Let me die

I have to wonder sometimes how a person survives when everyone around them knows the hell they live with and never makes an attempt to stop it or to help.  I think the worst was our family that ignored the issues and yet continually talked bad about us because we were constantly in trouble for something.  We became the bad children, the black sheep of the family.  

My father's sister told me a story once that I guess I've forgotten over time.  She said I was about ten years old and I called her one night begging for her to come and get us because Satan was in a rage, had hit everyone in the house and we had run away.  She says I hid my sister and brothers in the woods and I walked until I found someone to let me use their phone to call her.  Now, at ten that means that my sister was seven and my brothers were four and five.  This means that three small children were hiding in the tree line beside the road for God knows how long before I could find a phone to get help.  Ridiculous! 

But that's not the worst part of that story....She continued on with how she picked me up and we found the babies and she drove us straight back home.  Yes, she did....where she found our parents asleep - totally unaware that I had packed the kids up and we weren't soundly sleeping in our beds. 

I do remember bits of a conversation with her and my parents sitting around the kitchen table and her being angry and telling my parents they needed to get their shit together and stop all of the nonsense....but that's about it.  However, I still wonder what on earth made her take us home!  Why would any sane, logical person know that things are so bad that four children ranging in age from four to ten, return them to their parents abusive home?!  I can't even tell you what I would have done as an adult but it sure wouldn't have been taking them home!  To the police maybe...or the hospital....but not home!

Things didn't change.  I was the bad guy - again - because I took those children with me and I put them in danger by leaving them alone in the woods at night.  Seriously!  I AM THE BAD GUY?!  Really?!  

By this time I had told every person who would listen.  I had repeated the stories so many times it became a mundane task of hoping someone would make an effort - any effort - to help.  What happens is the hope fades and people get so tired of hearing it that you become an aggravation. People avoid and ignore.  They stop listening because you are so angry, dead inside and you've said it so many times that you become like Chicken Little yelling the sky is falling!  But you keep trying....because one day someone will hear you....you hope.

I went to church and prayed my heart out.  At the front of the church there was a sign...a little boy with the saying God Don't Make No Junk.  I would stare at the picture and think what a lie it was.  God make me and I'm obviously junk.  If I weren't junk and I wasn't so worthless someone would take the time to help me.  Someone would be so outraged that Satan touched me, beat me, pulled my hair and called me names they would jump out of the their pew and take me home with them.  Someone would care enough to love me.  Secretly I hoped for this miracle but it never happened.....and still I prayed.

There came a time, though, when the praying became angry demands.  God wasn't helping me either.  Wasn't that what he was there for?!  Isn't it his job to save the little children?!  Doesn't he love little children?  I literally told God that I could not handle any more of this life he gave me.  That I needed to be free of it because I could not save everyone and at some point I'd have to save myself - or die....either way didn't matter to me.  Death was welcomed.  I didn't matter in the grand scheme of life on earth so he needed to let me go from my prison.  He didn't listen...or if he did he continued to ignore me...I started to hate him...because if the preacher, the Sunday school teacher, my family and God weren't going to help....well I can't even fathom who would....

I started sitting further and further back towards the back of the church.  Instead of heading to the alter every Sunday morning and begging for God to help me I bowed my head and told God he needed to let me die.  He needed to kill me!  Now!  Because if he didn't kill me I would do it myself.  I was twelve.  I wanted to die.  

Why?

I wish I could tell everything in one session....to get it out...to empty the boxes I so neatly packed, labeled and stored away.  But I can't...today is a moody day...it's hard to write.  The world is too 'peopley' for me today.

Do you  know what it takes to sit back and try to stay calm while your mother convinces a pastor you are demon possessed and need an exorcism? I do!  No...I'm not joking!  I wish I were....because the thought of any human being discounting a lifetime of begging for help, telling every single person you encounter you need help and then sitting down with strangers while you hear your mother whisper to them how you're a demon isn't exactly fun!  

Yes I was a troubled child.  Yes I got into trouble all day, every day.  Yes I had a mouth and I wasn't afraid to use it.  It didn't start out that way...I was a sweet child and I saw only goodness in people...I talked to strangers, I hugged people, I laughed and walked around in a hazy bliss.  And then Satan happened (for future reference Satan is that thing that others called my father).

I don't remember the first time it happened...maybe the time I remember so clearly was the first time...but it broke something inside me.  The rose colored glasses with a direct line to my heart broke.  I couldn't have been more than seven...maybe eight...but my little happy world turned dark and jaded.  My heart broke.  Life was never the same again.

That day Satan touched me...and as I felt the crushing weight of guilt stomp all over me and immobilize me to the point that I felt like a scared rabbit frozen in fear something in my brain screamed for me to MOVE NOW!  I'll never forget the strength it took for me to jump up and run away.  But I remember taking a breath at the door and turning to look back at the person who was my father....he didn't move...he didn't look at me...it was as if he wasn't breathing...and I slowly made my way to the bathroom where I locked the door and cried.

Do you know what happens when you harm a child?  They break.  Children are fragile in the naivety of the world.  They only know what is contained in the walls of the home they are supposed to feel safe in.  Do you know what happened to me that day?  I changed.  I was guilty.  What did I do?  How can I not do that again?  Why?  Why?  Why?  Yes....it changes you...It brings on feelings of hate...I hate him.  I can't trust him.  I don't know him.  He's not my father.  I don't want to be near him.  I don't know what to do.....who do I tell?  What will they do?.....Will they tell him I told?  What will he do to me?  He will kill me......I was a child and then I wasn't...because now I had grown up things to deal with.

I think my mother knew....she had to have known....mothers know, don't they? Do they not see the change in their child?  Do they ignore it because they have other mommy things to do and you're not on the priority list?  Or do they know and not care?  Mine didn't care....I know that now.  I'm not sure she even knew what to do...she was door mat, she was weak and had little life left in her.

I blame her for the future events that transpired after that day.  They are both responsible.  These wastes of life that brought children into the world to abuse and treat as chattel.  She brought four children into that house...and after that day I saw the truth and worked extra hard to shield my sister and brothers...because I was already broken and they seemed so happy...so carefree...I wasn't...I lost my happy...it died and hasn't ever really returned.

I made hiding places for them and when he was on his rampages I hid them there and taunted him into concentrating on me rather than them.  I tried to save them.  I tried to keep them out of harm's way until I could find help for us.  I told everyone!   Do you know how I know for a fact my mother knew what was going on and never lifted a finger to help us?!  When I was nine or so we visited my mother's family in another state.  Neutral ground for me.  We went to my grandmother's church that Sunday and as we sat there with the nicest lady I've ever met I told her everything....I'll never forget the look on her face...it makes me sad to remember it today (I think I broke her).

She told me she would be right back and other people came and sat down with my sister and I at that small table....they asked us questions and we both answered like we were discussing the toys in front of us...calmly...gravely.  Then my aunt came in and they whispered to her for a few moments before my mother came in and were whisked away and packed for home immediately!  Nothing happened.  Help didn't come.  Not even my aunt did anything....she never said a word...but even as a child I knew they were talking about what I had told them.  My only logical explanation is that my mother convinced them I was a liar and a big story teller...which is probably true because I've always been 'dramatic' according to them...and I'm okay with 'dramatic' but not with 'liar'. So I count this as let down #1 - not even family or the 'religious people' as I used to call them will help us....now who do I tell? 

Life went on...and it was worse.  I took a lot of abuse after that.  How dare I tell anything that goes on in this house?!  What happens here stays here!  But does it????  I'm thinking not!  The cute little girl was slowly turned into a stubborn, we shall see child who knew something was wrong and she would save herself and her siblings one way or another!  The problem with that was that it was too late...she would not be able to save any of them...no matter how hard that little mind with no experience in life, no stability of family and friends had no way to do it....no way to get away...no way to fix it.  Unfortunately, the little girl's parents knew this too and used it against her....no more church....no more play dates...no more friends...school and home....that's it!  They isolated her and the house from anything that would change it.....and that day a little more of her died....

Guilt

There are those moments when I look back upon the childhood I've endured and worked hard to find happy moments.  I do remember a Christmas at around 4 (give or take a couple of years) when we all woke up excited for presents and we found huge boxes in front of the tree....one was mine and one for my sister. We were hoisted into the middle of the boxes and rooted around in wadded up newspaper, throwing it here and there, so excited to find that HUGE present that fit into the biggest boxes we've ever seen!

We finally did give up.  We were confused and started to cry....even then we had learned that sadism was an integral part of life...  That's when our parents decided to end the joke and pulled two beautiful new bicycles out of their hiding place.  We were both more happy than ever!  New bikes!  It was a treat we'd not soon forget!  One that was never repeated.

I try to hold onto these few memories.  They are the guilt makers, but important.  These moments that make me feel as if there is something so absolutely wrong with myself, my sister and my brothers that it was actually us that caused the problems.  If we had been 'good'.  If we had just not done the thing that provided instant anger followed up by 'The Belt'.  The question rolls around in my head daily: Was it actually our fault?

Now, I do know it's not our fault.  Not totally.  We were children and children are well known for not doing everything they are told.  But, perfectionism was the only way in our house.  There were no mistakes allowed.  Mistakes led to beatings and hard work.  We worked off our mistakes and I'll tell you this - the work was in no way commensurate with the crime!  

That Christmas has and always will remain one my favorites.  It was a real Christmas.  There was no arguing, no drinking, no fights that ended the beautiful dinner my mother cooked....and although I can't say I remember every moment, I remember the important parts.

So this is my journey....to find the source of the guilt, anger and pain and then crush it like a spider!!!!  (I hate spiders...they are evil in case you don't know!) 

 

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

I would like to say that this will be a heart warming and beautiful blog that will make millions flock to read each day and gleam in it's wonder!  But, it most likely will not be....and I'm okay with that!  

What you will learn from this blog is how a child survived through insurmountable bullshit created by people who I call Satan's demons.  Those people who see, hear and know....yes, they know...they can see the outside and know something is wrong...but ignore it!  Those people who with their innate need to be selfish will allow children to live on....to live on it hell....I have to wonder if they see and are unavailable emotionally because they don't know what to do....or if they just don't care!  I have yet to find an appropriate analogy to cover this....maybe I never will.

I will warn you now that I say 'awesome' a little too much....and you see those long lines of ...... well, that's just me.......and there may be posts that contain more periods than words...but that's just me.  There may also be cursing and things that you will deem to be inappropriate for the soft hearted in the world....well, that's just how it is...and it most likely won't get any easier to look at!

This is my story.  This is me.  This is my way of working through the pain.  If you find it hard to read then you would have found hard to live.  But living is a must as hard and gory and depressing as it may be.