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I'm never going to forget until I do this. |
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I have to put this.
But when you read it, do me a favor.
Read all of it.
Imagine it.
And think of it.
It's extremely long, but please.
If you're going to read this, I want you to understand EVERYTHING you can.
Because I still don't.
And I lived it.
Thanks to Azzy and Dan, I've been thinking about my parents.
Today I said, without any emotion at all, "I don't have a mother and I'm happy."
And that's true.
So why does it make me feel happy to know and sad that it's true?
I technically have a mother. Of course. Everyone does, and being dead or disappeared doesn't erase the fact that you have one.
I haven't seen my mom in over a year. She lives with a man that I hate, that whenever I'm around him, I feel vile and disgusting and like just be looking at me, he's seeing what I feel and seeing everything dirty, shaming, or low that I've ever done, and like he wants to rub it in my face and gloat.
I hate Phil. I do.
I hate my mother too. She left my family because, after destroying us, she was too weak to handle the consequences of what she did. She especially couldn't face my dad. That was the most horrible part.
For the last few years of their marriage, she cheated on him. And they both knew, and were aware that the other knew. ********, she brought guys HOME and ******** them, right there in their bed. Dad would come home around midnight and sleep on the couch. They definitely both knew.
And he tried to get back at her. I still remember the other Tammy. Or, as MY mom Tammy called her, 'the dead chick'. I can remember what she looks like, and I truly, truly wish I didn't. She had long, bleach-blonde hair, a tanned, haunted face creased from frowning, smoking, and all sorts of abuse to her body. She was too skinny and she smoked too much, and her voice was this horrible grating noise. I could see why Mom called her the dead chick.
But that was probably the last thing that I ever agreed with Mom on.
But I guess they thought if they ignored it, then it wouldn't happen. It wasn't true if you didn't acknowledge it. ********, sometimes I don't know if I wish I knew what they thought. I think it would make me too sad.
I remember what it felt like to have a 14-year-old boy's fears and angers taken out on your body. What it felt like to have a fist smash into your stomach, an open palm knock you across the face, or, worst and most vivid of all, the grip tape of a skateboard rake across your back, trucks digging into your skin and everything.
I remember all this, and i wish I hadn't.
I remember Duane, too. He was Mom's steadiest boyfriend. Duane Barnes. He smoked too much, too. I remember he used to make me and Hailee laugh because he could blow smoke through his nose, suck it through his mouth, and blow a smoke ring. He called it 'the dragon'. I liked him. He was nice.
For my tenth birthday, he bought me a beanie baby and a CD player. It was a cheap one, but I liked it.
When I was looking for pictures for my Tech Ed project, I found Duane's driver's liscense. It's long since expired, but just looking at it, seeing the picture and reading the name, brought one night back to my memory.
I don't remember what Mom did. But she did something stupid. She was drunk. So was Duane. That's just how it was.
Me, Cory, and Hailee were in the family room in the trailer. Next to Mom's room. We heard them arguing. Then we heard the sound of a body crashing into the wall.
Mom.
Duane shoved her, hard enough to send her sprawling into the thin, flimsy little wall.
And I remember the shame, pain, and humiliation when the social worker came to our house.
I don't remember his name, or if I was even told. I remember what he looked like. I don't think I'll ever forget.
He asked me questions. I got them all right. I'll always remember that, too. I didn't say anything that gave anything away, until he asked about my bruises.
I wonder, now, what would have happened if I'd said they were from Cory. I know that the worker thought they were from Mom, Dad, or both. Four, finger-shaped bruises, down the right side of my jaw, with a broader one on the other, underside of the left side of my jaw. They were from Cory grabbing me and digging his fingers into my face until I cried. I wonder what he thought- holding my face while my tears were running down his fingers and off his hands.
No. That was the only question I flubbed. I said I'd tripped and knocked my face against my closet wall. I was improvising, and I was a scared nine-year-old. I deserve a break, right?
If that'd been it, they MIGHT have left it alone. But Hailee told him how Duane'd shoved Mom into the wall.
Maybe a week later, maybe that day, we were headed to a small doctor's office. They took me in. I think I was the only one to go by myself. Four of us, and I was the unlucky one, split from my siblings.
They took polaroid pictures of my face. My bruises. And then the real humiliation. They told me to take off my shirt.
They took pictures of my scrawny nine-year-old chest. And then they turned me around, and I remember the gasp that a less-seasoned orderly made. My back.
I remember that there were lots of purple, yellow, black, and brown bruises. I was cut in more than a few places. That's where I'd been bitten, or scratched, or something had hit me in the right way to split my skin.
They asked if I had any bruises on my a**. Of course, they didn't say a**, and of course, that wasn't what they were looking for. They were looking for evidence that my father had raped me, jealous of his wife's cheatings and looking to take it out on anyone.
My father would never do anything like that.
I told them I didn't have any. But they still made me take off my shorts. More pictures were taken of my legs, lower back, my a**.
It was so embarrassing. So humiliating. I felt much lower than anyone, because it was all my fault.
But we thought that was the end of it. Then, one day, a call came from the front office into Ms. Ichiek's room, for me to come to the office with my bookbag. Everyone, myself included, thought I was being picked up early.
When I got there, a social worker and the principal were there.
They talked for about fifteen minutes before my sister came. Then the social left with the two of us. She had a white SUV, I remember, and she was kinda nice.
The two of us met up with Cory and Liam. We sat in this horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE waiting room for over four hours before Aunt B got there.
When she finally did, we had to wait another few minutes before going out to her black Trans Am and going through a forty-minute drive to her house.
It was raining. I remember the rain streaking across the glass. And I remember thinking that I didn't know if I was crying because it was raining...or if it was raining because i was crying. My fault. My fault for being stupid and ugly. My fault for not coming up with a better lie. My fault for not being able to stop everything.
All my fault.
A year and a half at Aunt B's.
A year since I've seen my mom.
Half a year since we've moved from Rita's.
And it's been almost three and a half years since that day, when the rain streaked across the windows like tears.
April 13th.
I'm never going to forget it.
This is why I'm never having children, Taylor (because you seemed surprised at how vehement I was). I think my mother's ******** me up enough that I will ruin them. There are enough broken, useless, pointless people in this world. I'd hate to be responsible for however many more I bring it, and their children, and theirs. I don't want to be responsible for destroying something innocent because I'm too weak, stupid, and ugly to throw off what my mom did and create something beautiful instead.
And that in itself is weak.
I can handle that.
Even if I dont want to.
 Tsukichi · Wed Nov 16, 2005 @ 04:22am · 2 Comments |
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