We started in the beginning...
We used to play endlessly in the parks and laugh until we cried, not knowing that would be the best years of childhood, I was too young to see the cracks in the perfect mural my mother painted our lives to be. When the storm finally hit, the water separated us all, leaving us in undesirable places. I found myself in my fathers home. He was a vague memory in my mind. He was like my mother, except, he never tried to cover up the ugly cracks, the mural was shown to the social workers that came endlessly for my deep purple black bruises , the ribs that began to push against my skin, and the cuts I made on my thighs to feel something. The days blurred and I felt stuck in limbo, paying for my parents mistakes in life. I reached out my hand desperately to my older brother, only for him to now share the same smile my father gave me when he would bring in the belt. I was alone. The innocence I had within me was stripped from me when my father visited my room one afternoon. He called me my mothers name and I stared at the popcorn ceiling, counting the dots in hopes it would stop. I cried the whole night. I told my stepmother only for her to push 5$ into my palm and told me to not say a word. I began to seek an end to this. Certainly the darkness of death was better than this infinite loop. I stared at the razor and the bottle of pills I had in each hand, I never noticed my once hot water had turned cold. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give up on returning to my mothers home. At least she kept up the illusion better. I found rage within me, not hope. I did my chores without a whimper and the snapping of the wet, hot, leather belt became familiar to my body, the scars turned pink and white, and I felt a shell of myself. My tenth birthday passed and I received 2 shirts from the goodwill unwashed, and my step siblings received new wardrobes and jewelry. I quietly washed their cake smeared dishes, wishing I could have a slice. I felt his hot breath on my neck, a waft of liquor and cigarettes infiltrated my nostrils. His calloused hands touched me and I felt assured for once, the fear of repercussions left me and I felt his flesh rip when I sunk the soapy knife into his shoulder, panic rushed into me. Run. Run. Run. I sat on the hot Arizona pavement until an officer wrapped a blanket around me and asked a question my brain couldn’t understand. I heard my brothers laugh fill the air “why would you try to fight a grown man, what an idiot.” The brother who cared for me and whom I idolized became a mirror image of the man being shoved into a police car. We stayed at my step sisters home until my mother could save us. I became the maid, the nanny, and the punching bag yet again for her husband. I no longer believed I deserved better. My mother arrived and we made a long drive back to California, I had left limbo, but the nightmares followed. No one tells you that they follow you everywhere even after the storm had passed. I began to shake when the nights were quiet, quiet nights meant he would sneak into my room. I would cry, scream, shake, and disassociate. My mothers patience had grown thin for my behavior over the years. She didn’t know why I still cried. I should’ve been over it. I began to give pieces of myself to boys in hopes they would take me away from the nightmares. And when her boyfriend grabbed my butt under the blankets, she hid that secret and still let him sleep in our home. I drank myself numb and let the music vibrate against my body. The handsome stranger behind me desperately grabbing onto my hips and I didn’t want it. But if I willingly gave him my body, at least it wouldn’t hurt, right? Man, after man, came into my life with promises to take me away but the baggage was too heavy for them to carry. So I was used, and left in the pit. The feeling of his calloused hands touching my child body never left my mind. No matter how much I scrubbed my body raw, I could feel his fingers against my skin. I met my first mistake. He was everything my mother approved of and I desperately needed that from her, so I hid the bruises, and the scratches, with expensive makeup and dresses he bought me. I even pretended to want him. Because no matter how much I said no, he took what was “his”. He wouldn’t hit me if I said yes. My body was never mine right? His swift kick to my stomach came as consequence for invading his personal life. Just another day, except. The blood that stained my blue jeans was new. A new pain wracked my body and I thought I was dying. He killed the life within me. A life I never knew I had. A sense of courage seeped into me. I had to break the cycle. I took his shoebox filled with money and disappeared. I changed myself on the outside but the scars on my soul remained. My mothers decline was evident. She no longer pretended to be a good mother, her pill addiction led me to become her personal EMT. My finger would now easily delve in her throat to purge the 5 different medications her doctor gave her. She was a tornado and we were all getting sucked into her chaos. Her words penetrated me. She would say “you always were a whore no one raped you. You’re a liar who ruined my life and relationship.” Her boyfriend who beat her within an inch of her life and left her permanently disfigured was more important. They stole our money to drink and do drugs. But that was better than my father house, right? I delved myself into work and pretended everything was a fever dream. Until I met him, his dimples smile and kind eyes showed me true love. He never complained when I cried, or awoke screaming, his soothing voice against my ear while sobs wracked me body, helped me heal. His patience, his accepting nature, and his ability to make my mind quiet after my anxiety and depression would whisper dark things to me, made me fall deeply in love with him. He married me. Even though I felt like a used product, even though my mental illness reigned my life. He believes I’m an amazing person. I’ve met friends who laugh with me, who don’t expect anything besides friendship, who actually enjoy my presence. I’m happy. They look confused when I smile sadly, or cry among their family. It’s beautiful. Id never seen family be this way. It warms my heart. It makes me happy that they lived with parents that loved them. Whose parents didn’t, rape, beat, steal, threaten, starve, burn, or hate their presence. I thank them for showing me even a broken piece like me can be happy.
