A Girl I Used to Know

I've Been Meaning to Write this for Awhile - 10/29/19

I haven't had the heart to sit down and open up my heart about this. Honestly, I don't even know why I feel the need to write about this, but I know it has to be done. As far back as I can remember, my memories seem to go in and out. There are distinct memories I have, while others are more faint. I don't remember the happiest memories but when I relive them I can feel that moment. Every minute I spent in Alabama driving to nana's house and getting to see her and Pops. Pops lost all of his teeth and he'd always make me smile by pushing his dentures out and making his eyes go bulbous and I'd be the happiest little girl in the world. I felt so safe and warm with my nana and Pops. I remember spending time at Candace's house with all of her kids. A crap ton of them. We'd have so much fun outside of their house playing with the neighborhood kids and just being kids. I remember holding on tightly to my preschool diploma  at the Learning Express. I remember watching the Alfred Hitchcock show with Nana and her promising to send me more episodes to watch at home because of how much we enjoyed it. I remember thanksgiving at both Nana and Grandma's house and feeling so stuffed with food I couldn't speak. I remember sitting in Addie's room drinking the frozen Daiquiri pretending to be tipsy. I remember the loving environment I shared with my family and the memories that strung together all of the happiest memories my childhood had. With all good things also comes along the essential bad aspect of it all. I remember the sexual abuse I experienced at a young age and the exposure to things no child should ever see, witness, or experience. I remember keeping quiet, not even sure how to speak to anyone about it to this day. I remember the physical abuse I endured as a toddler by my teacher in preschool and how I dreaded the drive there. Listening to the Steve Harvey Show imagining all the ways everything that day could go wrong and I'd go home with more bruises and cuts in places my parents would never see. I remember telling myself all of this was normal. It's okay for these people to hurt me and to do these things to me. I deserve it. Why else would it be happening? Why else would I be dealing with the cycle of abuse from school, to home, to friends, to family, and later on in my relationships? Because of those situations, I didn't learn the distinction between love and abuse growing up. I didn't understand why my parents beat me as a child. I grew resentment through my confusion of why all of this was happening to me. I deserve it. This is why it's happening. At least, that's what I told myself. We didn't have money growing up and I recognized our financial instability at a young age. I didn't like to ask for things or to bother my parents with anything that involved money because I figured we could use it on more important things. Making sure Jailen was okay despite all of the seizures he had in his sleep and during school. All of the meals I forced myself to eat no matter how much I hated it because I didn't want to complain. All of the moving and new schools added onto the stress my parents endured trying to find jobs; unsure of how they could support a family of 6. I didn't understand why my dad was so angry during my preschool graduation. The worn out shoes I wore were nothing compared to the money we could have saved on more important things. It didn't matter to him. From the age of 3, I had absolutely no sense of self worth. I remember the fury in his eyes when he saw my shoes with my toes visible through the torn rubber. He yelled at me and everything he said seemed to go by in a blur, and as we were walking out of the building he pulled them off my feet and tossed them in the dumpster out of his own anger and I walked on the jagged concrete in my white socks asking myself, "Why?" And the little voice in my head responded, "because you deserve it." Such a simple phrase, yet carrying so much power training my subconscious mind to believe everything I allowed it to. Kindergarten, I remember my sister coming home with unimaginable grades. Some days I didn't behave correctly in school. It was difficult for me to focus and on top of my deteriorating self worth and putting my sister on a pedestal I was afraid to go home and face my parents. I knew I'd get spankings and I didn't understand why, until that voice came along after the slashes of the belt reminding me "I deserve this."  I wanted so hard to be just like my sister. She seemed to do everything right. Everywhere I went wrong, she went right. She gained so much recognition and appreciation from my parents; the recognition I craved. Kiara and Andrew would hold "American Idol" auditions and I wanted to be just like my older sister.  I'd sing my heart out after Andrew would give Kiara a perfect score for her performance  — our big sister; we both admired her (still do). Me, on the other hand, lowest scores I could imagine. I tried to play it off at the time, but it slowly lead to my silence not just around my parents, but around my siblings. Singing was something I was so passionate about, to this day still, but I found that it was better to stay silent rather than speak my mind and get shut down. Even as a kid I had a vivid imagination. My world. The one I used to escape reality.