Wednesday, June 28, 2006

With strawberry gashes all over, all over...

Well, well, it has been forever and a fucking day, hasn't it?

The days following my last post were the last days of my existence in a coddled environment. I was booted out, kicked out, of my mothers house sometime in February. I had too much other things I had on my mind to remember the exact dates.

Anyway, my mother ended up being prego and all that jazz. Soon afterwards she kicks her only child (until now) out of the house. Why? I asked her some advice, and before I could actually... ask her advice... she started to attack me.

Not in a physical, violent sense, okay? Now, you have to understand the history. My mother has screamed at me too many times to count. I have a permanent dent in my skull from where she slammed it into a counter because I wasn't doing something fast enough for her. She has had DFS called on her too many times to count because people have seen her pulling me out of the car--again, because I wasn't moving fast enough--by my hair. I have been kicked, punched, yelled at, distanced, and made to feel like I am the lowliest slime on the bottom of the pond.

Not only this, but lets just touch very briefly on the fact that I actually wanted to protect this child-abusing nut-case of a woman and let her second husband (J) sexually assault me for four years of my childhood. For her. So she could have everything that she's ever wanted, and always blamed me for not having.

I'm sorry, but I didn't tell you to conceive me at the tender age of seventeen, did I? You did the deed, you pay the price. Sorry.

Okay, going off subject now. Well, any-who... I asked her advice, and she brought up something that took me a lot of guts to tell her in the first place. After I told her I was being molested, and charges were brought against J, she gave me the option to move back to California, or move somewhere. But I knew, I knew because she told me, that she loved the house too much, she loved that life too much, and it would have hurt something in her to give it up. So I told her, "No, mom, we can stay. I'm OK."

Of course, I wasn't OK. I haven't been OK since I left California when I was eight. Or nine. I can't really remember anymore.

She brought that up though. "I know that was just something you made up to make me feel bad. I don't believe your bullshit any more."

So, yeah, I was pissed. Shaking, actually. Though I prefer the word "trembling". I stood up and started to leave her office, looked at her and said, "I'm sorry you see it that way, because it was the truth."

And I went upstairs, got ready for my art class, and on my way out, I slammed the door. I was going to go see my friend and get some cigarettes, cause I really didn't get into fights often with my mom. Usually my mom got into a fight with me.

Anyway, she comes running out of the house and screams at me as I'm walking to my car, "YOU WANT TO SLAM DOORS YOU LITTLE BITCH, THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE. I'M DONE WITH YOU." I shove my shit in the car cause I'm freaking out. My mom does not run at me unless she plans to hit me. I got into the front seat just in time and locked the doors. She started to pound on the drives side window as I started up the car and I flipped her off, rolling down the window long enough to yell at her to get the fuck off my car, and that she was a stupid fucking whore.

No, that wasn't the best thing to say. I realize that. But I was scared.

She gives me that look, that bone-numbing, heart stopping look that she always gets right before she does her worst, and as I start to back up out of the driveway she runs to grab a wooden planter and starts to swing it at the car. I floor it.

I actually end up half way down our peaceful little suburban street without hitting anyone or anything. She follows me to our neighbors driveway. She's running, but she's overweight, and now pregnant, and not used to running, so she stops. I end up turning around in a neighbors driveway and speed off down the road to a friends work. I'm freaking out, I'm crying, I think that my mom now wants to kill me.

And here's the kicker. I stop at a stop sign, look both ways, but I'm shaking so hard that even though I see the car, I pull out, and bam. Hit. By a 2006 Ford Mustang. And what am I driving? A 1995 Ford Taurus. Laugh it up, its the only really funny part of this story.

Anyway, it takes a while for my car to work, and two weeks later it dies. But anyway, the cars gone, my things are gone. I have nothing any more. I was homeless for three months in fucking Belton. I lived in a friends room in his parents house. I shared half his dresser and tried to get a job and failed.

Finally, after way too many melodramas and things I don't even want to get into right now, I ended up here.

Things haven't changed too drastically. I'm working kind-of, with my father. Mostly I'm running the errands he does not have the time to do, which is a lot. I'm baby-sitting my little sister and trying to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do with my life.

And, yeah, now I'm tired. This everything has taken so much out of me. I'm just tired.

"I went into the woods
To live deliberately. To front
The essential facts of life
And see if I could not learn
What they had to teach
And when I come to die
Discover I had never lived."

-Henry David Thoreau


Blogger D.B. Echo said...

Holy fuck.

7:12 PM  

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