What wasn’t normal was that she was sad, very sad. I had never seen my grandmother cry, that I could remember, and even worse I had no idea why she was crying. Now I can’t believe she didn’t cry more. Then she went to the hospital for a long time for various surgeries, and plans on what to do next. My brother and I stayed at my Grandpa’s house most of the time she was up there mostly only going home to sleep and get ready for school the next day, it was weird and confusing but my grandpa was good at getting our minds off of things and keeping our spirits up when he needed to.
The manipulated our mind with fear and this fear grew in us. For instance, whenever my mom or dad were coming back from work and we are playing or sitting around doing nothing reasonable; once we hear the sound of their car parking in the garage, we pretend to be studying because we knew the consequences of our act. It is either we get manual labor or they ground us from going outside that weekend. This act continued to the extent my class mates noticed it and they started asking questions why we never get to play with them during weekdays after school except on the weekends. At that age we never gave them a better answer for their question because we never knew the good my parents was doing to us.
At home my mom and brother’s reaction was surprised and they thought that I couldn’t do it for a whole day. Also at home, I would walk down and up the stairs backwards, which was extremely difficult to do and a little strange. My brother would keep saying watch out for this or that trying to trick me into hitting something. When I was with my friends their reactions were to laugh at me and call me a weirdo. Sometimes they tried to do it with me as well and other times they’d purposely go behind me and get on all fours then make me fall over.
One day , it was an even harder day at school than usual , and so I came home upset and did not eat which was a big concern to my mother as I could never say no to food. So I was in my room watching television and my mother came in asking me what was wrong and I casually answered her , “nothing” , but she being my mother understood and said in the most affectionate manner , “I am always here for you.” Those words touched me and since that day I was an open book to my mother and she the same to me. Yes , even though it sounds cliché , but , my mother has been and has had a great influence on me and to me. And , has been my hero. She met my father and after a few years she bore him one daughter , me.
After months of testing and the doctors telling my mom I might have cancer, we finally got an answer. My diagnosis was called Chronic Recurrent Multifocal Osteomyelitis (pediatrics 2005). This disease is something that is very rare childhood disease. After multiple surgeries, lots of medication and a whole year spent living at the hospital things had started to quiet down. Throughout all of this, I met so many compassionate nurses, doctors with great bedside manner and even laundry and maintenance people who would stop and say hi.
The next morning, my Aunt and Nana came into my room with unreadable expressions; they then proceeded to explain that my Dad had died. I remember feeling like my heart had been wrenched out of my chest. I ran from what they said with uncontrollable tears and sobs escaping my body. I did not want to hear it, nor did I believe it. I had to get away.
I was depressed all the time and did not feel like doing a whole lot. Since the abuse started during my adolescence stage of development
I left whenever she entered a room, I slammed car doors in her face. Over those three years, I took pride in the fact that I had not spoken a word to her or made eye contact with her. I treated Laura with such resentment and anger because my hate was my protection, my shield. I, accustomed to viewing her as the embodiment of my pain, was afraid to let go of the anger and hate, afraid to love the person who allowed me to hold onto my anger, afraid that if I gave her a chance, I might love her. For those three years, Laura didn’t hate me; she understood me.
They didn’t care what happened to me or even themselves. They just wanted to do whatever they could get away with. I never told my parents what I was doing or where I was at. I can remember when I was a little kid waking up in the middle of the night seeing my dad and step mom sleeping sitting up in the living room waiting for Sam or Shelbi, my older sister, to call or walk through the door. I could only imagine how worried they were when they thought I was doing the same thing as my older siblings.
I will never forget any of the punishments. Till this day every time I talk about it I start to choke up. I guess I can say that I was always afraid of my father and I really never felt affection from him. There was always just distance. Don’t really remember a lot of hugging or “I love you’s”.