When I first joined this site, and I created my account, I originally had a Survivor account. But as I was about to click the finish button, I thought against it, and changed it to Supporter. No one knew about my past, and it was going to stay that way. I didn’t like talking about it, and I wasn’t GOING to talk about it.
Then I met Star. This isn’t her story, and as she isn’t ready to reveal it, I will just skip past that part and pretend I just told you.
...and so that was Star’s story. It made me realize that if she was able to reveal hers, than I was ready to reveal mine.
My tipping point came after reading the entries of PWP member, nocomment. Her story is a powerful one, and, again, I won’t get into the details. If SHE could tell THAT story, I can tell MY story,
I was four. For some reason, I remember every detail of this. I remember it was Saturday morning (because of cartoons...). We had just moved into a trailer, and my mom and dad’s bedroom wasn’t fully up and running, so they had a fold out couch in the livingroom. When I woke up, my dad was already up. He was sitting on the edge of the fakebed, and watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on CBS (I remember this in DETAIL!!!). when I noticed he was awake, I asked if I could have a glass of milk. He nodded, and got up to make it for me. I even remember the cup. It was a slim, pale blue, plastic cup. My dad filled it all the way with milk. We walked back to the livingroom and he sat on the fakebed, while I climbed on it. My mistake was doing this with the milk in my hand, as the cup fell out of my hand, and all over the fakebed. My dad looked from the cup, the mess, me, the cup, the mess, me, the cup, the mess, and then me. He picked up the cup and hit me with great force on top of my head, causing me to cry, causing my mom to wake, causing pandemonium. The next thing I remember is being in the hospital. Apparently, he hit me so hard, my skull was split open. I remember them cutting my hair away to get to the wound (Yes. Patients worst nightmare. I woke up during surgery... and I was only four... and I remember it in great detail....)
All throughout my childhood, he would force me to watch Pink Floyd The Wall. I like that movie now, but seeing it as a three year old is a very scary experience, and I had many a nightmare.
Christmas 1993. My dad was chasing my cousins and I through the house with a power drill (mind you, there was a bit in it, along with a full battery). We ran in my room and closed the door, a couple of my cousins leaning against it. He drilled through the door, the bit coming out just an inch away from my oldest cousin’s head... (That was my dad “playing”.)
We used to go out to the lake. My dad and his friends would drag me to the deeper part, where the floor disappears, and the only thing keeping you from sinking is your strength and God’s will. They whole group would play “human volleyball” with me. I would be thrown between them all, and if someone missed, I pretty much went to the bottom. Being as I was four, and couldn’t swim, someone would have to dive down for me. Another time at the lake (yes, the same lake), everyone was getting in the water, and my dad went out several feet and turned around. I wasn’t going in. He reached his arms out and said, “I’ve got you.” I took a few feet in, and without any warning, pain shot up my leg. When I started screaming, my dad thought it was out of fear of the water, and he made fun of me. My aunt was the one (having three kids) who recognized the scream of pain. She ran in and grabbed me, lifting me into both her arms. Everyone went quiet when my left leg came out of the water. Blood was all over my foot, and pouring into the lake. It only took twenty seconds for everyone to get out of the lake. My uncle was the one who dove in where I was at when I screamed and found the broken beer bottle. It had completely sliced open my left pinkie toe. I understand that this wasn’t my dad’s fault (it surprisingly wasn’t his beer bottle...), but my only memory of him ever saying “I’ve got you” or anything similar ended with me seriously injured... To this day, I do not like getting wet. I do not go into swimming pools. I do not stay out in the rain. I do not partake in the art of water balloons.
I was five. That I remember because I went to my Kindergarten class with a cast on my arm. We were at one of my dad’s friend’s houses, and were all in the backyard. I was left unattended with the dog (a chow). On the ground laid a toy of a spider. I looked at the toy and the dog looked at me. I leaned forward to pick the toy up, and the dog growled. I didn’t know what that meant, so I picked the toy up. I think. I don’t really remember holding the toy, just laying on the ground, screaming as the chow made a toy out of my right hand. When they finally got the dog off, my right ring finger was dangling, and my hand didn’t look like a hand. Almost every bone in the hand was broken. It’s been sixteen years, and it is still healing. If I use that hand too much, it aches really bad. Only had seven stitches. Left a nasty scar...
My dad is a raging alcoholic. He always has been. He always will be. When I was eight, I made my mom a snowglobe in school for Christmas. She put it on the shelf in the livingroom (different house) for everyone to see. He came by one day in a raging fit (my mom filed for divorce when I was 6). In his anger, he picked up that snowglobe and threw it as hard as he could (which, in his drunkenness, was pretty hard), and it shattered against the wall. When I started crying, he turned and backhanded me. He didn’t even live there.
I don’t hold grudges. My dad moved to Dallas, and I didn’t see him for almost ten years. I heard he was back in Abilene, so when I lived in Merkel, and needed a place to stay in Abilene till I got on my feet, I asked if I could stay with him. I had barely finished the sentence when he said yes. You could ask my stepsisters; I was happy.
I moved in with him Sunday, September 28, 2008.
Along with him, I met my stepmom, Peggy, my sister I never knew about, KC, her daughters (MY NIECES!!!!), Destiny, 14, Haili, 12, and Satghn (pronounced “Satin”), 8. Satghn and I were like bestfriends, and she is by far my favourite niece.
I lived there six months. In that time, I was pushed away by everyone in turn except Satghn. She seems to be the only one there who even loves me. And she is only 8. She understands me better than anyone else there. For Christmas 2008, everyone bought me books and cds and an MP3 player... Satghn’s gift was the best; I had most of my stuff in blue Rubbermaid tubs. She took several different coloured Sharpies and wrote messages to me all over them. Her name, random things we shared together, a few words we made up, the words “I love you, nerd!” (Her nickname for me, because I type on my computer a lot...). The cds are scratched, the books got wet and mildewy (long story...), and the warranty on the MP3 player went out the week before the MP3 player did, yet I still have Satghn’s writings on my tubs.
My dad, Peggy, and KC are sever alcoholics. There is always a fight going on there. I mainly stuck to my room, because when I left it, they found some way to drag me into it. They found ways to blame me for pretty much everything. All the adults in the house (me included), had food stamps. I never saw my card until I didn’t live there anymore. They would use my card to stock up the fridge and cabinets with stuff just for them, and tell me that I could only eat the sandwich meat on the top shelf. Most of the time, the meat was past the date stamped on the label. They would usually cook dinner, and when I would ask to get some, they would give me some of the leftovers from previous nights. Rarely was any of the food I ate there warm. One month, they actually let me use my card to shop. I bought a lot of nice food. And by nice food, I mean ramen noodles (sure, they have a bad rep, but think about it; they are very cheap, and you get a lot for your money). One day, KC stormed into my room and screamed, “THANKS FOR EATING ALL THE F****** RAMEN NOODLES, A******!” I tried to inform her that it was I who bought the ramen noodles, and that it was she who ate most them, yet she just continued using words that I won’t repeat because my asterisk button tends to jam...
Shortly after Christmas, I got sick (possibly the flu). I was laying in bed and crying because of the pain. My dad needed help moving a recliner out to the dumpster. Well, as you can imagine, I wasn’t really up to it. My dad called me the other word for cat so many times while we moved that recliner...
When I first moved in, he told everyone that he was”so happy” to have me back in his life. However, most times, when I came around, he would say, “Get somewhere!” or “What are you doing out here?” (Meaning out of my room... I was in there on my own decision..).
February 2, 2009. Out of nowhere, my stepmom says, “I want you out of my house NOW!” I obviously had nowhere to go. She threw a few of my clothes into a laundry bag I had brought from Merkel, and my dad dropped my off at the Salvation Army. As he drove off, he flipped me off out the window and shouted, “F*** you! And good riddance!”. I waited till the car was out of site, then I started walking. I didn’t know where I was going to stay, but I knew it WASN’T going to be the Salvation Army.
I was walking for three hours when I started to get scared... I am homeless.... uttering those words to myself, I sank to my knees and wept. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk. I felt so lost, unloved, unwanted, nonexistent. They say that being homeless changes your view of the world. I was only homeless a total of nine hours, yet it was enough. My life was changed.
My aunt lived in the area, that I knew. I just couldn’t remember exactly where. So I set out to find her house. I wasn’t sure if she would help me, of even if she would be able to. I just felt that finding her was what I had to do. I admit, I didn’t pray the whole nine hours I was homeless. If I had, I may not have walked a total of 32 miles up and down streets. She lived four blocks from where my dad dropped my off.
As soon as I told her what happened, she said I could stay with her for as long as I wanted, even if it was till I was 50.
On March 28, 2009, I moved into my first apartment. Shortly afterward, I bought a digital video camera and made a few youTube videos. One of my bestfriends had a youTube channel, and I was bored, so I was googling all my friends. When I got to her name, I had several thousand. I was curious, so I googled her youTube name, Jenjenburg. I got one full page.
I went to each of the links. The last one got my attention. I thought the name sounded little odd; Points With Purpose. I clicked on it...
...and, long story short, she told me everything (once again, I won’t go into detail...). a couple days later, out of love for my friend, I created an account on that site... this site...
...and when it came to account type, I selected Survivor and continued with the rest of the registration process. I clicked on the finish button, but didn’t let it go. After all these years, no one knew my story. I was afraid people would ask why it said Survivor, and I didn’t want them to know. So I went back up, and changed account type to Supporter, and used my friend as an excuse.
A couple weeks ago, I was at Star’s house, and a fight broke out (Won’t go int....you know). The fight gave me flashbacks to when I was little, and to when I lived with my dad last year and part of this year. All this time, I thought I was over it. The fact that the fight scared me so much that I cried in Star’s arms is proof that I am nowhere near over it. I have been thinking about writing this ever since. But I’ve been putting it off. How do you write something like this? How do you tell your friends a secret you have been hiding your whole life? After a very deep discussion about this with Star, I decided to just sit at the computer and type what ever comes to mind. I typed everything I remember as of now.
I still visit my dad’s house from time to time. But not, as he believes, to see him, or Peggy, or KC... but to spend time with Satghn. She is the only one there who gets excited to see me, and she runs into a big hug every time. She loves playing hide and seek in the backyard (even though the only place to hide behind is a small mesquite tree...). I usually walk there, so I am tired, but I play with her, because that is our time. She deserves so much better than what she gets there. One time, my dad was going to the store, and she asked if she could go, and he said, “You’re just a kid. You don’t matter”. She cried so much over that, and KC, her mother, told her to, “Suck it up”. I was the only one who would comfort her. I can tell my other two nieces are headed the same direction as everyone else in that house. Satghn is the only ray of light there. I can not stand knowing she is still there...
I know my story isn’t near as dramatic as most of the entries I have read on this site, and that I may have even been a bit stupid in hiding it and keeping it in for so long, but I feel a little better knowing that it’s written...
I love you all....