Another memory that bolts your coffin.
Another memory that bolts your coffin.
To this day thinking of it brings me
a pang of resentment and confusion.
I was eleven years old; mother says, I 'm disobedient, disrespectful and talk back too much.
In other words, my character and my opinions
must have inconvenienced and clashed with her idea of what a daughter ought to be.
She sent me away to a behavior modification program.
I had to leave my baby brother my neighborhood,
my friends all that was familiar to me.
It was called Sheridan House run by Christian fanatics
we were to address only as Ma and Pa.
a strange and secretive elderly couple
there to guide us back to our lord and savior.
A very strict schedule regime and rules and still more strict consequences if you slipped up.
Running timed laps for hours, pulling weeds for hours,
all in the hot Florida sun.
I was gone one year.
to husband number three
and his daughter lives in my bedroom.
No biggie Right.
Adapt, adjust; I could have done that.
fade into the background, be erased?
Really bitch, me?
Not so much.
What does my mother do?
She gets rid of me at the first opportunity.
She sends me to a juvie rehab called The Starting Place.
Yeah, starting place alright.
not exactly what you had in mind right mum? I ran away from the facility with a crack smoking 16-year-old prostitute about two weeks in.
I show up unwelcome and shunned on her doorstep.
tattered mentally and physically, I had been learning the sex trade.
apparently, it's not uncommon at all for a sexually traumatized child to become extremely promiscuous during their youth. I was sexually abused from approx age six to twelve. also, disassociation during sexual acts in the future is common as well.
of course, I did not know that was what I was doing then at 15 years old, I just knew my body was doing one thing while my mind and soul were on a vacation.
I learned all this much later.
The book "The Courage To Heal" -
I highly suggest you do not read,
not if you do not have the tools and support.
Speaking of vacations I had been staying underneath the Deerfield Beach pier and 'The Hansel and Gretel Motel' up the road from the beach.
we are at the second to last nail now.
When my release date comes and my mother refuses to come and get me.
by default gives me to the state.
She managed to dodge abandonment charges by convincing a judge that I was too unruly and she felt it was in my best interest if I was in the states care.
Either she didn't do the research or she didn't care.
Either way, she got what she wanted at long last.
To be rid of this impostor of a daughter.
this Wicked girl,
that cold dorm, a red foamy chair,
waiting for a phone call that never came.
I imagined her in the courtroom, doing her victim thing,
those forced tears, and contrived sobs.
One of which was a locked down mental health facility, thanks to the gigantic amount
of crazy on my juvenile record.
That was where I spent my oh-so-sweet sixteenth birthday.
A couple of foster homes later I am impregnated.
We will call him Max.
He was twenty-seven years old when I was Sixteen, It was winter of 2002. I was about to close up shop
about three months after meeting him
at an A.A meeting on a Sunday night,
down the street from my second foster home.
I maxed out his credit cards, he tutored me back to my straight A's and he started to complain about the pack of Marlboro reds I smoked.
that of course, he would buy for me.
then he started using the word love and I was like; I'm Out.
Next thing I know my foster sister Jay
(Javiera, amazing girl)
is holding my hair back while I retch, gag
and vomit uncontrollably.
the same hands that had stitched up my wrist a few months back, the same hands that tossed me a vibrator when I confessed I had never used one before.
I loved that girl.
I think I asked her, in total disbelief,
What the hell am I going to do?
See, know we know, What kind of God would give me a kid?
I know the answer to that now.
The only God that there is; God that didn't choose to use protection at a very fertile age.
Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen