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The Hell Of My Life- The First Time I've Exposed It ALL |
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Lately... I've had a lot of thoughts. I've thought of things I shouldn't remember, that I shouldn't be able to remember. Yet, I do. They aren't really the best memories that a young girl should think of, should be reminded of. Some are, yes. I'm thankful for those ones. They bring the vivid reminiscence of old times, older days from back when I younger and happier. Now, when I look in the mirror, I reflect on myself. I picture the younger me: roaming, daring, outgoing, insouciant, and elated. Then I see the present me, and it hurts, and it makes me want to hurt even more: depressed, lonely, unsocial, withdrawn, suspecting of the world around me.
There have been nights, when I take a sharp object to my arm and press it down. I wish to hell and back to have the courage to press down. Some nights I have. Some nights I have drawn blood. Some nights I can write my way out of the pain in poems, stories, journals. It hurts, because I don't have anyone to talk to. I won't have anyone because inside I can't trust. I can't find the comfort in other people.
I've had restless nights where my mind does nothing but wander from thought to thought, bringing memories of the past, thoughts of the present, and predictions of the future. I ponder much, I remember what has happened, what is happening, and think of what may happen. I don't seem to see hope. When I do, it seems to glimmer away, like a flashlight drowning in the sea as floats toward the bottom.
I'm not sure what to do sometimes. Half of the time nowadays, I'm so caught up in thought that I forget about society. I forget about my needs. I forget about life and the world completely. I think of only what is happening to me and what I can do to end it.
Sometimes I see other's deaths. Not foreseeing, but more like imagining them; plotting them in my head, you could say. I spend my time in mind. Sometimes it seems safer, sometimes it hurts more than anything. I'm not sure...
I made a friend. His name is Joe. I talk to him a lot. He's the only one I've let close to me. Sometimes he has to go away on trips and I don't see him from a length of a few days to a few weeks. No one else knows about him though. He gives me advice sometimes, helps me through it. He prevents me. He has a sense of predictability. (Ex: He didn't like my friend Sarah. I told him not to doubt her, she was a good person. A few months later, Sarah and I began getting into arguments over petty things. If I called, she made an excuse not to talk. We barely conversed any longer. When we saw each other, it was only a glance. We eventually made up. Weeks after that, we began to hav difficulties again. She was changing. She began wearing lower cut shirts, showing more skin, flirting with my neighborhood guy friends that I've known since childhood. Joe had warned me...)
My story I will post below. It's difficult sometimes, and I know some may have been through worse.
At age five was when it started, it's as far as I can remember back, which is more than most people. My "father" and mother had gotten into yet another argument. Mom packed her things and left. A few nights later, I caught my "father" watching pornography. I made an excuse to leave my room to have him sign a piece of paper from school; I was in kindergarten. A few days later, he got another woman, Pam. She was a b*. I didn't like her from the beginning and it didn't help that I only five and was seeing my "father" with another woman so shortly after his and Mother's argument.
I can't recall that argument, but I remember her leaving. She was yelling and my younger brother and I were crying. It wasn't a joyful period.
I later caught my "father" [in bed] with this Pam woman. I ran to room cried.
Mother came back and we never again heard from Pam. Somehow though, Mother had discovered her. She would often bring it up in arguments that she had with Father. It was difficult. My little brother often had a hard time digesting the arguments. He's roughly four younger than I (by four months).
As I got older, I was able to understand the situations more, but it only made it worse in my mind. I didn't have a pure, innocent mind any longer like an ordinary young child, but one filled with misery and hurt; pain and guilt.
There were many times when Father and Mother would argue, they'd yell and scream, there was even some physical tussle here and there.
Once, I remember, I was around the age of 7 or 8. It was a cool spring day. The flowers were opening to change, the sun was shining in the friendliest of ways. Water in the puddles of spring showers rippled in the breeze and trees swayed easily to the rhythm of Mother Nature's pulse. Through the elated and placid view of the larger picture was a war raging inside of a small home in the used-to-be rural Tennessee. Father and Mother were arguing once again. It got bad, and it got physical. Father gripped Mother's hair and slung over the wrap-around couch. She screamed and that scream scarred me. I could see the glimmer of tears in her eyes, and the tears on her cheeks as they reflected the light that shone in through the open windows that were allowing a breeze to sweep the house with a refreshing scent of Spring. But it didn't help me clear my head. What I saw clouded my mind and it clouded my senses. I ran out the door. I couldn't do anything, I couldn't say anything. If I had screamed, he could have hit me. If I had of attacked him, he could have seriously hurt me. I was young and frightened.
In that time, at that age, I had a very nice bed that I very much loved. It had a high headboard and the bottom of it was very low; just low enough for a cat to squeeze through. I would take my pillow and my Teddy with me and climb over the board and sit back there. It gave me a sense of security. It made me feel as though nothing could touch me. Sometimes I'd sleep back there, knowing that when I awoke, no one would know where I was. I figured no one would really care, either. When I wasn't hiding there, I would hide out in my closet. I'd hide there a lot. Especially when Father was mad. I'd run there as fast as my little 7 year old legs could carry me. He's of course follow me in yelling "Where the hell did you go?" But I held on tight to the doorknob and leaned back, being sure that it would make it more difficult for him to open. He'd open of course, I'd get the spanking that felt more like a beating, which in my mind was. I could barely sit, I had to lie on my stomach to be the least comfortable. It didn't help anymore when it was a day right before school. I had trouble sitting then....
There were times when I would beg for Father, though. There were times when Mother would through my porcelain figurines of small cats and dogs at me for not cleaning something properly or soon enough. What;s worse is that I would have just of gotten a spanking for procrastinating. Then I'd be crying, and I wouldn't have the will nor the energy to do it. She's get mad and... Throw the things at me. I'd scream and duck. Luckily, her aim wasn't good and none had ever hit me.
Many a time, after that age of 9 when my little brother was 4, Mother and Father would argue. Mother would take a vehicle, make us pack, and we would go to her mother's house in Illinois. She was a nice lady, but I didn't like her. She was ok when you did exactly what she wanted when she wanted.
Once, while there, it was just after Father's day, the day my step-grnadfather passed away in 2007, she grabbed me by my hair and drug me across the floor with me screaming like a banshee. She would set me in the corner and yell "You're in time-out. Not shut the hell up! You sound like a ******** mad-woman!" Which I'm sure I did, but it didn't mean anything to me and still doesn't. She told Mother to go to the corner next, and mother and I were both yelling at her. She began to cry and say that she didn't need this just after her husband died. I was 12.
At the age of eight, I was finally able to leave my own yard at home. Father said I wasn't old enough to leave the yard until that age, but he limited it to the road that lie beside our house. It wasn't much, but it was better than staying in my yard that whole time.
In fifth grade, I went to my first dance. It wasn't a great experience. The boy I liked, my best friend, was with two of the school's sluts. It hurt painfully. When he tried talking to me, seeing what was wrong, why my eyes were watery, I couldn't face him and walked away. This is probably typical with every girl at one point of another though.
My middle school years were no fun. I came into it all without any knowledge of anything. At home, things were still in war. I couldn't speak to anyone, I knew no one. Elementary friends were still immature and carefree, they were starting new loves, new personalities, new people in themselves. I, on the other hand, was still stuck in my elementary hell of home life.
At school I forced the smiles, I forced the happiness. I was good at it, until afternoon came and we were to load buses and leave for home. While other's were happy and grateful, I was worrying and drowning myself in my school work. I wanted to stay, I didn't want to go. People saw this. Some asked why, other's only kept their curiousness to themselves and said nothing. But they all saw that, I know they did.
When I was 12, I came home from school. Mother was sitting on the couch crying. I sat beside her and asked what was wrong. She looked at me with weary eyes and told me. "Darlene, the man you think is your father, isn't." I pondered over this for a few moments. "Are you ok?" she asked. I told her I was fine. She asked if it bother me and I said no. She nodded and told me my "real father's" name. I met him a few days later. He looked so much like me. It was a happy moment in my life. He was fun and straight-forward. I longed to be completely his daughter. I had his nose, his eyes, his hair color. I resembled him so much. I had always wondered where I had gotten blue eyes, my brown eyes, my nose with the ridge in it. I had wondered. Now the answer had stood before me and I was in awe.
I wasn't a dull child. I drowned myself in work, in education, to distract myself, to help myself. I didn't know of cutting then, I didn't know much of addiction. But I learned, and I learned quickly. I was an A-B student. The occasional B on ever progress report made me fret over the work a little more, and it satisfied me. I was content in my mind, with my thinkings. Often I would over think things. I'd think of science, and I'd make hypothesis which I came to discover not long after I'd learn them that were or close to true and exact.
My real father was soon wiped from my life, as he was fired from work one day. He moved to another section of Tennessee. I was upset, but I only focused on work more. I always called Father "Dad" and I called my real father by his name.
In August of 2007, Mother, my little bother, a friend of my mother's and I went to Illinois to visit my grandmothers. I had faced four family deaths that year. Three on Mother's side, one on Father's side. We were just visiting. The night we got there was wild. We had roman cokes (coke with rum), pina coladas, and bud light floated from hand to hand. This started my temporary addiction to the alchohol. We were there for a weekend, but it didn't stop me from chugging the rum. Strawberry dacares were soon added to my list along with bud light. Cigarettes were passed between the young adolescents that I sat with, as we puffed, one after the other. There were our fights that night, and our laughs; there were tears and there were smiles. We partied and didn't get back to my grandmother's until roughly 2am the next morning. Common sense of course, we had left my little brother there while we all went out. I died that night, in a horrible way that no girl should die. Drunk one night, I gave myself to my mother's friend. A 28 year-old having intercourse with a young 14 year-old... That was BIG offense. Returning home to Father's, we thought everything would go back to way it was. A nightmare. But this was much much more than ever before. This was my eighth grade year in school.
Clarksville, Tennessee has an event called the Toy Run. Bikers get together and buy a toy for the younf homeless/ orphaned/ fostered children. Mother and her friend wanted to go. Father argued against it, as he had always wanted to control us. If they were gone, there was no control. They went, and they promised to be back by 9pm... They didn't return until 11am the next morning. Father was PISSED. He demanded them out.
Over the next two weeks, mine and my little brother's life was dramatically changed. Mother had numerous 911 calls made on the house. She had left us behind this time, not bothering to take us like she usually did when her and Father argued and we fled to Illinois. No, this time she left us, as she was doped up on coke and meth and drunk with beer and other miscellaneous substances in her system. We were left with Father.
I stayed in my corner of the house on my computer as I always did. I never did move much. I kept my headphones on with my music blaring. It was what I did when I was home ever since 5th grade. It helped when they argued. I could drown them out.
Once, I was 6. My Grandfather on Mother's side was visiting. Father and Mother got into a fight. We walked calmly outside into the chill autumn air and sat in the yard, staring into the sky. Just him, my little brother and me; we stared at the sky and he told us stories. When the scream from inside came, he's raise his voice a little more to distract us. He comforted us in a time of need; something no one else had ever done. Ever.
Mom took it too far one day. She called 911 and accused father of being a convicted felon. My little brother and I were at school. It was Wednesday, October the 13th. We were taken into DCS custody. Father was arrested.
In my eighth grade year, I was sent into DCS custody (Department of Children Services). This is a seemingly large era of my life, though it only a course of seven months:
In October I was taken from my home. The home I'd grew in. The home of my nightmares, the home of my joys, my fears, my guilts, and my pleasures. Taken from me. I was sent to the DCS building with my brother. We sat there from 3pm until 9pm until Mother finally showed. Brother was happy to see her; he was only 9. He knew of nothing that was happening. He has a learning disability, making his learning process a little slower than other's. He rushed to her, happy.
She took a drug test to see if she could take us "home". She tested positive for 98% of all the drugs. We looked for close family friends to take, but none were suitable. We were sent to a foster home. We were also sent to new schools to fit the foster home's school zone. I was also banned from my myspace and soon the computer all together.
In November, a hope began to shine. Father had been released from prison and put on house arrest. We had a chance to go home for Thanksgiving. My brother began getting excited. He caused trouble at school. Every night, though, he was able to talk to Father, while I avoided the calls. We weren't able to go and spent Thanksgiving at the foster home.
In December, we were able to go to Father's friend's house for Christmas. We had a nice Christmas, though my brother was quite ungrateful as he usually is. December was easier for us, as we attended more court sessions and were closer to the home trial visit.
In January of 2008, we were able to go home on the 2nd on a 90-day trial home visit. This is where we are still in state custody, we are just at home. The trial make s it to where, if Father ******** up anywhere along the way, we go back to the foster home.
February-March, we are still home and the trial is almost over. Things have improved only slightly, though I lie and say everything is fine. Father and my little brother argue much tooooo much. DCS put me in counseling for depression. After four sessions, they released me saying I wasn't showing enough PHYSICAL signs of depression. They all know of my sexual encounter and began to pursue it, than dropped it. They said that it wasn't critical enough. If you were/ are a girl and were taken advantage of (which by law is seemingly similar to rape) and had your innocence, the one thing you hold dear to yourself, take from you, would you like to be justified?? I think so.
Life is still Hell, but I deal. I spend the majority of my time either reading, on the computer, or outside walking. I want my voice to be heard. I want my story to be told. I want people to know my Hell. I want people to know, that they are NOT the only ones out there that go through these things. I have been there and so have many others. I am able to maintain myself the majority of the time, but sometimes it gets so hard. Help me. Spread this if you must.
My name is Darlene and I have gone through much as you may have too. I don't want sympathy, but I'd like to know people care. I don't want insults of my behaviors, of my past, but I'd like critisism on some of this. Thank you. I love you all.
 storm_lvr · Sat Mar 15, 2008 @ 06:16am · 0 Comments |
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