IAP

My mother is evil.  Evil is not being used as an adjective to describe her character, like “Girl, you are evil, stop play’in” no, uh, huh, it is a fact of my life. Through very subtle malignant actions she set out to destroy every thread of my being. To say my mother doesn’t love me is an understatement. To say she hates me is also an understatement. Its more like one of those evil monsters, aliens, or predators in movies that humans seem to terrified of but also fascinated by because we don’t understand how or why anyone could or would ever want to destroy and annihilate  another being. What’s so interesting to me about what I just said is that we can be “entertained” by these images on the screen but when someone has a horrifying childhood in our society most people can’t sit down for 10 minutes to understand and empathize. It’s always forgive this, just walk it off that, she didn’t know what she was doing, think about what she went through. Interesting.

I was they type of child who had feelings. I felt everything. I was passionate and able to keep myself company for hours on end writing, reading, drawing, singing, and using my imagination to create anything I wanted. My inner world was my life. On the outside of that was hell and chaos.

I remember when I was in 1st grade, I tried out for my first talent show. I sang an interlude off of an El Debarge album that they pulled off the radio and out of stores for political reasons so I can’t find it anywhere. But I will sing the song and post it. Anyway, I remember my music teacher looking at me in awe because I had so much passion as I sang. I ended up lip syncing because I was shy to sing out loud in front a large crowd, I lip sync Michael Jackson’s ‘ Man in the Mirror,’ and received a 2nd place badge. I was so proud of myself. I remember wanting my mom to be there really bad it seemed like everybody elses parents were there for them but mine, a common theme in my life. I felt very alone as a little kid because my mother never spent any time with me. Because of that walking through the halls at school felt alone, walking down the street, even playing with other kids, nothing ever felt right, everything always felt surreal, like I was alive but I wasn’t. So, I brought home this special 2nd place badge to my mother and she was talking on the phone and she looked at the plaque, and then looked down at me and gave me this weird look like she didn’t know me (because she didn’t) and then she snapped out of it and talked to me like I was a puppy dog and patted me on the head and said that’s so good. She didn’t ask me any questions like, what song did you sing, how did you feel, or even will you sing it for me? The next day I did the talent show my confidence was shot down a little bit more, and of course she wasn’t there. The underlying sadness I felt as kid was always in the background. The voicelessness I experienced when I look back on it was smothering. She never talked to me. It was like the nanny off of Muppet Babies  all I saw were her legs and I remember watching her from a far wanting to reach out, wanting really bad to talk and express something but knowing that I couldn’t. The only time me and my mother ‘talked’ is when she would be trying to take my Will away from me  in some way and I would be standing up for my little self and telling screaming at her that I wanted my Grandma, or my Dad, or anyone else but her. Her response was always, they can have you, or telling me how horrible my grandmother is compared to her, or yelling something bad about my father. There were never any hugs or any kisses, no bedtime stories, just men lingering around and the sounds of her having sex in the bedroom across the hall.

The most important thing to my mother was men and sex it looked like to me. She would entertain a group of men in our home, they would be in the living room watching porn while she made their food. I hated them, I always I had to stay in my room. I hated her and I hated them.  The one I hated the most is the one she got pregnant by and married.

There was something very wrong with my step-dad. I remember the first day I met him he was sooooo fake. I remember how he told Tiffany this girl that used to torture she had pretty eyes and he complimented Leah on how cute she was but didn’t compliment me, he had to go.  I used to give him the ‘get the hell out of my house’ evil eye when he first came into my mothers life. He would ask is what I was looking at him like that for and my mother would send to my room. My mother was so desperate to not have to do anything for herself the first person that was willing to accept the facade she put on and her two children was the winner.  She didn’t care that he didn’t love us.

My life changed forever the first time my mother let him beat me and my sister. I felt so betrayed it was the worst feeling I ever had my life.  First of all there was this belt that got passed down from my Great – Grandma to my Grandma, then to my mother, (its funny how my Nana and my Grandma both kicked my mother out when she was pregnant with me and didn’t even go with her to the hospital when she had me but they gave her a belt to beat me with). It was thick leather and had 4 rows of metal holes going around the whole belt. I hated that thing. Later on me, my sister, and my step brother threw it in the dumpster. He beat us so hard it cut throw my skin. I could only see red I was so hurt and so mad. No explanation, I just had to bend over and let him beat me, I had to walk over to him, bend over and let this man beat me. For what? playing, making noise while him and my mother were fucking in the other room. And then he had the nerve to tell us to shut up that noise because we were crying. How dare them do that to children. How cowardly, low down, dirty, callous, and indifferent. I hate them both.

He would tell my mother that she spoiled us and that we were talking back too much. I wished he would just have died because the only way you can communicate with her is to argue with her. The only thing I was able to fight for in my life were my clothes, my toys and going outside. I would not let my mother dress me any kind of way I was fiercely protective of my style and I guess she didn’t care too much about that because it made her look good, as I got older and the abuse worsened she cared very much if I was singing. My mother and my step – bitch – ass – crack head – cheat’in ass – pedophile ass – bitch ass dad were a worrisome couple, whose bond was sadistically attached to the destruction of their children. They deserve an academy award  for all that damn acting. They had everyone in their world fooled, and their 5 children were part of the props. With the loud exclamations from my step – dad that anything that goes on this house stays in this house. I could really throw up.  To be continued . . .