Those rides back up into the mountains are not memorable. I just always seemed to be comatose for the duration of the drive. Maybe it was a defense mechanism? Who was I kidding? There was no such thing as defense in that place. Finally we would arrive and at first things seemed calm. Almost normal. My mom and dad (I found out when I was 8 that this man was not my father) would invite their friends over. I found refuge in this because they would have to be on their best behavior in order to give their friends the impression that they were loving parents. They saw through them, but went along with it anyway. I didn�t care. I was safe- for the time being. It wouldn�t be long before the beatings would recommence. Afterwards, I�d curl up in that tiny, dark bathroom and through my sobs, wonder why they keep me here if they hate me as much as they do? Wouldn�t it be easier for all involved if they would just rid themselves of me? There were people in this world who loved me and actually wanted me. I was too young to realize that they had ulterior motives; their addictive sickness. They took joy in beating me and starving me because they couldn�t find joy in anything else; Not even all the drugs and alcohol they were doing. They never put effort into anything constructive. They were miserable failures. Apparently my arrival interfered with their master plan. Whose fault is that? I believed it was mine. I tried making it up to them. I�d talk to them, I�d try to play with them and make them laugh- anything I could muster. But it would only bring a slap to my face- if I were lucky. They would leave and be gone all night. The first time they did this, I thought I�d be scared. This apartment was in the back and there were no exterior lights. It was dark. Always dark. We lived in the mountains. It was cold. Cold and dark and lonely. But shortly after they left me alone for the first time, I was ecstatic. No one was there to hurt me. If someone were to come in and take me, it would have to better than staying there. How great would it be if they were to come home, see that I am missing and let it be because they would have no idea where I was? They could never find me. Dreams don�t come true for toddlers very often, unless it�s ice cream or toys they�re wishing for. If the wish is bigger than us, it is likely to be diminished. Sometimes they�d return around dawn and stumble into the bedroom and crash until later that night. Sometimes they�d come home and take it out on me, especially if they were to find out that I would occasionally find food and eat it. They did not approve of me �stealing� their food. It got to be too much. At the age of 2, I felt what it was like to be severely depressed. The beatings were more frequent and more intense. I could literally see the hate welling up on their face. I could definitely feel it. One day my mother was napping on this old couch we had. I don�t know what I was thinking, if anything, but I took a lighter to her hair and it caught fire. I stood there and watched. I wasn�t afraid. Seeing my mother begin to catch fire didn�t scare me, but the lack of feeling did. I wasn�t trying to kill her. I don�t think I really understood death at that time, let alone how to commit it upon someone. In my mind, my 2-year-old mind, I was simply teaching her a lesson; much like the �lessons� she had been teaching me. She awoke as the flames died down. She wasn�t hurt. She punched me and I don�t remember anything after that. I may have deserved that one, I don�t know. I just wanted to protect myself, right or wrong. As a matter of fact, I don�t remember much of anything that occurred between the time I was 2 and the time I was 3. My memories are jumbled, random. But they are real, and they are there. I remember making friends with adults that lived near my complex. They knew what was going on, so they made friends with my parents so that my parents would allow me to spend as much time as possible in their homes. I remember moving out of that apartment and into a house, I remember the beatings continuing, I remember occasional trips to my grandparents� house and I remember my uncle�s friend coming to that house and beating the shit out of my �dad� because he didn�t like what was happening. I remember being rescued by my grandparents and uncle and his friends numerous times, and I remember being taken back by my parents. But the best memory of that year was they day I walked into a courtroom with my grandparents.
To be Continued...
My Life brought to you by �Down With the Sickness� by Disturbed
No mommy don't hit me/ Why did you have to hit me like that?/Don't do it! You're hurting me/ Why did you have to be such a bitch?/ Why don't you�/ Why don't you fuck off and die?/ Why can't you just fuck off and die?/ Why can't you just leave here and die?/ Never stick your hand in my face again bitch/ Fuck you/ I don't need this shit/ You stupid, sadistic, abusive fucking whore/ How would you like to see how it feels mommy?