to the point that you are curled up and crying, vomiting, hiding from life as your kid calls out for your touch. and you go to him, and you die a little, and then rebuild a little, and you wonder how someone can embody the kind of evil that could harm something so helpless, how parental love could ever give way to betrayal, and crush a budding soul.
i probably will never stop fighting this demon. she likely won't either. and we will still hide sometimes, and loathe ourselves, but hopefully, on occasion, we'll still get together to root down and reach out, share a floor and share our stories.
(thanks, j.)
it's odd. i really haven't known her very long, nor do i know her especially well. but somehow, we know that the other one carries within her a knowledge, an intuition of how the other one suffers.
but i don't mean to be cryptic. the thing is, we are both fractured, cracked at the foundation. i often wonder if we would be friends if we weren't, if either of us were "normal."
but we're not, and here we are. and i wonder if i would have found the friends, my love, and my son, if i hadn't been mishandled, if i had had higher self-esteem and made less scarring mistakes.
it's difficult to explain the images that haunt my dreams, the fears that grip my body, the self-loathing that whispers in my mind while i'm trying to pretend to live a normal life. it follows me, stalks me, it is as relentless as i am determined, and it will not stop. it's in my blood.
and it's damn near impossible to explain it to someone who hasn't experienced this kind of betrayal, to begin your young life knowing the inside-out feeling of knowing too much, and of knowing something so foul there aren't words for it, and there is no accountability. no way to avenge, to make it right, to mend it or heal it. you just learn to live with it, and sometimes, it kicks your ass to the point that you are curled up and crying, vomiting, hiding from life as your kid calls out for your touch. and you go to him, and you die a little, and then rebuild a little, and you wonder how someone can embody the kind of evil that could harm something so helpless, how parental love could ever give way to betrayal, and crush a budding soul.
i probably will never stop fighting this demon. she likely won't either. and we will still hide sometimes, and loathe ourselves, but hopefully, on occasion, we'll still get together to root down and reach out, share a floor and share our stories.
(thanks, j.)
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
addiction
i can't stop. i'm talking to myself now, someone might hear, but it's ok, it's just me and me now. only we know what we need to do, no more asking for permission.
i lost count of how many times i did it, i'm just glad i did and i don't want to stop. but that's what happens when it starts, it stays in motion and just keeps going as long as you let it.
no one has to know. maybe they won't discover me until after i'm dead. it doesn't matter, i just have to keep doing it. it needs me, and i need it.
i write to love, i write to live.
i lost count of how many times i did it, i'm just glad i did and i don't want to stop. but that's what happens when it starts, it stays in motion and just keeps going as long as you let it.
no one has to know. maybe they won't discover me until after i'm dead. it doesn't matter, i just have to keep doing it. it needs me, and i need it.
i write to love, i write to live.
the stories
the stories, the stories, the stories.
they will become. the lonesome cowboy with the dark secret. the number of breaths a person takes in a lifetime. the hidden language of the natural imagination. the tortured couple who can't help but be together. the snark, the snitch, the fairy-tale witch. all things imaginative are alive, they are within here, in the head, inhabiting the heart.
the stories are there for a reason.
they will become. the lonesome cowboy with the dark secret. the number of breaths a person takes in a lifetime. the hidden language of the natural imagination. the tortured couple who can't help but be together. the snark, the snitch, the fairy-tale witch. all things imaginative are alive, they are within here, in the head, inhabiting the heart.
the stories are there for a reason.
just keep writing
just keep writing. someday it may all make sense.
just keep writing. it's all for you and no one will read it anyway.
just keep writing. your life depends on it.
just keep writing. you'll want the boy to know what you spent your time doing.
just keep writing. there's inspiration in there somewhere.
just keep writing. these stories won't tell themselves.
just keep writing. there's a song on the brink of being sung.
just keep writing. he's playing by himself and that doesn't happen often.
just keep writing. you have nothing better to do.
just keep writing. don't you want to leave a legacy in words?
just keep writing. you once wrote beautiful poetry.
just keep writing. you can find those words again.
just keep writing. there are characters dying to be realized, plots longing to thicken.
just keep writing. how else are you going to change the world?
just keep writing. it's not the first time he's been fussy.
just keep writing. a creative mama is a happy mama.
just keep writing. you never know when you'll get time again.
just keep writing. you've got vows to recite in 2 months.
just keep writing. your friends really want you to.
just keep writing. it'll all make sense eventually.
just keep writing. it's something you're sort of good at.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
just keep writing. it's all for you and no one will read it anyway.
just keep writing. your life depends on it.
just keep writing. you'll want the boy to know what you spent your time doing.
just keep writing. there's inspiration in there somewhere.
just keep writing. these stories won't tell themselves.
just keep writing. there's a song on the brink of being sung.
just keep writing. he's playing by himself and that doesn't happen often.
just keep writing. you have nothing better to do.
just keep writing. don't you want to leave a legacy in words?
just keep writing. you once wrote beautiful poetry.
just keep writing. you can find those words again.
just keep writing. there are characters dying to be realized, plots longing to thicken.
just keep writing. how else are you going to change the world?
just keep writing. it's not the first time he's been fussy.
just keep writing. a creative mama is a happy mama.
just keep writing. you never know when you'll get time again.
just keep writing. you've got vows to recite in 2 months.
just keep writing. your friends really want you to.
just keep writing. it'll all make sense eventually.
just keep writing. it's something you're sort of good at.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
just keep writing.
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