I was taught religion early on. I learned about Satan. He came to steal, kill and destroy. I have heard many fire and brimstone sermons on Satan throughout my life. But honestly, I had a clear visual of what he looked like; I met him when I was young.
I lived in a yellow house when I was born. My father and grandfather built the yellow house. It was the first house that I lived in. I lived there about 5 years.
I remember the creeks.
There was a creek next to my yellow house. My neighbors on the other side of the creek had 2 or 3 little girls my age. I played with them from time to time. I remember running over the little bridge to play with them.
There was another creek close to my house. It was on the way to Grandma and Papa’s house. I remember walking over to their house often.
There was a big rock on the edge of that creek. I remember sitting on that rock a lot when I was little. The rock was strong and did not budge. I remember sitting on my big rock and watching the peaceful water flow by me.
When my parents separated, I lost the yellow house with the magical creeks.
My mother moved into an apartment.
My father moved into an apartment.
Life got very complicated when I lost my yellow house. I was very young and I was very confused.
My mom’s boyfriend moved in the apartment next door to hers. That was very difficult.
From the beginning,
I did not like him. He was well aware of this.
He did not like me either. I was well aware of this.
He was not a nice man. Although he pretended to be nice when my mom was around, but the minute she left, he was Satan.
My first memory of him was putting my brother and me on the school bus. I believe I was five.
I told him I hated him.
He swore all the time. He swore at me a lot. In the beginning, he only did this when my mother was not around. It took him a while before he did this in front of her.
I was a “stupid fucking little bitch with a big mouth” from the time I was 5; according to him.
I never knew what hate was until I met him. He was very good at hate. He was a teacher of hate.
It was early morning. My mom left for work. She chose him to put us on the school bus. He was in our apartment. He called me a stupid little bitch. I had never been called a stupid little bitch. I looked right at him and I was honest with him.
“I hate you!”
I remember he grabbed me. He said something about my mouth; like he was one to talk. He put soap in my little mouth. I remember I did not let him see me cry. I remember I wanted to rinse out my mouth. I knew the bus was coming. He refused to let me spit. I held the soapy spit in my mouth until the bus came. He stood there and made sure I got on the bus without spitting. I refused to cry. I would not let him have my tears. I got on the bus and spit on the bus floor; then I cried. It was the beginning of my hell.
I wish I could say that my mom noticed that he was Satan and she broke up with him, but she did not notice; she married him instead.
I hated that they forced me to call him ‘Dad’ once they were married. He was not a ‘Dad’ to anyone – ever.
We moved shortly after they were married. It was in the next town over from where I had lived.
I only have a few memories from the house in the next town over.
We had a dog. There was a basement with stairs leading up to the house. I remember when he kicked the dog. He kicked her like she was a football. She went flying down the basement stairs. She cried a long time. I cried too; as I hid in my closet.
By the time I made it to third grade, they had bought a house back in my home town. There are a lot of bad memories from this house.
He rarely worked so my mom worked three jobs at times just to scrape by. I rarely saw her. When she was home, she was tired. She was tired a lot. I remember desperately hoping she wouldn’t take a nap when she came home from work.
I wanted her to save me.
I wanted her to notice.
Maybe if she was home…
Maybe if she wasn’t tired…
Maybe then she would see who he really was; how he really was.
He didn’t have a lot of friends. I only remember one.
His one friend was just as evil as he was. I remember him visiting one day. I was about 12. I was just starting to go through puberty. I remember him laughing at me. I remember him laughing and telling me to parade around the table. They were talking about my body; my ‘mosquito bites’. I refused to walk around the table, but that didn’t stop either one of them from talking about my developing body.
From the time I was around 5 until the time I was around 13, I lived with this abuse. There was a lot of abuse; a lot of abuse that nobody noticed.
He was very good at hiding it and he was very good at not letting me have alone time with my mom. He was afraid I would tell on him. He was always threatening me about telling her. He made sure I never got an opportunity.
The thing is I know why he hated me. I pushed him. I dared him to try me. He knew this. I wanted nothing more than to get him out of our lives for good. I tried very hard, but he never crossed the line far enough with me. I never had enough ammunition to get rid of him. And honestly it wasn’t my choice. I finally realized this; this is when I left.
I couldn’t live with it anymore. I was getting older and I was getting bolder. If nobody was going to notice, then I would leave. I told my mom I wanted to go live with my dad; my real dad. I just could not live with the Crazy anymore.
It was very hard to tell her that I couldn’t live there anymore. I don’t think she understood just how crazy it was when she wasn’t home. Honestly, by the time I left, I don’t think I even tried to explain. I just wanted out. I wanted to run far, far away and never look back.
My last altercation with him was when I returned to my mom’s house at 15, but that is another story….
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