Let me start out by saying that I am not a bitter person. Nothing you read here comes from anger or animosity. It is simply me, sharing my life with a world wide web of people I don’t know, and most likely won’t ever meet.
With that being said....
I grew up in So Cal in a, I guess you can say suburb, of Los Angeles. I didn’t grow up in some fairy tale life full of happiness, sunshine, and rainbows. My father left when I was one years old, and my mother absolutely hated me for existing in this world. And boy did she look for every chance to remind me of it. My mother hated my father for whatever reason that I firmly believe I wont ever understand nor have the actual truth of. So my entire childhood was spent being abused by my mother and the rest of her family.
My mother has a son by her high school sweetheart, who left her for the Navy while she was pregnant. He was the love of her life and he abandoned her. Spent my brothers whole life denying he was even his. This made my mother very bitter and angry. So angry that she felt I deserved to be punished for what he and my father both did. And she used my brother to do it. She put it in his head, that I am the reason his father didn’t want to be in their lives. In turn, he adopted her bitterness and anger as his own.
I was beaten every day. If it wasn’t by my mother, it was by my brother. But my brother didn’t just stop at beating me every day. Throughout my first 12 years, until I became a ward of the state, he would burn my with cigarettes. Yes! My mom let him start smoking at the young age of ten. I was eight years old. Before that he would burn me with my moms lighters. He would cut me with knives and even stuck one to my throat once and told me “at any given time, I could take your life just like that!” I lived in constant fear of the day he did take my life. When and how was always on my mind.
During those twelve years, my brother had put me through two doors, five tables, three walls, pushed me out of a moving car, pushed me out into on coming traffic twice, poured boiling water on me, set me on fire, threw me off a two story balcony, beat me with any and everything he could get his hands, broke almost every bone in my body, and let his drug dealer molest me because he didn’t have the money to pay for his drugs.
That wasn’t the first time I had been molested, though. The first time was from the age of two, till the age of three. And I was molested by my own mother and her then girlfriend. My mother is bi, by the way. They molested me for an entire year until the day my brother walked in on the. I was three and he was five. Imagine having you five year old brother explain to you what a lesbian is, and him tell you that because you are the only other female in the house, I had to just deal. My mother and her girlfriend never touched me like that again because my mom couldn’t bare the thought of my brother looking at her as a monster.
The next time I was molested, I was eight years old. This time I was molested by both my male and female cousins. Separate incidents! It was like I was stuck in a nightmare for which there was no escape. Their reason for it was the same reason my mother and brother had. I was nothing more than I worthless bastard that no one had, does, nor ever will love or care about. I was absolutely convinced that I didn’t deserve to live and that no one would ever love, care about, or even want me. So when my uncle molested me when I was nine, I became numb to the thought that anyone could ever love me. What I didn’t expect was my grandmother walking in on it and turning to me and telling me, “little whores like you don’t get into heaven!”
But that’s a whole other chapter.
To be continued......
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