I was thinking today about all that has been going on in my life, where I have come from and where I have settled for the time being….It has been a journey of hope….HOPE is how I see me.
I have had a lot new viewers read my blog lately and I have to say your support and comments have touched me in ways that can’t be explained. I wish I could give everyone who sent me a sweet comment a hug.
To sum up my story….
I was born where I now live, in the Southern part of the USA. When my twin-sister and I were 9-months-old my mother took us from our father, never to see him again. Come to find out later in life, my father and my step-mom had been looking for us all the time we were away from them. My mother did well for 26 years but through facebook me and my twin were found by my step-mom.
My twin-sister and I were severely abused by our step-father when we were little children. The man was German but grew-up in France. His parents were in some way related to the Nazi’s…the proof of that was the torture my twin and I went to.
The basement of our house growing-up was our dungeon. He use to lock us down there when he did not want anything to do with us. I didn’t mind the basement, we were away from him and when I was down there I would play barbies and get in my own world. The worst part of being down there was needing to use the bathroom. We were not to interrupt him when we needed to use the bathroom so we urinated in a corner, never to let him know.
I lived in a constant state of fear when he did want us around. He use to try to teach me math when we were home from school in the summer. He didn’t work and my mom worked night shifts at the hospital as an RN so he had us plenty. He would wake me and my sister up at 3 a.m. to work math problems kids were learning their junior year of high school, not math 8 year-old did in school. I remember how loopy I felt one specific time, I was tired and scared. I missed all of the problems so he gave me a choice. I could get “it” six times hard before I went back to bed or 12 times the next morning, not as hard. I remember sitting at the kitchen table thinking, I chose to get hit 12 times the next day…I remember thinking I should have picked six then when I was back in bed. I decided then I was going to choose to just get it over with from then on.
The next problem was having to decide which tool he would use to hit us with. At times he would lay out things like a shoe, wrench, his hand or rope. I hope I picked the shoe looking back, I can’t remember it all.
For quite a few years after we got home from school we were told to drop our pants and if there was anything on our underwear after he inspected us we would get beaten. I use to bring extra underwear to school and keep it in my cubbie. One day in second grade I dropped the cubbie and the whole class saw my extra underwear, I was so embarrassed. I think that was the first time I wanted to fade away. After that the feeling of wanting to fade away became my companion…every time my mom left to work an overnight shift or when I was walking home from school and turned the corner of the culdesac saw the house, knowing he was inside waiting.
He would pick me or my sister to be on his team. The teammate was his friend who planned mean things to do to the other. One time when I was on his team he thought it would be funny to strip my sister down and put her in a box in the basement in a room that had no windows. He cut a whole just big enough for water and slowly let water from a water bottle drip down on her.
He used a tool on me, not my sister, called the martinet. It was a piece of wood that was a few inches round with a dozen or so pieces of rope duck-tape tapped to it and knots at the end of the ropes. He always kept it in the kitchen on top of the fridge. When I would do something “bad” (we were not bad children, very good children that just wanted love) he would take me into the kitchen (sometimes have me strip off my clothes) and whip me with it. At some point my mother, noticing the bruises and marks from the rope told him to stop using it on me because the bruises could be seen and she threw it in the trash….that didn’t last long tho, he got it out and put it right back on the fridge. My mother showed the neighbor my bruises, my mother had me lift up my shorts and show her; they both told me to stop wearing shorts.
Any who, that is just a dip into my world as a small child. That man stayed in our lives from the time we were six to 12-years-old. After that I spent my teens taking care of my bipolar mother who was always suicidal, my little brother who is 8 years younger than me and the house chores. My twin-sister was always fighting with my mother, at times physically. I wanted peace, I was the peace-maker.
On New Years Eve of 2000 my mother kicked me and my sister out because I refused to make dinner for my brother because she was the mom, not me. I ended up asking two people I had only known a month; 64-year-old retired catholic school teacher and business owner and 65-year-old retired GS15 government employee if we could live with them and they said yes. Their grandson happened to be my best friend and he introduced us to them a month earlier, by chance… amazing how it all works out.
So three years ago my step-mom found me and my sister on facebook. It was crazy. I didn’t want anything to do with them when I was still drinking…I didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone. A few months after I quit drinking I started calling my father, who was also in recovery…..he became my best bud. This summer I met my dad and step-mom and little sister for the first time in my life. I always wanted to know my father…growing up I called both my step-fathers dad, I wanted to be a daddy’s girl so badly. I moved out her, the South, from Denver in July to get to know my dad… I am so thankful I did. My daddy passed away on Nov 22, 2012. He was my bud…He is my bud.
*Normally I check my writing before I post it but this is not something I want to re-read, I just want to shed some light on the world I am coming from, my journey with you. I apologize for any errors or misspelling.