Month: August 2012

Poetry: My Sunlight

I have written a poem in dedication to my beautiful little girls.

I have found my pieces of sunlight

My daily doses of delight</em

Even in the dead of night

These two pieces burning bright

They are my firelight

They burn stronger than daylight

Twinkle, twinkle my pieces of sunlight

You are my delight

I will keep watch during the night

Always looking for your glow burning bright

I take warmth from your firelight

Burning stronger than daylight

I bask in your sunlight

I smile in delight

With no need to fear the night

I know you will always be there burning bright

I find comfort in your firelight

So much more distinct from daylight

I have found my pieces of sunlight

My daily doses of delight

Even in the dead of night

These two pieces burning bright

They are my firelight

They burn stronger than daylight


Poetry: I Am

After my recent post, I picked out this poem I wrote in high school to publish.

crazy and demented

sick and twisted

unbelievably tormented


every time i close my eyes

i see a nightmare

that haunts me

in daylight hours

i still see a darkness

even though the sun shines

a breath of fresh air shall not stir

for death and destruction


pain and sorrow

dwell in my heart

every breath i take

is shallow and slow




Out of the Dust: Part 1

I was working on a timeline to put my thoughts in order so I am not consistently jumping around.  I used the year 2000 as my starting point because that was when I had graduated high school.  I am horrible with dates so in working backwards from my graduation, I got to the school year from 1989 to 1990 and paused.  It looked funny and then I realized why.

My mother Kim told me that I had tested out of kindergarten and went into the first grade instead.  Kids are generally supposed to start kindergarten at five years old.  I went into first grade at six years, I had this thought at the back of my head that I needed to call my mother and check my facts.  It was literally like something popped in my head.  It was like a bubble had been encasing this memory and while I was looking at how old I was in the first grade, the bubble burst.  It was like finding a box in the attic you haven’t seen in twenty years.  You no longer remember what’s in it.  When you take the lid off of the box, the light bulb goes off and you suddenly remember.

I have been suppressing several memories, I can’t remember what happened but they just aren’t there.  It’s like the slate has been wiped and the space where the memory goes is just a black hole.

I rode a roller coaster once that was called ‘The Flashback.‘  The ride held true to the definition.  Flashback is defined as the recurrent and abnormally vivid recollection of a traumatic experience.  The bubble that burst last night surrounded such a traumatic experience.

I was five years old and it was during the time frame that my mother and I lived with her parents.  She was still courting with Jack A.

I was sitting at the table in the dining room but I was supposed to be upstairs.  I heard yelling in the kitchen.  It was my mother and her dad (my grandpa).  With the flashback, I heard the whole conversation like I was there in that moment again.

My Grandpa:

You’re never at home to take care of her.  She was supposed to start school and you couldn’t even do that.  You’re gone all of the time.  Your daughter doesn’t even want to hug you when you’re home.

Then my mother said to him:

I never wanted the kid and you made me have her, so whose fault is that?

Then the memory stops.  I have a similar memory.  I was sixteen and my mother and step-father were sitting at the dining table and my mother said:

I never should have had her.

I got on the bus for school the next morning and I cried when I told my best friend Patience what I had heard.  She let me cry on her shoulder.  I was repressing the memory of my mother and grandfather fighting.  I knew we (my mother and I) moved into the apartment with Jack A. shortly there after.

My mother told me that I was so smart that I tested out of kindergarten and was able to start first grade instead.  Which means I should have started first grade at five years old.  But I started first grade at six.  My mother lied to me and now I know she never wanted me.

In the “My Mother – Follow Up to My Journal and Step-Father” post, I wrote a letter to my mother and in her response she said:

As far as an abortion goes, that would have been a sin.  I guess you really want me to go to hell.

Somewhere deep down, I knew my grandfather made my mom keep me… and now I know why.  She never wanted me and now she resents me.  The more I share of my history, I am understanding it more and more.  The anger and the hurt build with the more I understand.  When this memory hit me last night, I cried and cried and I almost hyperventilated.  This was like I experienced it all over again as opposed to it just being a memory.  I wasn’t wanted.  There were times that I laid in bed, in the dark, hoping to not wake up the next morning because I felt unwanted.

I now know why I wasn’t important enough for my mother to rescue.  She never wanted me.  She resented me even being born and I was an inconvenience.  When I said I was moving out, she showed no reluctance in letting me go.  The day that I moved out, she went as far as getting rid of my pets.  She didn’t even give me an opportunity to try to take them with me.

Now that I have this memory, it’s not as easy to stuff it back into oblivion where it came from.  I am going to have to heal from this memory.

Poetry: Highway of Pain

This is another poem that I wrote in high school.

A hundred miles an hour

Down the highway of pain

Pain and fear merge in a head on collision

Procreating a storm of thunder and illusion

Lightening flashes in the distance

Illuminating the world around me

Tears stream down my face in a torrential rain

My soul screams its pain and heartache

All I ever seem to find is a never ending hell

Blackness trying to swallow me

Insanity engulfing my life in pieces

A hundred miles an hour

Down the highway of pain

Feelings expressed, but yet ignored

I hear death calling my name

Crawling into a hole

Into myself

I see a tormented soul

Fear in every corner of my heart

A hundred miles an hour

Down the highway of pain

Disappointed = Mournful

When you mathematically add two to two, it totals four.  Here’s what I get:

MOURNFUL: Feeling or expressing sorrow or grief.

I have always known this word but didn’t ever cognitively connect the word to my feelings as I read and respond to particularly sad blogs.  This is a very functional word when it is matched to how I feel to the depths of my soul.  I first made this connection, today in the wee hours of the morning.  I shared this word with a friend today to see if she felt the same.

BLOG DISCLAIMER: I know that some of my friends that know me outside of the virtual world as well as my virtual persona will read this, pick up their cell phones, and call me.  I am going to pre-emptively say that I am fine!  I am, in no way, pointing my finger saying “You weren’t there.”  I made the choice not to call.  I made the choice to internalize these feelings to deal with them at a later date.

Here goes…

I am tired of disappointment and Tuesday night it really got to me.  More so then it normally would.  It was a culmination of twenty years of it.  I felt the world crash and shudder to a halt.  My heart shattered, splintered; millions of pieces that fell to the floor of my soul to sparkle and glitter like glass.

I cried.  I was mourning every ounce of disappointment I had ever felt.  The culmination, or the thing that caused my breaking point…

I once felt close, welcomed, and safe.  I respected this person and for the most part, I looked to her for motherly guidance.  I shared things with her before starting this blog because she has had very real and painful experiences like mine.  I was promised help… promised a break… promised support and then when it came down to the moment of truth, she caused so much stress and disappointment.  The relief I needed never came.  I felt like it was so much more work than if I had worked through it on my own.  I felt alone and lost and instead of being able to relax, I ended up crying myself to sleep.

A New Truck

These are the events that happened after I was whipped in the “My Journal and Step-Father” post.  Essentially, two weeks after that on a Saturday afternoon, I was sitting on the front porch doing homework for the next week.  I remember having to sit on a pillow because my backside was still on the mend.  Kim and Jack A. had recently gotten a new truck.  It was red, an extended cab, with a long bed.  My mother needed something reliable for transportation while she’s on the road every week.

My sister was four years old and she and one of the neighbors’ kids were running around the yard.  All of a sudden, Jack A. comes bursting out of the front porch and made a beeline for Suzie.  Suzie and her friend had been running up and down the side of the truck with sticks.  Scratching it all to hell.  Without even thinking about what I was doing, I got in his way.  I said:

“Don’t get mad at Suzie.  I saw what she did and didn’t stop her.”

Immediately, I felt the shift of rage from my sister to me like a laser beam.  He honed in on me and said:

“I guess you thought you could get back at me.”

He grabbed me by the hair at the back of my head and drug me into the house.  He forced me down onto the couch and walked back out to the truck.  During this time, my sister came in and ran straight to my mother.  Kim was in the room she shared with Jack A. watching TV.  They both stayed in the bedroom.  Jack A. came back inside and went straight to his bedroom.  He came back with the razor strap in his hand.  I received five lashes for every scratch Suzie and her friend did to the truck.  It was five LONG scratches.  After the first three lashes, I passed out from the pain since my legs were still healing from the last beating.

Can It Get Worse?

Recovering from an abusive childhood is very similar to an archaeological dig.  Bit by bit and inch-by-inch pieces of history are uncovered.  Then you have to worry about the fragility of what you have uncovered.  In starting this blog, there were three things I (and partially still am) worried about.

1.)  Will or can Jack A. ever find me via the stories I’ve published?

2.)  How much is too much to share?

3.)  What will people think of me?

I know that the percentage of likelihood that Jack A. could find me is in the negative digits; as for the other two, there is minimal concern.  Everyone that has sent me responses with words of encouragement and support has been so nice.  I’m not so worried about the last two anymore.

The second story that I publicized on my blog is titled “My Journal and Step-Father.”  In that post, I discussed the one and ONLY time that I had ever knowingly stepped out of line.  There are two specific pieces that I left out of that story.

First Topic:

After I crawled to my room to find my first aid kit and my journals, I was accosted a second time.  Jack A. told me to get cleaned up and that we had to go and do something.  I was scared.  Scared beyond the normal ‘I’m going to get hit’ fear.  I thought that he was going to make good on his many promises that he would kill me.  I was told to get in the car, which I did and the destination was the drug store.  He told me to sit in the car and that he would be out in a minute.  Fifteen minutes after we pulled in Jack A. got back in the car and we drove home.

When we walked in the door, I was told to go to the bathroom.  Jack A. followed me with a bag of items that he purchased at the drug store.  He lines the items up on the bathroom counter.  There were four things in total.  Vaginal cleansing items and spermicides and pregnancy preventives were the purchased items.  While standing over me… he forced me to use each and every one of them.  What I mean by this is that he made me drop my pants, he read the instructions for each item out loud, and then he forced me to use them in the ways that I was instructed.

I can’t even begin to explain the humiliation that this caused.  The abuse went to a whole new level.  I felt like any ounce of dignity I had left had just been stolen.   I really thought that was the worst that it could get.  I was wrong.  After I had done everything that I was told to do, Jack A. told me to go and sit in the living room.  It was close to 9PM at this point.

Second Topic:

Jack A. walked into the living room.  Sat down in his chair and turned on the TV and the VCR.  I didn’t have any idea what to expect but what happened wasn’t close to what I could have imagined.  Jack A. turns to me and says:

“Since you want to have sex, I’m going to show you what it’s all about.”

As the first scene comes on the TV… it plays through these ads for places like 1-800-TalkSex.  Jack A. forced me to watch a porn.  From start to finish of the tape, I was made to watch every minute and every scene with him in his chair.  The smile was on his face and he made sure I knew he was aroused.  He didn’t have to touch me for me to feel violated.  The next morning, I was taken to his cousin’s house.