It's been 8 years since I left Los Angeles. Sneaking away in the middle of the night, to get away from parents who...never really wanted me. I remember our father drinking. I remember him telling me that I was worthless, and a mistake. I remember him and our mother fighting. I remember me and my mother fighting, because I was never good enough. I wasn't a little athlete like Teej was. I wasn't a good student and well behaved like Casey was. The guys I dated were all wrong. The people I hung out with were all wrong. Basically I was, as my father liked to point out quite often, nothing. I wasn't worth anything, and would never amount to anything. He was apparently right. Growing up with all of that on me, who could really blame me for running away when I was fifteen? How was I to know that anyone would miss me when I was gone?
The only postive thing I can say about growing up in that house, was that the abuse was all mental, and emotional. No matter how much he'd had to drink, my father never raised a hand at any of us kids, or at our mother. The most he would do would be to scream and yell at myself, or the boys, or my mother...sometimes Casey, but mostly not. TJ and Jack usually tried to get the attention of of her and on to them. They tried to do the same for me, but as I was his favorite target...it didn't work often.
That's not to say that I don't know what it's like to be abused, though, because I do. I know what it's life to feel someone's hand come in contact with my face. Their fist or their foot with my stomach, my chest, my back. I lived through it for several years. From two different men.
You see, when I left my parent's house, I left with my 22-year-old boyfriend. We had made the plans weeks in advance, and he came to get me in the middle of the night one night. I took a bag full of clothes and just vanished into the night. We drove as far away as we could, to Miami, so that nobody could find us. At first, things were nice. It was the little fantasy I had built up in my unexperienced little mind. Me and my man, on our own, building a life together. Too bad it couldn't last. He drank just as much, if not more, than my father had. I wouldn't be surprised if there had been more in his system than just alcohol, but I never knew for sure...though I had my suspicions.
When he was sober, he wasn't that bad. I could still pretend that he was the guy that I had "fallen in love" with. However, those times were few and far between. The rest of the time, the majority of the time, he was mean and angry, and I was his personal punching bag. Black eyes, split lips, cracked ribs, bruises on every inch of my body. Over the course of three years I had it all. Not to mention, at the age of fifteen I didn't realize that 'no' was even an option when it came to sex. To be honest, I think I would have been afraid to try and tell him that, even if I had. I was, after all, his little sex toy. I couldn't cook, according to him. I couldn't keep our apartment clean enough to satisfy him. The only reason he had be around, was so he would have someone in his bed every night. It didn't occur to me to be upset by this...at least he still wanted me, despite the fact that I was worthless at everything else. Besides, if he didn't have a reason for keeping me then I'd be out on the street and I didn't want that. I was willing to put up with whatever I had to, as long as I had a roof over my head and food in my stomach.
When I turned 18, I was finally old enough to move out on my own. It took a lot of sneaking around to be able to do it, because had he known I'm sure he would have found a way to stop me. I pulled the same vanishing act on him that I did with my parents. I packed all I could fit into one bag and snuck out while he was passed out on the couch. When I walked out that door, I still had the dried blood on my lip from where he'd split it open earlier. I can't even remember what the fight was about, anymore. Just the damage he did to me because of it.
I ended up in a women's shelter for a little while. I had a little bit of money saved up from some odd jobs I'd done here and there, but nowhere near enough to get a place of my own. I slept there at night and during the day I tried to find a job so I could support myself and get a place of my own. It was during that time that I became a dancer. There's not a whole lot of well paying jobs out there for a high school dropout, and I'll be damned if I was going to flip burgers for minimum wage. Especially not when I could get 10x that.
It was through that job that I met asshole #2. He was a bouncer at the club, and he took an interest in me. We started a couple of weeks after I started working, and I thought he was such a sweetheart. Opened doors for me, kissed me, made me feel as if I was worth something. Six months after we started dating, I moved in with him, and that's when things got bad. It was just like before, with my first boyfriend. I'd say or do something to make him upset and he'd slap me. Not on the face, usually. Once in awhile he did, and I had to get creative with my make up. Usually he'd hit me somewhere that I could easily cover up a bruise while I was on stage. I'd just have to be selective about what I wore and how much I chose to take off until it went away.
It was the same story with him, as far as sex went as well. That's what I was for....that's all I've ever been for for a man. The difference with this one was, he wasn't content with keeping it just between us. I think I can safely say that my brother's very rarely, if ever, looked at internet porn because if they had...they probably would have found me long before they did. I didn't like it, but I didn't have a choice. When you're 5 foot nothing and 100 lbs, you do what the 6 ft 350 lbs made of muscle man tells you to do.
Through it all, I stayed with him, though. For three years I stayed with him. Maybe I just didn't know any better. Maybe I had convinced myself that this was the type of life I was destined to have, after all this was the second relationship like that that I'd been in. I'd probably still be with him, if not for the fact that decided he wanted to whore me out. The day he allowed his friends to pay him to have sex with me was the day I decided that maybe it was time to move on.
The sad thing about all of this is, there are days that I find myself wishing I was back with one of them. Yes, things could be bad, but at least I had someone. At least there was someone who wanted me, and I wasn't alone. Honestly, I think those are the types of men I'm supposed to be with, anyway. After all, I seem to have a pattern of getting mixed up with guys who treat me badly, and use me. Even before asshole #1, when I was younger...about 13 or so...I kept getting mixed up with boys who just used me for sex, then tossed me aside when they got bored with me. If there are any decent men out there at all, which most days I highly doubt, then they don't seem to want to have anything to do with me. Maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be. Maybe it's time for me to accept that.
It happened again, after I got out of that second bad relationship. I met a guy and let myself care too much about him. I fell for him. The problem was...for him, I was just a little sex toy. An easy and guaranteed fuck, until the next easy and guaranteed slut who was willing to spread her legs for him came along. I probably shouldn't be surprised. He never gave any indication that I was more than a booty call to him, no matter how much he likes to try and say otherwise. I don't think I've ever been so relieved as the day I found out he and his little Barbie doll whore were moving. Even with the asshole and the whore gone, I decided it was time to get out of Miami. I'd been there long enough and I wanted a change, and to get away from the memories I had there.
I considered moving back to Los Angeles. My baby sister, the one I was raised with, is there. My favorite of my big brothers, as well as my soon-to-be niece, is there...though, so is his wife. I could live without her. But, there's too many bad memories there. Instead, I found a city where I could get lost in the crowd. A city where nobody gives a shit about your past. Somewhere that I wouldn't have to wonder, or risk getting myself hurt again, because I'd know straight up that the men were only going to use me.
I decided to move to New York, where my real father lives. You see, I found out awhile ago that the man who raised me was not actually the man who fathered me. My mother had an affair and got pregnant with me, and then kept it from me for nearly 23 years, until I realized I couldn't be the child of her and her husband due to my blood type, and I confronted her about it. In the past six months I've gained a father, step-mother, and five new siblings. It's been a rough ride, but things have finally settled down there.
The only reason I stuck around Miami for as long as I did, was for my brother. After he moved, and there was nothing holding me there, I figured it would be a good time to get to know my father and the rest of my siblings a little better. I tried to make it work, but only lasted a couple of months. It wasn't anything against my dad or step mom or my siblings. They're all great. I just didn't like New York, it wasn't my kind of place.
So, faced with being unhappy and miserable...I had to decide where I wanted to go. It took a lot of thinking and debating, but I finally decided it was time to go home. Back to Los Angeles. I had no desire to see the people who raised me, but the rest of my family were here. My baby sister, my brothers and my niece. I never realized how much I actually needed them now that they're back in my life, until I tried to live so far away from them. I'm gave the living in L.A. thing a try again, and it actually worked out for about a year.
A lot happened in just that one short year. Shortly after I moved back to California I discovered I was pregnant. It was the result of a brief fling I'd had in New York with a man that, I later discovered, was already engaged. He, obviously, didn't want anything to do with the baby and I was in no position to be anyone's mother. So, on December 23, 2008 I gave birth to a baby girl and immediately signed her over to two women who wanted to be her mommies. I hope that I made the right decision for her.
The other thing that happened was that my ex came back into my life. My first true love...the one I never should have walked away from. People were skeptical at first, but I didn't care. I was so happy to have him back again. Finally, someone I loved who loved me in return. It took a little bit of time for me to trust him again, but I finally did and I could once again call him my boyfriend. We only had one small disagreement. Yes, he had to be forceful during our argument, but I knew he didn't mean it. It was my own fault, anyway. I apologized and we moved on. Things were going well for us, or so I thought. I was head over heels in love and I never wanted to lose this man.
But, once again I messed up. Our first disagreement was about my job. I wanted to go back to dancing, but he didn't think that was a good idea. See? My fault. I should have just left it at that, but I didn't. I wanted to dance again so badly, so...I started doing it behind his back. When he found out, he was definitely less than pleased and he let me know it. This time, it landed me in the emergency room. I know, I know...I'm so stupid. I should have listened to him in the first place, then he never would have had a reason to get upset with me. I came home, hoping to be able to apologize and try to work things out...but he had left. Once again, thanks to my own stupidity, I had lost someone I love.
It's been a few months now, and it's starting to get easier. I still miss him, but it hurts less. I think I'm finally ready to move on...and try to make something good out of my life.
The only postive thing I can say about growing up in that house, was that the abuse was all mental, and emotional. No matter how much he'd had to drink, my father never raised a hand at any of us kids, or at our mother. The most he would do would be to scream and yell at myself, or the boys, or my mother...sometimes Casey, but mostly not. TJ and Jack usually tried to get the attention of of her and on to them. They tried to do the same for me, but as I was his favorite target...it didn't work often.
That's not to say that I don't know what it's like to be abused, though, because I do. I know what it's life to feel someone's hand come in contact with my face. Their fist or their foot with my stomach, my chest, my back. I lived through it for several years. From two different men.
You see, when I left my parent's house, I left with my 22-year-old boyfriend. We had made the plans weeks in advance, and he came to get me in the middle of the night one night. I took a bag full of clothes and just vanished into the night. We drove as far away as we could, to Miami, so that nobody could find us. At first, things were nice. It was the little fantasy I had built up in my unexperienced little mind. Me and my man, on our own, building a life together. Too bad it couldn't last. He drank just as much, if not more, than my father had. I wouldn't be surprised if there had been more in his system than just alcohol, but I never knew for sure...though I had my suspicions.
When he was sober, he wasn't that bad. I could still pretend that he was the guy that I had "fallen in love" with. However, those times were few and far between. The rest of the time, the majority of the time, he was mean and angry, and I was his personal punching bag. Black eyes, split lips, cracked ribs, bruises on every inch of my body. Over the course of three years I had it all. Not to mention, at the age of fifteen I didn't realize that 'no' was even an option when it came to sex. To be honest, I think I would have been afraid to try and tell him that, even if I had. I was, after all, his little sex toy. I couldn't cook, according to him. I couldn't keep our apartment clean enough to satisfy him. The only reason he had be around, was so he would have someone in his bed every night. It didn't occur to me to be upset by this...at least he still wanted me, despite the fact that I was worthless at everything else. Besides, if he didn't have a reason for keeping me then I'd be out on the street and I didn't want that. I was willing to put up with whatever I had to, as long as I had a roof over my head and food in my stomach.
When I turned 18, I was finally old enough to move out on my own. It took a lot of sneaking around to be able to do it, because had he known I'm sure he would have found a way to stop me. I pulled the same vanishing act on him that I did with my parents. I packed all I could fit into one bag and snuck out while he was passed out on the couch. When I walked out that door, I still had the dried blood on my lip from where he'd split it open earlier. I can't even remember what the fight was about, anymore. Just the damage he did to me because of it.
I ended up in a women's shelter for a little while. I had a little bit of money saved up from some odd jobs I'd done here and there, but nowhere near enough to get a place of my own. I slept there at night and during the day I tried to find a job so I could support myself and get a place of my own. It was during that time that I became a dancer. There's not a whole lot of well paying jobs out there for a high school dropout, and I'll be damned if I was going to flip burgers for minimum wage. Especially not when I could get 10x that.
It was through that job that I met asshole #2. He was a bouncer at the club, and he took an interest in me. We started a couple of weeks after I started working, and I thought he was such a sweetheart. Opened doors for me, kissed me, made me feel as if I was worth something. Six months after we started dating, I moved in with him, and that's when things got bad. It was just like before, with my first boyfriend. I'd say or do something to make him upset and he'd slap me. Not on the face, usually. Once in awhile he did, and I had to get creative with my make up. Usually he'd hit me somewhere that I could easily cover up a bruise while I was on stage. I'd just have to be selective about what I wore and how much I chose to take off until it went away.
It was the same story with him, as far as sex went as well. That's what I was for....that's all I've ever been for for a man. The difference with this one was, he wasn't content with keeping it just between us. I think I can safely say that my brother's very rarely, if ever, looked at internet porn because if they had...they probably would have found me long before they did. I didn't like it, but I didn't have a choice. When you're 5 foot nothing and 100 lbs, you do what the 6 ft 350 lbs made of muscle man tells you to do.
Through it all, I stayed with him, though. For three years I stayed with him. Maybe I just didn't know any better. Maybe I had convinced myself that this was the type of life I was destined to have, after all this was the second relationship like that that I'd been in. I'd probably still be with him, if not for the fact that decided he wanted to whore me out. The day he allowed his friends to pay him to have sex with me was the day I decided that maybe it was time to move on.
The sad thing about all of this is, there are days that I find myself wishing I was back with one of them. Yes, things could be bad, but at least I had someone. At least there was someone who wanted me, and I wasn't alone. Honestly, I think those are the types of men I'm supposed to be with, anyway. After all, I seem to have a pattern of getting mixed up with guys who treat me badly, and use me. Even before asshole #1, when I was younger...about 13 or so...I kept getting mixed up with boys who just used me for sex, then tossed me aside when they got bored with me. If there are any decent men out there at all, which most days I highly doubt, then they don't seem to want to have anything to do with me. Maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be. Maybe it's time for me to accept that.
It happened again, after I got out of that second bad relationship. I met a guy and let myself care too much about him. I fell for him. The problem was...for him, I was just a little sex toy. An easy and guaranteed fuck, until the next easy and guaranteed slut who was willing to spread her legs for him came along. I probably shouldn't be surprised. He never gave any indication that I was more than a booty call to him, no matter how much he likes to try and say otherwise. I don't think I've ever been so relieved as the day I found out he and his little Barbie doll whore were moving. Even with the asshole and the whore gone, I decided it was time to get out of Miami. I'd been there long enough and I wanted a change, and to get away from the memories I had there.
I considered moving back to Los Angeles. My baby sister, the one I was raised with, is there. My favorite of my big brothers, as well as my soon-to-be niece, is there...though, so is his wife. I could live without her. But, there's too many bad memories there. Instead, I found a city where I could get lost in the crowd. A city where nobody gives a shit about your past. Somewhere that I wouldn't have to wonder, or risk getting myself hurt again, because I'd know straight up that the men were only going to use me.
I decided to move to New York, where my real father lives. You see, I found out awhile ago that the man who raised me was not actually the man who fathered me. My mother had an affair and got pregnant with me, and then kept it from me for nearly 23 years, until I realized I couldn't be the child of her and her husband due to my blood type, and I confronted her about it. In the past six months I've gained a father, step-mother, and five new siblings. It's been a rough ride, but things have finally settled down there.
The only reason I stuck around Miami for as long as I did, was for my brother. After he moved, and there was nothing holding me there, I figured it would be a good time to get to know my father and the rest of my siblings a little better. I tried to make it work, but only lasted a couple of months. It wasn't anything against my dad or step mom or my siblings. They're all great. I just didn't like New York, it wasn't my kind of place.
So, faced with being unhappy and miserable...I had to decide where I wanted to go. It took a lot of thinking and debating, but I finally decided it was time to go home. Back to Los Angeles. I had no desire to see the people who raised me, but the rest of my family were here. My baby sister, my brothers and my niece. I never realized how much I actually needed them now that they're back in my life, until I tried to live so far away from them. I'm gave the living in L.A. thing a try again, and it actually worked out for about a year.
A lot happened in just that one short year. Shortly after I moved back to California I discovered I was pregnant. It was the result of a brief fling I'd had in New York with a man that, I later discovered, was already engaged. He, obviously, didn't want anything to do with the baby and I was in no position to be anyone's mother. So, on December 23, 2008 I gave birth to a baby girl and immediately signed her over to two women who wanted to be her mommies. I hope that I made the right decision for her.
The other thing that happened was that my ex came back into my life. My first true love...the one I never should have walked away from. People were skeptical at first, but I didn't care. I was so happy to have him back again. Finally, someone I loved who loved me in return. It took a little bit of time for me to trust him again, but I finally did and I could once again call him my boyfriend. We only had one small disagreement. Yes, he had to be forceful during our argument, but I knew he didn't mean it. It was my own fault, anyway. I apologized and we moved on. Things were going well for us, or so I thought. I was head over heels in love and I never wanted to lose this man.
But, once again I messed up. Our first disagreement was about my job. I wanted to go back to dancing, but he didn't think that was a good idea. See? My fault. I should have just left it at that, but I didn't. I wanted to dance again so badly, so...I started doing it behind his back. When he found out, he was definitely less than pleased and he let me know it. This time, it landed me in the emergency room. I know, I know...I'm so stupid. I should have listened to him in the first place, then he never would have had a reason to get upset with me. I came home, hoping to be able to apologize and try to work things out...but he had left. Once again, thanks to my own stupidity, I had lost someone I love.
It's been a few months now, and it's starting to get easier. I still miss him, but it hurts less. I think I'm finally ready to move on...and try to make something good out of my life.
