Stop, and picture my life for a moment.
I was 5 years old as I watched
my parents rolling around the floor
screaming at eachother and I at them,
"Stop it, Stop it Your HURTING MOMMY!"
"Mommy YOUR HURTING DADDY STOP IT!"
Not listening to their screaming child
they keep rolling around
choking, punching, scratching, yelling.
I watch as my mother breaks
a thick glass ashtray over my father's head,
and his reaction as he throws a coffee table
at her, barley missing her.
I watch as my father screams,
"I DON'T NEED THIS SHIT!"
and walks out, he returned the next
morning with flowers and band-aids.
"I'm sorry honey."
I watch as a few years go by and
their relationship falls apart.
I remember hearing somewhere
that when you move into a new house
it should be a new start.
All we did was bring our problems with us.
The screaming, fighting, and broken things.
I watched with tears clouding my eyes
as my father walked out, not being able
to take the pain anymore.
I prayed silently day, after day that he
would come back home for me,
yet knowing that he never would.
I watched as my mother started dating again only a month or two after my father left us.
The men she brought home,
the one that she stuck with.
The old, bald, fat, indian, with an eye
for little girls, and fists that thought
my mother was a punching bag.
I watched as my body became this man's toy.
Wispering things to me taht any 9 year old never wanted to know.
I remember fingers crawling across my skin
along with other parts that didnt belong
anywhere near me.
I never asked for any of this,
a broken mother, a non existant father, and a bastard who couldn't keep his hands to himself.
They say that a new home means a new start.
Again we brought our problems with us.
This time we brought the abusive bastard
which was enough of a problem.
Not to mention the fact that my mother
seemed to turn more towards drugs & alcohol.
I just tried to bury myself into school and friends.
I became very self concious always
fearing that I wasn't good enough for anybody.
A plauge that haunts me still.
Eventually someone found out about
the abusive bastard and realized what he
had done to me and probably other girls.
The police questioned me, my mother as well, I was given a pencil & paper.
As if I could ever describe the details.
I had finally gone numb from him
and they expected me to re-live everything he had done to me?
So being a scared child of 13 I was completely vauge on details and only stated the obvious,
"He tried to put his _______ in my ______."
Thats all i wrote, I was so scared that he would
come back for me and my mother, but someone
tipped him off and he scramed fast, probably off to ruin someone else's life.
So we were finally free, and I watched as my mother began dating again with not concern for me, just went plunging into another relationship.
I began to relax and actually enjoy bieng a teenager for a while anyway.
They say a new home means a new start.
Well we only had one problem
this time my mother.
After the incident with the abusive bastard
we grew farther apart.
I felt, and still do, that some part of her
blamed me for what happened.
I watched as she grew more and more
detached from my life, watched her try to
be someone she wasn't.
Maybe she doesn't realize the things
she says cut me deeper and deeper
So the only things i have going for me at the moment are some great friends,
and a great boyfriend.
So before you decide to judge me stop
for a moment and picture my life.