I really don't think anybody sees this blog at all. I come on here, and pour my heart out, and not one person comments on it. I'm not technologically gifted. I have no idea how to link this thing up so that it goes everywhere in cyberspace that it needs to go to make a connection with anybody. It's so damn frustrating...
Last August, a reporter came and did an article that was supposed to be about how my parents were hoarders, and how my brother and I had hoarding tendencies because that's how we were raised. To my dismay, I was made the focus of the story and labeled an outright hoarder. Bad enough I suffer from severe emotional issues stemming from a lifetime of domestic violence...and now this. Both of these issues have a certain stigma that leaves a bad taste in people's mouths, so to speak. At a time when I need people to be there for me the most...most of them are pulling away from me.
Our house is mostly dirty and dusty with piles of stuff everywhere. No, we don't have hundreds of animals. No, we don't have bags of human and/or animal waste lying about the place. No, we don't have piles of rotten food with maggots and fruit flies all over them. What we have is a nearly 40 year old house that has never been properly taken care of, and it shows. The walls are covered with nicotine stains and cobwebs. There are rotting floorboards and holes in the walls that need to be repaired. The house needs a lot of work.
Since my mom passed away, her home equity loan has become a major issue. Her creditors are trying to force me to assume her nearly $50,000 debt or face foreclosure. They have broken their promises to me on payment arrangements before. I don't trust them. Now it comes down to getting help from compassionate people who are willing to help someone like me, or losing everything my family ever owned and being left out on the street. I promise you this...if it comes down to that, I will not stick around to see what happens next. I know you all know what I mean by that.
Mom always told me that things have to get better from here. They never have. No matter how hard we worked to make things better, it always blew up in our faces. Unless you are capable of greasing palms and lining pockets, face it, you're fucked. The poorer you are, the more eager people are to take what little you do have away from you. Only people with money have the right to be healthy and happy...the rest of us can go straight to hell. I wonder how long it's going to be after I've lost everything that somebody finally sees this blog and comments on it. By then it will be too late...in more ways than one.
One day, I would love to get off of disability and have a job doing something I love. I love to write. I love to take pictures. I am very good at both. I'm a little OCD, tending to correct errors in newspaper articles or other reading materials as I come across them because it drives me crazy if I don't. Nobody should ever feel like they are a useless human being just because they are incapable of earning a living, whether it be temporary or permanent. Narrow-minded people with their preconceived notions and their judgments think that their labels are enough to define me. I can assure you that they are not. I have depth of character. I have worth. I am a lot like my mother, and I couldn't be prouder about that. She was an amazing person, and I loved her dearly. I always will.
If I had never run the gamut of abuse throughout my lifetime and for so many consecutive years, I'm sure I would be a very different person. But, would I want to be? Be it physical, sexual, emotional, verbal or psychological, I have endured it all. Would I trade a peaceful happy childhood for the person I am today just so that people would like me better? Hell no. Screw them. I may be extra emotional, but I have strength in other areas.
I am tenacious. I could have allowed my pain to fuel extreme violence, sadism, cruelty and all sorts of unpleasant things. But I refused to choose that path. I love who I am, and I will never surrender my childlike tendencies to anyone. They will remain rooted at the very depths of me, and hopefully one day, the bitterness, skepticism and mistrust will eventually fade to a distant memory. It's unnerving how multi-faceted I am. My writing reflects childlike joy one minute, naughty humor and/or bitter sarcasm the next. People never know what I'm going to say next. I love to keep them guessing.
I want to have the chance for people to see me for who I really am...without all of the labels. Without all of the preconceived notions. Underneath all of the unpleasantness, there is a wonderful human being in here who is long overdue in saying..."You like me...you really like me!" ;)
Friday, June 3, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Addicts Don't Take Kindly To People Who Interfere With Their Cash Flow...
I thought that making the arrangements with the Credit Union would put an end to my brother's ability to control Mom's finances. It wasn't long before I found out how wrong I was. He was still absolutely furious with me for encouraging her to do what she did. He intended to make me very sorry for that. It wasn't long before he was intercepting me on the way to the mailbox and demanding that I hand over the bills. When I refused, he grabbed hold of the envelopes and pried my fingers off of them. He sorted through them on his way back to the house with me hot on his heels.
"We're not paying this, this, this, and this" he announced. "The hell we're not!" I argued. "We can wait on a couple of those" Mom said. "No we cannot!" I shot back. "I've been working too damn hard to get you back on your feet to let him screw things up for you again now!" My arguments were in vain. I had to resort to writing my checks a couple of days early and handing them off to Dad to be mailed from his house. On the occasions that he was not available to do that, I had to sneak out of the house and walk halfway across town to mail them from the post office. It was at this point in time Mom realized that she needed to get her property taxes paid before the house was sold right out from under her. Without consulting anyone, she decided to get a Home Equity Loan.
An assessor from Fairbanks Capital Corporation came over to the house to do an appraisal. He could tell that the house needed a lot of work. When he was finished, he walked over to me and looked me right in the eye. "You're ruining your mother's house!" he spat in disgust. He turned on his heel and walked away. I was stunned. "I haven't lived in this house for three years!" I snapped. "You've got some nerve making an assumption like that!" A family friend took Mom and I down to Chicago to sign the forms for the loan. She excused herself to use the restroom. As soon as she was gone, the guy with the papers looks at me and says "How did she get so far behind on her property taxes?" "You'll have to ask her" I replied. "She's the one who didn't pay them."
Mom wound up getting a $43,000 loan, nearly three times more than she actually needed. Worse yet, it had a variable interest rate. Even though the company knew she was living on retirement income alone, they did not advise her against it. They also refused to change the due date of the loan despite the fact that her fixed income would not be available until the third Wednesday of every month. Between the required house insurance, the wildly fluctuating interest and the late fees, they ensured that her loan would never be pared down. Nine years later, despite making monthly payments, she owes about $47,000.
A representative from Catholic Charities defined their actions as Elder Abuse. Unfortunately, Fairbanks Capital Corporation was a large financial institution, and Catholic Charities had just made the decision to only intervene when smaller, private lenders were involved. In other words, we were screwed. After the bills were paid, the remaining money was supposed to be used to fix up the house. Instead, Mom gave some money to Dad for his bills, then spent the rest without putting one dime of it where it was needed most. Once again, my brother had a lot to do with that. Despite the constant opposition from him, I persevered in making sure the bills got paid every single month.
It deeply disturbed me that my brother had absolutely no remorse for nearly bringing our mother to financial ruin. His philosophy is since he didn't ask to be born, she owes him. After all, it is her fault that he's here. He didn't ask for any of this, so why shouldn't she support him? Not only did she pay for his beer and cigarettes, he used her money to buy drugs. He had the top of the line packages for the cable and the phone. He had two newspapers delivered to the house. He would tell her he borrowed money from other people to help us out and make her give him money to pay them back (I'm certain that he exaggerated the amounts in his favor on more than one occasion). In other words, he was living the life of Riley until I moved back home and put a stop to it for our mother's sake. He really hated me for that...and it showed in so many ways.
"We're not paying this, this, this, and this" he announced. "The hell we're not!" I argued. "We can wait on a couple of those" Mom said. "No we cannot!" I shot back. "I've been working too damn hard to get you back on your feet to let him screw things up for you again now!" My arguments were in vain. I had to resort to writing my checks a couple of days early and handing them off to Dad to be mailed from his house. On the occasions that he was not available to do that, I had to sneak out of the house and walk halfway across town to mail them from the post office. It was at this point in time Mom realized that she needed to get her property taxes paid before the house was sold right out from under her. Without consulting anyone, she decided to get a Home Equity Loan.
An assessor from Fairbanks Capital Corporation came over to the house to do an appraisal. He could tell that the house needed a lot of work. When he was finished, he walked over to me and looked me right in the eye. "You're ruining your mother's house!" he spat in disgust. He turned on his heel and walked away. I was stunned. "I haven't lived in this house for three years!" I snapped. "You've got some nerve making an assumption like that!" A family friend took Mom and I down to Chicago to sign the forms for the loan. She excused herself to use the restroom. As soon as she was gone, the guy with the papers looks at me and says "How did she get so far behind on her property taxes?" "You'll have to ask her" I replied. "She's the one who didn't pay them."
Mom wound up getting a $43,000 loan, nearly three times more than she actually needed. Worse yet, it had a variable interest rate. Even though the company knew she was living on retirement income alone, they did not advise her against it. They also refused to change the due date of the loan despite the fact that her fixed income would not be available until the third Wednesday of every month. Between the required house insurance, the wildly fluctuating interest and the late fees, they ensured that her loan would never be pared down. Nine years later, despite making monthly payments, she owes about $47,000.
A representative from Catholic Charities defined their actions as Elder Abuse. Unfortunately, Fairbanks Capital Corporation was a large financial institution, and Catholic Charities had just made the decision to only intervene when smaller, private lenders were involved. In other words, we were screwed. After the bills were paid, the remaining money was supposed to be used to fix up the house. Instead, Mom gave some money to Dad for his bills, then spent the rest without putting one dime of it where it was needed most. Once again, my brother had a lot to do with that. Despite the constant opposition from him, I persevered in making sure the bills got paid every single month.
It deeply disturbed me that my brother had absolutely no remorse for nearly bringing our mother to financial ruin. His philosophy is since he didn't ask to be born, she owes him. After all, it is her fault that he's here. He didn't ask for any of this, so why shouldn't she support him? Not only did she pay for his beer and cigarettes, he used her money to buy drugs. He had the top of the line packages for the cable and the phone. He had two newspapers delivered to the house. He would tell her he borrowed money from other people to help us out and make her give him money to pay them back (I'm certain that he exaggerated the amounts in his favor on more than one occasion). In other words, he was living the life of Riley until I moved back home and put a stop to it for our mother's sake. He really hated me for that...and it showed in so many ways.
The Day My Brother Made A Threat That Couldn't Be Ignored...
The incident that finally made me move out was an ugly one. I had walked in on my brother and his friend's wife messing around in our living room once before, so I was not surprised when he brought her back to the house to engage in a little 'one on one'. He took this woman into our mom's bedroom, which is right across the hall from mine. "Turn up your stereo" he said as he started to close the door. "You won't want to hear this." I cranked up my stereo, but I still heard everything.
When it was finally quiet, I opened my door. The woman disappeared down the hallway and left. My brother stood in the doorway, a smug look on his face. "Nice" I said. "Your friend's wife. This is not a whorehouse. The next time you want to get together with her, you can go to her house or go to a motel." He was looking down at his hands, but not in guilt. "Well, we can't go to her house because she's married, and I don't have enough money for a motel." He looked me over and raised his eyes to mine. "Do you want to be my girlfriend?" he said.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The look in his eyes was revolting. My stomach turned over in utter disgust. "You're sick!" I spat. "There's something wrong with your head!" I crossed my arms over my chest and headed down the hallway. I needed to put as much distance between him and me as possible. Later on, I told our mom what he had said. "You have got to kick him out!" I told her. "He's getting much too dangerous for me!" To my shock, Mom remained silent. "Mom, he threatened me with rape! Please! You have two children, not just one...stop protecting him at my expense!" "He doesn't have anywhere to go" was all she said. "Then you leave me no choice" I told her. "It's either him or me, and you've just made your choice."
A friend of mine was going to be moving out of an apartment that I was very interested in, but not right away. She promised that she would mention me to her landlord. I always made sure that I locked my bedroom door at night, but the flimsy little flip lock would not offer any true protection if my brother was determined to do me harm. It had already been damaged by our dad, so it wasn't near as secure as it once had been. Everything was fine until I woke up one morning and discovered that I was nude. My nightgown lay on the floor beside my bed. I had never taken my pajamas off in my sleep in my entire life. I had to get out of there.
I wound up getting the apartment and I lived there between 1999 and 2002. It was a month to month lease. One day, my landlord informs me that a relative of his was moving to the area and needed a place to live, so he wasn't going to renew my lease. He gave me two weeks to move out. I panicked. I was only paying about $450 a month there. I knew it was going to be difficult to find another one in that price range, especially in two weeks. Mom kept begging me to move back home. "Your brother is a different person now...he's changed." At the end of the two weeks, most of my stuff was in a storage unit and I was back inside my nightmare.
To my shock, Mom's finances were in a complete shambles. Every bill she had was in arrears. Delinquency notices kept coming. Bill collectors kept calling. Her entire $50,000 retirement fund was gone. Her property taxes were three years behind. She was on the verge of losing the house. Her checking account had been closed. Her car was repossessed. "What in the hell has been going on around here?!" I cried. "You were always so good about paying your bills!" She finally admitted that my brother had a lot to do with what was happening.
He was not working, so she was supporting him. He went with her to the bank when she got her check and made her give him the money. When it ran out, he had her write checks against her balance until her account was closed. He called up the bill collectors and promised them partial payments then never followed through. "Nobody pays the full amount of their bills!" he snapped. "Everyone sends in partial payments!" "They're telling me they never got any payments!" I shot back. "The bills have to come first! Mom's about to lose the house for gods sakes!" I tried talking to the companies that were demanding payment in full to see if we could work something out, but it was too late. They had been given too many empty promises and were fresh out of patience.
The first thing I did was have Mom take me to the Credit Union. We added up what the bills would come to each month. That amount was automatically deposited into my checking account, and I took over paying the bills. When my brother found out what we had done...he backed me up against a wall, fist cocked. "You bitch!" he screamed. "This is your doing!" "Yes it is" I admitted coolly. "The bills have to get paid, and from now on, they will be." He trashed the house, screaming and yelling that we were going to go back and undo what we had done or else. With my encouragement, Mom stood her ground. The arrangement would stand.
When it was finally quiet, I opened my door. The woman disappeared down the hallway and left. My brother stood in the doorway, a smug look on his face. "Nice" I said. "Your friend's wife. This is not a whorehouse. The next time you want to get together with her, you can go to her house or go to a motel." He was looking down at his hands, but not in guilt. "Well, we can't go to her house because she's married, and I don't have enough money for a motel." He looked me over and raised his eyes to mine. "Do you want to be my girlfriend?" he said.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The look in his eyes was revolting. My stomach turned over in utter disgust. "You're sick!" I spat. "There's something wrong with your head!" I crossed my arms over my chest and headed down the hallway. I needed to put as much distance between him and me as possible. Later on, I told our mom what he had said. "You have got to kick him out!" I told her. "He's getting much too dangerous for me!" To my shock, Mom remained silent. "Mom, he threatened me with rape! Please! You have two children, not just one...stop protecting him at my expense!" "He doesn't have anywhere to go" was all she said. "Then you leave me no choice" I told her. "It's either him or me, and you've just made your choice."
A friend of mine was going to be moving out of an apartment that I was very interested in, but not right away. She promised that she would mention me to her landlord. I always made sure that I locked my bedroom door at night, but the flimsy little flip lock would not offer any true protection if my brother was determined to do me harm. It had already been damaged by our dad, so it wasn't near as secure as it once had been. Everything was fine until I woke up one morning and discovered that I was nude. My nightgown lay on the floor beside my bed. I had never taken my pajamas off in my sleep in my entire life. I had to get out of there.
I wound up getting the apartment and I lived there between 1999 and 2002. It was a month to month lease. One day, my landlord informs me that a relative of his was moving to the area and needed a place to live, so he wasn't going to renew my lease. He gave me two weeks to move out. I panicked. I was only paying about $450 a month there. I knew it was going to be difficult to find another one in that price range, especially in two weeks. Mom kept begging me to move back home. "Your brother is a different person now...he's changed." At the end of the two weeks, most of my stuff was in a storage unit and I was back inside my nightmare.
To my shock, Mom's finances were in a complete shambles. Every bill she had was in arrears. Delinquency notices kept coming. Bill collectors kept calling. Her entire $50,000 retirement fund was gone. Her property taxes were three years behind. She was on the verge of losing the house. Her checking account had been closed. Her car was repossessed. "What in the hell has been going on around here?!" I cried. "You were always so good about paying your bills!" She finally admitted that my brother had a lot to do with what was happening.
He was not working, so she was supporting him. He went with her to the bank when she got her check and made her give him the money. When it ran out, he had her write checks against her balance until her account was closed. He called up the bill collectors and promised them partial payments then never followed through. "Nobody pays the full amount of their bills!" he snapped. "Everyone sends in partial payments!" "They're telling me they never got any payments!" I shot back. "The bills have to come first! Mom's about to lose the house for gods sakes!" I tried talking to the companies that were demanding payment in full to see if we could work something out, but it was too late. They had been given too many empty promises and were fresh out of patience.
The first thing I did was have Mom take me to the Credit Union. We added up what the bills would come to each month. That amount was automatically deposited into my checking account, and I took over paying the bills. When my brother found out what we had done...he backed me up against a wall, fist cocked. "You bitch!" he screamed. "This is your doing!" "Yes it is" I admitted coolly. "The bills have to get paid, and from now on, they will be." He trashed the house, screaming and yelling that we were going to go back and undo what we had done or else. With my encouragement, Mom stood her ground. The arrangement would stand.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth...
We still lived at the old house at the time. I had a little blue Schwinn bicycle that I absolutely loved to ride. I was riding down the sidewalk towards my house, weaving the bike from side to side when I lost control of it. The handlebars slipped from my hands. The front wheel of the bike turned to the right, and I fell forward towards the left. The momentum slammed my two front teeth down on the sidewalk. Two men came out of their houses to see if I was alright. I remember hearing one of them say..."It looks bad...it looks really bad..." They offered to walk me back home, but trooper that I was, I shook my head and walked my bike the rest of the way by myself. I put my bike away in the garage and headed up the stairs to the second story of the house, crying all the way.
Mom heard me crying and turned around to see what was the matter. Her eyes flew open wide in shock. She spun around and grabbed the handset of the phone. I knew she was calling the dentist. I was terrified of the dentist. I grabbed hold of the cord and tried to pull the phone out of her hands. A tug of war ensued, which Mom easily won. It wasn't long before I found myself in the dentist's chair, slipping into unconsciousness for the two root canals I needed to have done. My left front tooth had only been chipped, but the right one had been demolished. They didn't have the white polymer fillings that are so popular this day and age back then, so they filled both teeth with silver filling. They actually used the silver to reconstruct what was missing of my right tooth.
I woke up from the anesthesia, crying my eyes out. My parents took me to a nearby restaurant to get something to drink. They told me to just stay put in the booth, and not to get up. There was a beautiful painting of horses on the wall that I just had to take a closer look at. I staggered out of the booth and made it halfway to the picture before my legs gave out. People were staring at me, wondering what could possibly be wrong with me. Thoroughly embarrassed, my parents helped me up and hurried me out of there. They took me to a fast food restaurant and bought me a chocolate milkshake instead. I guess they figured it would be a lot harder for me to get out of the car.
The silver filling was very obvious, and I was horrendously self conscious of my new appearance. I stopped smiling. I already had enough things to be teased about at school, so this turn of events was disastrous. I had to go to a speech therapist to learn how to talk without lisping. I no longer smiled openly for my school pictures...I grinned. The photographers would do everything they could to get me to flash my pearly whites, but I no longer had pearly whites to flash. I'm sure money was a big part of the reason my parents never got my teeth fixed, but I know for a fact it wasn't the only reason...at least for Dad. Anything that would make me less attractive to the boys was a plus in his book. He never had any intention of getting them fixed for that reason alone.
All through Junior High and all through High School, I hated my appearance so much that I loathed myself. Not only wasn't I thin, I had ugly teeth. I withdrew even deeper into myself when I wanted so much to come out of my shell. While I was attending college, the silver filling in my right tooth fell out. I had no choice but to go to a local dentist. I explained what had happened. He scraped as much of the silver filling out as he could, then filled my tooth with the new white polymer. He shaped it to look like a normal tooth. When he was finished, I couldn't believe my eyes...it was the closest thing to having a natural looking tooth that I'd had in years. He didn't even charge me.
Unfortunately, the polymer expanded and cracked the tooth. A chip of my real tooth popped off, leaving a hole above the filling that became difficult to keep clean. There were many hairline cracks through the remaining tooth as well. Also, as the enamel eroded over the years, my left tooth became darker and darker. I stopped smiling...again. Now, my left tooth is not only dark, it is very painful at the gum line. My right tooth still has the hole and the hairline cracks. I have complete strangers telling me to smile all the time, and all I will do is grin at them. I even have a t-shirt that says "I Smile, Because You've All Finally Driven Me Crazy!" I forgot I was wearing it one day. This guy actually called me on it because I wasn't smiling. I laughed, immediately embarrassed because I know he had seen my horrible teeth.
I also used to love to sing. I sang at home, I sang at school, I sang in choir...music was my life. I still remember word for word the first song I ever sang that my dad recorded, a song about a happy cowboy. I remember a music class in Grade School where we were learning about rests. When the puppy was in the doghouse, you clapped. No puppy, no clapping. I sang every single chance I got, and it brought me such joy. People were always complimenting me on what a good voice I had. Over the years, not only have the condition of my front teeth deteriorated, they have shifted as well. I can no longer sing clearly, and I spray and spit saliva when I do. It broke my heart, but I had no choice but to give it up. If I can't sing well, then I'm not going to sing at all. I am a shadow of my former self in that respect.
One of the first thing people notice about you is your smile. How I wish the condition of my teeth could match my personality. For once in my life, I would love to be able to open my mouth and smile, laugh and get to know people without being ashamed about the way that my teeth look. I have been ashamed for nearly forty years. When I think about how much my appearance has held me back over the years, all of the lost opportunities, all of the lost self-esteem, it's a crime. Dentistry should be available to everyone, not just the wealthy or the well-insured. Everyone should have the right to a healthy smile. It's something I have always dreamed of...but I have learned through bitter experience that dreams don't always come true...
Mom heard me crying and turned around to see what was the matter. Her eyes flew open wide in shock. She spun around and grabbed the handset of the phone. I knew she was calling the dentist. I was terrified of the dentist. I grabbed hold of the cord and tried to pull the phone out of her hands. A tug of war ensued, which Mom easily won. It wasn't long before I found myself in the dentist's chair, slipping into unconsciousness for the two root canals I needed to have done. My left front tooth had only been chipped, but the right one had been demolished. They didn't have the white polymer fillings that are so popular this day and age back then, so they filled both teeth with silver filling. They actually used the silver to reconstruct what was missing of my right tooth.
I woke up from the anesthesia, crying my eyes out. My parents took me to a nearby restaurant to get something to drink. They told me to just stay put in the booth, and not to get up. There was a beautiful painting of horses on the wall that I just had to take a closer look at. I staggered out of the booth and made it halfway to the picture before my legs gave out. People were staring at me, wondering what could possibly be wrong with me. Thoroughly embarrassed, my parents helped me up and hurried me out of there. They took me to a fast food restaurant and bought me a chocolate milkshake instead. I guess they figured it would be a lot harder for me to get out of the car.
The silver filling was very obvious, and I was horrendously self conscious of my new appearance. I stopped smiling. I already had enough things to be teased about at school, so this turn of events was disastrous. I had to go to a speech therapist to learn how to talk without lisping. I no longer smiled openly for my school pictures...I grinned. The photographers would do everything they could to get me to flash my pearly whites, but I no longer had pearly whites to flash. I'm sure money was a big part of the reason my parents never got my teeth fixed, but I know for a fact it wasn't the only reason...at least for Dad. Anything that would make me less attractive to the boys was a plus in his book. He never had any intention of getting them fixed for that reason alone.
All through Junior High and all through High School, I hated my appearance so much that I loathed myself. Not only wasn't I thin, I had ugly teeth. I withdrew even deeper into myself when I wanted so much to come out of my shell. While I was attending college, the silver filling in my right tooth fell out. I had no choice but to go to a local dentist. I explained what had happened. He scraped as much of the silver filling out as he could, then filled my tooth with the new white polymer. He shaped it to look like a normal tooth. When he was finished, I couldn't believe my eyes...it was the closest thing to having a natural looking tooth that I'd had in years. He didn't even charge me.
Unfortunately, the polymer expanded and cracked the tooth. A chip of my real tooth popped off, leaving a hole above the filling that became difficult to keep clean. There were many hairline cracks through the remaining tooth as well. Also, as the enamel eroded over the years, my left tooth became darker and darker. I stopped smiling...again. Now, my left tooth is not only dark, it is very painful at the gum line. My right tooth still has the hole and the hairline cracks. I have complete strangers telling me to smile all the time, and all I will do is grin at them. I even have a t-shirt that says "I Smile, Because You've All Finally Driven Me Crazy!" I forgot I was wearing it one day. This guy actually called me on it because I wasn't smiling. I laughed, immediately embarrassed because I know he had seen my horrible teeth.
I also used to love to sing. I sang at home, I sang at school, I sang in choir...music was my life. I still remember word for word the first song I ever sang that my dad recorded, a song about a happy cowboy. I remember a music class in Grade School where we were learning about rests. When the puppy was in the doghouse, you clapped. No puppy, no clapping. I sang every single chance I got, and it brought me such joy. People were always complimenting me on what a good voice I had. Over the years, not only have the condition of my front teeth deteriorated, they have shifted as well. I can no longer sing clearly, and I spray and spit saliva when I do. It broke my heart, but I had no choice but to give it up. If I can't sing well, then I'm not going to sing at all. I am a shadow of my former self in that respect.
One of the first thing people notice about you is your smile. How I wish the condition of my teeth could match my personality. For once in my life, I would love to be able to open my mouth and smile, laugh and get to know people without being ashamed about the way that my teeth look. I have been ashamed for nearly forty years. When I think about how much my appearance has held me back over the years, all of the lost opportunities, all of the lost self-esteem, it's a crime. Dentistry should be available to everyone, not just the wealthy or the well-insured. Everyone should have the right to a healthy smile. It's something I have always dreamed of...but I have learned through bitter experience that dreams don't always come true...
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Everything Will Look Better In The Morning...
The older my brother got, the more he and Dad locked horns in particularly violent episodes. The tension in our house was always thick enough to slice, making it damn hard to breathe at times. They were having a row about one thing or another that got way out of hand, but then everything simmered down and I thought it was over. That was until I walked out into the living room.
My brother had his fist wound up in the collar of Dad's shirt and had lifted him onto the card table that was set up in front of the picture window. This wasn't going to end well. I fled down the hall to my room and locked the door. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my stereo and cranked up the volume to drown out the screaming and the fighting. I hugged myself and rocked back and forth in a vain attempt at comfort. I was so sick of having to endure such things every single day of the week. There was never a break from it, no time to catch your breath, shore yourself up and prepare for the next living hell. It was violence and chaos, 24/7 in that house.
My door burst open. I scrambled to my feet to see the two of them fighting over the damn pistol. I ran over and tried to push them back out into the hall. I did not want them fighting in my room, and I didn't want that loaded gun in my room either. Dad had the pistol in his hand. My brother was wrestling furiously with him, trying to take it away. I was pushing both of their arms upwards. If that pistol was going to go off, I wanted it to go off at the ceiling so that no one would get hurt. My brother twisted Dad's wrist until the pistol was pointing in my face. He put his finger over Dad's finger on the trigger and started to squeeze. "Shoot her Dad!" he yelled over and over again. The trigger pulled back farther. I closed my eyes and pushed their arms up with everything that was in me.
The pistol popped out of their hands and hit the floor. I recoiled away from it, afraid that it was going to go off. It skittered across my wood floor into the jewel cases that my CD's were in, sending shards of plastic flying everywhere. They continued fighting and wrestling with each other back out into the hall. There were paper bags full of newspapers stacked against the wall for recycling. My brother turned his rage on those, pummeling the bags with his fists until his knuckles were bloody, scattering blood spatter and newspapers everywhere. I was still so in shock from the gun incident that I didn't even realize the police were there.
I found the pistol. It had come to a rest under my bed. I retrieved it and carried it by the handle with my thumb and forefinger like you would any disgusting thing and handed it to one of the officers. Then I went back down the hall and robotically began to clean up the mess of newspapers. One of the men followed me. "Everything seems to be all right now..." I ignored him and continued to pick up the papers. "Try to get a good night's sleep...everything will look better in the morning..." I stood up and gaped at him, then laughed out loud. I laughed without humor all the way down the hall. "You don't know us very well" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You'll be back."
Since my Dad had a FOID card, the pistol was returned to him (of course). There would be several more hellish incidents before Dad decided the only thing to do was to leave. It was the way that he left that totally sucked. Not for me of course, but for Mom. They had many arguments about my brother. Dad wanted to throw him out of the house (he was of age by now), but Mom dug in her heels. Choosing between her son and her husband was not something she was willing to do. Both of them were making our lives a living hell, and neither one of them would be the lesser of two evils; they were equally hellish, and then some.
Every time my brother would get into trouble, Mom would insist that he be bailed out. She and Dad got into huge arguments about this. Now, as much as I hated my Dad, I agreed with him that bailing my brother out every time he got himself into trouble was a really bad idea. He would never learn to be responsible for his own actions that way. If Dad refused to pay to get my brother out, Mom bailed him out on her own. Little did she realize that by doing so, she was creating a monster. Once my brother realized that Mom would never kick him out of the house and would back him up over her husband, it took all of Dad's power away. That's when he started sneaking around with Ann.
He met Ann at the local Moose Lodge. While Mom would play the video poker machines, Dad and Ann would sit at the bar and talk. This woman actually had the stones to tell my mom to her face that she would never have anything to worry about from her. Mom had suspected Dad of having affairs for quite some time, but she was never able to prove anything. One night, while my brother was out, he saw Dad's truck parked behind the Moose Lodge. Dad and Ann were inside. He came home and told Mom what he had seen. It was March of 1991. Mom confronted Dad about it, and they got into a huge fight. Despite the argument, they attended the St. Patrick's Day party at the Moose together. The pictures from that party show them smiling and happy. That night, Dad didn't come home.
Mom wasn't too terribly worried about it, but when he didn't come home the next day either...she was more worried that something had happened to him. Technically, it had. Dad made the decision to move in with Ann. He came back to the house at various times while we were all at work and started taking some of his stuff over to Ann's a truckload at a time. Dad and Mom had been married for 34 years. He told her if she wanted a divorce that she was the one who would have to initiate it. She refused. They were still legally married when he passed away in March of 2008, much to Ann's dismay.
None of their friends knew what to do or say. They all liked both of my parents a lot, and I'm sure it was very awkward for them to see Dad with Ann all of the time when he was still married to Mom. After everything that she had put up with from that man for 34 years he walks away from her and humiliates her by living openly with his whore across town. Mom wanted to kill herself. While riding in my car one day, Mom started crying and said that she wanted to jump out. I had been very supportive, comforting her, talking with her, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right. Hearing that from her stunned me. I exploded. "He isn't worth it!" I cried. "For crying out loud, will you stop and think for one minute what kind of hell life has been for you while he was in it? You deserve so much better than that! You're so much better off now! One day, you will see that!"
Unfortunately, we still had my brother to deal with. He picked up where my Dad left off and continued to make our lives a living hell. Out of the frying pan into the fire.
My brother had his fist wound up in the collar of Dad's shirt and had lifted him onto the card table that was set up in front of the picture window. This wasn't going to end well. I fled down the hall to my room and locked the door. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my stereo and cranked up the volume to drown out the screaming and the fighting. I hugged myself and rocked back and forth in a vain attempt at comfort. I was so sick of having to endure such things every single day of the week. There was never a break from it, no time to catch your breath, shore yourself up and prepare for the next living hell. It was violence and chaos, 24/7 in that house.
My door burst open. I scrambled to my feet to see the two of them fighting over the damn pistol. I ran over and tried to push them back out into the hall. I did not want them fighting in my room, and I didn't want that loaded gun in my room either. Dad had the pistol in his hand. My brother was wrestling furiously with him, trying to take it away. I was pushing both of their arms upwards. If that pistol was going to go off, I wanted it to go off at the ceiling so that no one would get hurt. My brother twisted Dad's wrist until the pistol was pointing in my face. He put his finger over Dad's finger on the trigger and started to squeeze. "Shoot her Dad!" he yelled over and over again. The trigger pulled back farther. I closed my eyes and pushed their arms up with everything that was in me.
The pistol popped out of their hands and hit the floor. I recoiled away from it, afraid that it was going to go off. It skittered across my wood floor into the jewel cases that my CD's were in, sending shards of plastic flying everywhere. They continued fighting and wrestling with each other back out into the hall. There were paper bags full of newspapers stacked against the wall for recycling. My brother turned his rage on those, pummeling the bags with his fists until his knuckles were bloody, scattering blood spatter and newspapers everywhere. I was still so in shock from the gun incident that I didn't even realize the police were there.
I found the pistol. It had come to a rest under my bed. I retrieved it and carried it by the handle with my thumb and forefinger like you would any disgusting thing and handed it to one of the officers. Then I went back down the hall and robotically began to clean up the mess of newspapers. One of the men followed me. "Everything seems to be all right now..." I ignored him and continued to pick up the papers. "Try to get a good night's sleep...everything will look better in the morning..." I stood up and gaped at him, then laughed out loud. I laughed without humor all the way down the hall. "You don't know us very well" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You'll be back."
Since my Dad had a FOID card, the pistol was returned to him (of course). There would be several more hellish incidents before Dad decided the only thing to do was to leave. It was the way that he left that totally sucked. Not for me of course, but for Mom. They had many arguments about my brother. Dad wanted to throw him out of the house (he was of age by now), but Mom dug in her heels. Choosing between her son and her husband was not something she was willing to do. Both of them were making our lives a living hell, and neither one of them would be the lesser of two evils; they were equally hellish, and then some.
Every time my brother would get into trouble, Mom would insist that he be bailed out. She and Dad got into huge arguments about this. Now, as much as I hated my Dad, I agreed with him that bailing my brother out every time he got himself into trouble was a really bad idea. He would never learn to be responsible for his own actions that way. If Dad refused to pay to get my brother out, Mom bailed him out on her own. Little did she realize that by doing so, she was creating a monster. Once my brother realized that Mom would never kick him out of the house and would back him up over her husband, it took all of Dad's power away. That's when he started sneaking around with Ann.
He met Ann at the local Moose Lodge. While Mom would play the video poker machines, Dad and Ann would sit at the bar and talk. This woman actually had the stones to tell my mom to her face that she would never have anything to worry about from her. Mom had suspected Dad of having affairs for quite some time, but she was never able to prove anything. One night, while my brother was out, he saw Dad's truck parked behind the Moose Lodge. Dad and Ann were inside. He came home and told Mom what he had seen. It was March of 1991. Mom confronted Dad about it, and they got into a huge fight. Despite the argument, they attended the St. Patrick's Day party at the Moose together. The pictures from that party show them smiling and happy. That night, Dad didn't come home.
Mom wasn't too terribly worried about it, but when he didn't come home the next day either...she was more worried that something had happened to him. Technically, it had. Dad made the decision to move in with Ann. He came back to the house at various times while we were all at work and started taking some of his stuff over to Ann's a truckload at a time. Dad and Mom had been married for 34 years. He told her if she wanted a divorce that she was the one who would have to initiate it. She refused. They were still legally married when he passed away in March of 2008, much to Ann's dismay.
None of their friends knew what to do or say. They all liked both of my parents a lot, and I'm sure it was very awkward for them to see Dad with Ann all of the time when he was still married to Mom. After everything that she had put up with from that man for 34 years he walks away from her and humiliates her by living openly with his whore across town. Mom wanted to kill herself. While riding in my car one day, Mom started crying and said that she wanted to jump out. I had been very supportive, comforting her, talking with her, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right. Hearing that from her stunned me. I exploded. "He isn't worth it!" I cried. "For crying out loud, will you stop and think for one minute what kind of hell life has been for you while he was in it? You deserve so much better than that! You're so much better off now! One day, you will see that!"
Unfortunately, we still had my brother to deal with. He picked up where my Dad left off and continued to make our lives a living hell. Out of the frying pan into the fire.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Mind Games My Dad Would Play...
There were so many reasons that I am amazed I even made it to adulthood. One of them was the realization as an adult that my dad was most likely very under the influence of alcohol when he was behind the wheel. Dad always had open beer in the car (when it was legal to do so, mind you). When it was no longer legal to do so, that did not stop him from going 'up and down the line' as he'd call it. He'd often take me with him when he did this.
Dad would drive from bar to bar, stopping to have a couple of beers at each one while looking for and/or waiting for any of his buddies to show up. He bought me all kinds of soda and snacks, gave me quarters for the jukebox, and even more quarters to play pool, pinball, darts, or that bowling game where you slide the puck over metal triggers and the pins pull up. I thought he took me with him because he wanted to spend time with me. He took me with him because he wanted to go drinking and he couldn't leave me at home by myself. All of the junk food and the quarters he gave to me that made me feel so special kept me quiet and occupied while he passed the time. Then he got back behind the wheel and risked driving from place to place with me in the car as he became more and more intoxicated.
I knew all of the places by heart; Al's Tap, The Moose Lodge, the VFW, Ralph's, Bud and Viv's, Four Corners, the list goes on and on. When we were on vacation, it was the holy trinity of The Uptown Bar, Rhodie's, and the Chatterbox. These were within walking distance of each other, two on the same side of main street, and one kitty-corner across the street from them. Dad never wanted to go anywhere that he couldn't have a beer. I don't remember him ever running out of it either. I would later learn that my dad took Librium, which my mom's doctor describes as 'powdered alcohol'.
When I was old enough to stay home by myself, Dad liked to 'fake me out'. He would ask me if I wanted to go for a ride with him (which really meant he wanted to go up and down the line). I would ask him to give me a few minutes to get ready (we're talking no more than five minutes at the most here people). He would sneak out of the house and get in the car. I would walk out the door to find a) the car pulling out of the driveway b) the car halfway down the block already or c) the car already long gone. After several episodes of this particular behavior, I said "If you really don't want me to go with you, please don't ask me to. Sneaking out and leaving me behind after you've asked me to go with you is just cruel, and there's no excuse for it."
He was also very cruel to me about my weight. It didn't matter that he was a major contributor to my extra pounds with all of the junk food he was always plying me with for one reason or another. It also didn't help that he had a sadistic side. There was a grocer in town called Fairway Foods that sold the most god-awful store brand canned spaghetti I had ever tasted in my life. Franco American it was NOT. Slimy, tasteless noodles in red-colored water that was supposed to be sauce. There was no flavor whatsoever. I was gagging on this stuff.
Dad asked me what was wrong. "This is nasty! There's no way I'm eating that!" I spat in disgust. "You...don't like it?" He stared at me, utterly incredulous. "No, it's gross!" He shook his head. "I don't believe it!" he said. I turned towards the wastebasket to throw the can away. "Give me that" Dad said. Puzzled, I handed it over. He set the can on the table and left. He returned with a piece of notebook paper and a black marker. He made a sign and propped it up next to the can. In big, block letters he had written: The Only Food That Becky Doesn't Like. A sizable arrow pointed in the direction of the can. I rolled my eyes and moved to take it down. "Leave it!" he snapped. "What? Why?" I asked. "I said leave it" he warned.
I knew that my brother's friends were going to see it....and so did he. I started to feel sick inside. I tried one last time. "But Dad..." "LEAVE IT OR ELSE!" he thundered. When my brother's friends came over, I could hear them laughing and joking about it. I was humiliated into the very dust. My heart screams anew in agony with the memories of wounds as fresh as the day they were made, the pain laying me open straight down to the bone with every word that I speak, every thought that I think, every letter that I type. I discovered that he derived a deep, sadistic satisfaction from humiliating me in front of the opposite sex.
We were at a place called Kozy's Pizza with family friends. One of their sons brought a buddy of his along with us. At this particular time in my life, I was a healthy 132 pounds, perfect for my age, bone structure and height (I was about 23 at the time). Dad asked if I had my camera with me. I told him yes, that it was out in the car. "Why don't you go and get it?" he said. "You could use the exercise anyway." Everybody laughed. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment; tears stung my eyes. I snatched the keys from his hand and stormed out the door.
There were several times at work (we had the same employer for awhile) where he insulted me freely about my looks in front of male co-workers. Mere weeks before he ended up passing away, he was still at it. McDonald's was having a 79 cent cheeseburger day. Each of us bought a sackful to take home to our families for dinner (we did not live in the same house, mind you). He asked me to carry his food for him. I had the two bags in my hands when we passed a table full of his friends. They called out and waved to him in greeting, smiling between the two of us, waiting for an introduction. "This is my daughter..." he announced to them. I nodded, smiled and said hello. He motioned towards the bags with his hands "...and these are all hers."
I closed my eyes as they roared with laughter; I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I stared at the back of my dad's head with tears in my eyes, thoroughly stung. "Was that really necessary? Why did you have to say that?" It disturbed me that he had nothing to say for himself. We got in the car; he drove me back to my house in silence. I mumbled goodbye and pushed the door shut behind me. Deeply hurt, I headed straight for the house and didn't look back.
Dad would drive from bar to bar, stopping to have a couple of beers at each one while looking for and/or waiting for any of his buddies to show up. He bought me all kinds of soda and snacks, gave me quarters for the jukebox, and even more quarters to play pool, pinball, darts, or that bowling game where you slide the puck over metal triggers and the pins pull up. I thought he took me with him because he wanted to spend time with me. He took me with him because he wanted to go drinking and he couldn't leave me at home by myself. All of the junk food and the quarters he gave to me that made me feel so special kept me quiet and occupied while he passed the time. Then he got back behind the wheel and risked driving from place to place with me in the car as he became more and more intoxicated.
I knew all of the places by heart; Al's Tap, The Moose Lodge, the VFW, Ralph's, Bud and Viv's, Four Corners, the list goes on and on. When we were on vacation, it was the holy trinity of The Uptown Bar, Rhodie's, and the Chatterbox. These were within walking distance of each other, two on the same side of main street, and one kitty-corner across the street from them. Dad never wanted to go anywhere that he couldn't have a beer. I don't remember him ever running out of it either. I would later learn that my dad took Librium, which my mom's doctor describes as 'powdered alcohol'.
When I was old enough to stay home by myself, Dad liked to 'fake me out'. He would ask me if I wanted to go for a ride with him (which really meant he wanted to go up and down the line). I would ask him to give me a few minutes to get ready (we're talking no more than five minutes at the most here people). He would sneak out of the house and get in the car. I would walk out the door to find a) the car pulling out of the driveway b) the car halfway down the block already or c) the car already long gone. After several episodes of this particular behavior, I said "If you really don't want me to go with you, please don't ask me to. Sneaking out and leaving me behind after you've asked me to go with you is just cruel, and there's no excuse for it."
He was also very cruel to me about my weight. It didn't matter that he was a major contributor to my extra pounds with all of the junk food he was always plying me with for one reason or another. It also didn't help that he had a sadistic side. There was a grocer in town called Fairway Foods that sold the most god-awful store brand canned spaghetti I had ever tasted in my life. Franco American it was NOT. Slimy, tasteless noodles in red-colored water that was supposed to be sauce. There was no flavor whatsoever. I was gagging on this stuff.
Dad asked me what was wrong. "This is nasty! There's no way I'm eating that!" I spat in disgust. "You...don't like it?" He stared at me, utterly incredulous. "No, it's gross!" He shook his head. "I don't believe it!" he said. I turned towards the wastebasket to throw the can away. "Give me that" Dad said. Puzzled, I handed it over. He set the can on the table and left. He returned with a piece of notebook paper and a black marker. He made a sign and propped it up next to the can. In big, block letters he had written: The Only Food That Becky Doesn't Like. A sizable arrow pointed in the direction of the can. I rolled my eyes and moved to take it down. "Leave it!" he snapped. "What? Why?" I asked. "I said leave it" he warned.
I knew that my brother's friends were going to see it....and so did he. I started to feel sick inside. I tried one last time. "But Dad..." "LEAVE IT OR ELSE!" he thundered. When my brother's friends came over, I could hear them laughing and joking about it. I was humiliated into the very dust. My heart screams anew in agony with the memories of wounds as fresh as the day they were made, the pain laying me open straight down to the bone with every word that I speak, every thought that I think, every letter that I type. I discovered that he derived a deep, sadistic satisfaction from humiliating me in front of the opposite sex.
We were at a place called Kozy's Pizza with family friends. One of their sons brought a buddy of his along with us. At this particular time in my life, I was a healthy 132 pounds, perfect for my age, bone structure and height (I was about 23 at the time). Dad asked if I had my camera with me. I told him yes, that it was out in the car. "Why don't you go and get it?" he said. "You could use the exercise anyway." Everybody laughed. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment; tears stung my eyes. I snatched the keys from his hand and stormed out the door.
There were several times at work (we had the same employer for awhile) where he insulted me freely about my looks in front of male co-workers. Mere weeks before he ended up passing away, he was still at it. McDonald's was having a 79 cent cheeseburger day. Each of us bought a sackful to take home to our families for dinner (we did not live in the same house, mind you). He asked me to carry his food for him. I had the two bags in my hands when we passed a table full of his friends. They called out and waved to him in greeting, smiling between the two of us, waiting for an introduction. "This is my daughter..." he announced to them. I nodded, smiled and said hello. He motioned towards the bags with his hands "...and these are all hers."
I closed my eyes as they roared with laughter; I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I stared at the back of my dad's head with tears in my eyes, thoroughly stung. "Was that really necessary? Why did you have to say that?" It disturbed me that he had nothing to say for himself. We got in the car; he drove me back to my house in silence. I mumbled goodbye and pushed the door shut behind me. Deeply hurt, I headed straight for the house and didn't look back.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
From Passive To Violent...My Last Straw...
I'll never forget the day that I became someone I no longer recognized. It was after the school trip to the Police Station that we had while I was still in Junior High. They had our entire classroom ride in the back of their 'paddy-wagon'. It was very small, with a bench on either side. There were no seats left, so I was stuck in the aisle. The vehicle turned a corner and I fell. I spent the rest of the ride being kicked and stomped by the other kids, with an occasional hand reaching out as if to assist me, only to be pulled back when I reached for it. More fibers began to snap apart and unravel. Once we got back to the school, it was time for Home Ec.
There was a gang of girls that nobody messed with in our school. Three of them were Karen, Kim and Rebecca. I walked into class, and Rebecca fatefully decided that she was going to bully me. She picked the wrong time. We had these god-awful molded plastic chairs with metal legs that were stackable that came in such appealing colors as Harvest Gold, Avocado Green and Terra Cotta; the colors of that particular era that remind me of assorted baby barf stains on a towel. Kim was at a sewing machine when Rebecca grabbed hold of one of these chairs and whipped it across the floor into my legs. Before I even knew what was happening, I seized that chair, lifted it high over my head and hurled it at her with murder in my eyes.
Her eyes flew open wide with shock. She ducked; the chair whizzed past her head, so close that a breeze tousled her hair. Kim stared between the two of us. I stood, fists balled at my sides, waiting. The gauntlet had been thrown at last, and Rebecca knew it. I so desperately wanted her to be stupid one more time so that I would have an excuse to break her fucking neck. Unfortunately for me, she chose to back down. They never bothered me again. Word started to get around that I was no longer an easy target. Some kids didn't listen.
One day while standing in line at the door of our classroom, the boy behind me decided to shove me. I wheeled around and slammed him into the door so hard I cracked the wall. "Don't you ever touch me again" I warned. He didn't. The fibers were snapping faster now, unraveling at an alarming rate. I did not like this person that I was becoming, but god help me I could not stop it, and people started to back off and give me the space I'd always wanted.
I remember bursting into a stream of obscenities in the hallway over something that upset me. A girl I knew named Pam stared at me, mouth agape. "What happened to the little girl I used to know who would never say a word like that?" she asked me. The words 'she's finally dead' exploded through my mind and echoed behind my lips, just waiting to be said. I felt sick with shame. "She grew up" I offered lamely. Pam shook her head and clucked her tongue at me as she walked away.
I had always felt this inner peace despite all of the turmoil. I had still managed to hang on to a good deal of innocence despite the events in my life that attempted to murder it outright. The peace had flown, leaving a disturbing, sinister hollow feeling in it's place. I was losing the fight to be a good person. I was losing me.
There was a gang of girls that nobody messed with in our school. Three of them were Karen, Kim and Rebecca. I walked into class, and Rebecca fatefully decided that she was going to bully me. She picked the wrong time. We had these god-awful molded plastic chairs with metal legs that were stackable that came in such appealing colors as Harvest Gold, Avocado Green and Terra Cotta; the colors of that particular era that remind me of assorted baby barf stains on a towel. Kim was at a sewing machine when Rebecca grabbed hold of one of these chairs and whipped it across the floor into my legs. Before I even knew what was happening, I seized that chair, lifted it high over my head and hurled it at her with murder in my eyes.
Her eyes flew open wide with shock. She ducked; the chair whizzed past her head, so close that a breeze tousled her hair. Kim stared between the two of us. I stood, fists balled at my sides, waiting. The gauntlet had been thrown at last, and Rebecca knew it. I so desperately wanted her to be stupid one more time so that I would have an excuse to break her fucking neck. Unfortunately for me, she chose to back down. They never bothered me again. Word started to get around that I was no longer an easy target. Some kids didn't listen.
One day while standing in line at the door of our classroom, the boy behind me decided to shove me. I wheeled around and slammed him into the door so hard I cracked the wall. "Don't you ever touch me again" I warned. He didn't. The fibers were snapping faster now, unraveling at an alarming rate. I did not like this person that I was becoming, but god help me I could not stop it, and people started to back off and give me the space I'd always wanted.
I remember bursting into a stream of obscenities in the hallway over something that upset me. A girl I knew named Pam stared at me, mouth agape. "What happened to the little girl I used to know who would never say a word like that?" she asked me. The words 'she's finally dead' exploded through my mind and echoed behind my lips, just waiting to be said. I felt sick with shame. "She grew up" I offered lamely. Pam shook her head and clucked her tongue at me as she walked away.
I had always felt this inner peace despite all of the turmoil. I had still managed to hang on to a good deal of innocence despite the events in my life that attempted to murder it outright. The peace had flown, leaving a disturbing, sinister hollow feeling in it's place. I was losing the fight to be a good person. I was losing me.
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