Most people who know me, and some who don't, always comment on my mental strength. "You are so strong."
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time at my mom's foster mother's house. I had one of those play kitchens; it was in her living room. It was charred and practically unrecognizable when her house caught fire, though not much else was that ruined. I used to think that because of that, the fire was the fault of me, and my little play kitchen.
That house used to sit on West Outer Drive, but it's not there anymore. If you drive by, you'll notice a house-wide gap between two houses, close to the corner. That's where it used to be. But it was torn down by the city.
It was in that house where I was first molested by her. I was only four. Like most molesters, she told me not to tell, told me I would be punished, beaten, but not believed, and that next time would be worse. But unlike most molested, I didn't believe her. I knew that if I told my mom, she would believe me. She would rescue me. I would never have to see her again.
But I was wrong, and she was right. And I was punished and beaten for such lies. And the next time was worse. And the time after that was worse. And the time after that. Worse. I am still called a liar to this very day for telling her what happened.
My dad worked during the day, and during the day my mom cheated on my dad. So it was there that I had to go. Until I was nine. My friend Ashley was over for the summer. My brothers were 4 and 2. My mom asked if I wanted to go to her house, or stay at home alone. I knew how to cook for us, I knew how to change diapers. Staying home was the only option. Ironically, it was that day, the day that I was not molested, that child protective services was called to our house. The police came and knocked on our door, told me we were coming with them. Back then we had iron bars on our doors that could only be opened with a key. I pretended I couldn't find it as I called my neighbor and begged her to come and pretend she was our babysitter. She did, and that saved us.
But I was still beaten, because perhaps they were called because we were too loud. I tried my best to quiet my brothers. But I was nine.
When my mom's biological mother tried to stab me in a crack-induced rage when I was also four, I never told anyone. I didn't want to be called a liar again.
Ever since I was four, I've been hurt. My entire life. I've been molested, beaten, stabbed, and kicked out of the house, before the age of 13. I've been self-destructive, and suicidal, depressed and mute. But in the end, I've been strong, because I've had to be.
But through it all, I haven't been bitter. Though my mom and I are not close, I still love her and I've long forgiven her. I still visit my grandmother, and help her re-bandage the wounds on her legs, or help her find the Jewish egg bread she likes at the grocery store.
I guess being strong isn't just about survival.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time at my mom's foster mother's house. I had one of those play kitchens; it was in her living room. It was charred and practically unrecognizable when her house caught fire, though not much else was that ruined. I used to think that because of that, the fire was the fault of me, and my little play kitchen.
That house used to sit on West Outer Drive, but it's not there anymore. If you drive by, you'll notice a house-wide gap between two houses, close to the corner. That's where it used to be. But it was torn down by the city.
It was in that house where I was first molested by her. I was only four. Like most molesters, she told me not to tell, told me I would be punished, beaten, but not believed, and that next time would be worse. But unlike most molested, I didn't believe her. I knew that if I told my mom, she would believe me. She would rescue me. I would never have to see her again.
But I was wrong, and she was right. And I was punished and beaten for such lies. And the next time was worse. And the time after that was worse. And the time after that. Worse. I am still called a liar to this very day for telling her what happened.
My dad worked during the day, and during the day my mom cheated on my dad. So it was there that I had to go. Until I was nine. My friend Ashley was over for the summer. My brothers were 4 and 2. My mom asked if I wanted to go to her house, or stay at home alone. I knew how to cook for us, I knew how to change diapers. Staying home was the only option. Ironically, it was that day, the day that I was not molested, that child protective services was called to our house. The police came and knocked on our door, told me we were coming with them. Back then we had iron bars on our doors that could only be opened with a key. I pretended I couldn't find it as I called my neighbor and begged her to come and pretend she was our babysitter. She did, and that saved us.
But I was still beaten, because perhaps they were called because we were too loud. I tried my best to quiet my brothers. But I was nine.
When my mom's biological mother tried to stab me in a crack-induced rage when I was also four, I never told anyone. I didn't want to be called a liar again.
Ever since I was four, I've been hurt. My entire life. I've been molested, beaten, stabbed, and kicked out of the house, before the age of 13. I've been self-destructive, and suicidal, depressed and mute. But in the end, I've been strong, because I've had to be.
But through it all, I haven't been bitter. Though my mom and I are not close, I still love her and I've long forgiven her. I still visit my grandmother, and help her re-bandage the wounds on her legs, or help her find the Jewish egg bread she likes at the grocery store.
I guess being strong isn't just about survival.
5 comments:
Wifey, you are beyond strong .
You are beyrong .
I couldn't do through what you have and still be the crazy, funky bad bad that you are today . & I know for damn sure I couldn't still visit her . I would be much too bitter .
I just want you to know that if you eber need anyone to talk to or someone to comfort you, you gots me !
I would never hurt you purposely ! & if I do, tell me, because I can be dumb .
ILYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.
Geez Conz,
i would say i didn't know but i would be almost lying strength like yours doesnt just materialize most time it comes out of necessity {damn you cursed spelling of mine} usually a dark place from one's past. dare i ask; what made you share this? also, random tidbit. {no stalker} but since i first saw you in action (lol you know what im talkin about) i have thought very highly of you ( i was trying to think of something that wasnt admired but whatev you get the point) because you just always seemed to be one of those people who have themselves together whatever this shit just got weird, one day i shall explain lol
=( I applaud you. You are strong, and I don't care how many times you hear it. It's true.
Expect a huge batch of brownies. Just 'cause I love you!
Love all you guys! Kieona, "beyrong" made me spit out my juice, lmaooo.
Aww, thanks Rashida. "GAY PEOPLE ROCK!" I loved that day. (: Honestly I felt like sharing for a few reasons. One, I'd like to go into the New Year without a burden, and writing things out helps with that. Not completely done yet. Also, I was watching Diary of a Mad Black Woman (lol) and I really just admired the fact that despite her small, but well-deserved lapse, she emerged from her hurt non-bitter.
I love me some browniesss.
Wow Cons. WOW. Whenever I've told you you're strong, I never knew how strong you actually were. It's so good to see how you've made it through all that.
I luh you girl! :)
Post a Comment